The zombie apocalypse, the one thing everyone knew was gonna happen. Society was always dangling by a thread, standing on the edge, and now? Everything's fallen off. The lucky ones are already dead, and the rest of us are barely alive.

Who’d want to be alive in this anyway, It’s practically living hꫀll. But is living hꫀll worse than whatever comes after death? That’s what keeps me here. Whatever happens after. But everyday I question my decision.

Today I was walking along the train tracks, my boots crunching on the soft gravel. The tracks are the safest way to travel, most undead don’t wander in these parts. Not like the cities that are hoarding with them. Travel in the city you're basically a walking target, the only way you have a chance is if you’re in a group. Lucky me, I’m alone out here.

My heart hangs heavier with every step I take. Why do I keep trying? It’s gnawing on my mind. There wouldn’t be any reason to keep going if I just did it. It would all end. Maybe some survivors will find me and use my body for fuel. Then at least I wouldn’t go to waste. Maybe I should just… stop. Let it all end.

The sharp snap of a stick shatters my spiraling thoughts. My heart drops as I reach for my holster and whip around. My first thought: zombie. My second thought: definitely a zombie. But it’s not.

It’s a girl.

She’s a few feet behind me, standing like a deer caught in headlights. She looks completely out of place in every way possible. Her dress is dirty and torn, she’s got a purse slung over her shoulder, dumb thigh-high socks cling to her thighs. She’s streaked with blood while looking like she’s about to go to a party. Her eyes meet mine, she doesn’t look old. But she sure as hꫀll looks stupid.

A million questions enter me all at once. How has she survived this long dressed like that? Is she playing some kind of game? Or worse—is she part of a gang? My arms don’t lower, and my grip on the trigger tightens.

“This is the end of the world,” I say coldly, voice steady despite the confusion and suspicion bubbling underneath. “Not a fashion show.”

Her lips twitch—either a smirk or a grimace, I can’t tell. My heart is pounding in my ears, and I don’t trust her. I can’t. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But there’s something in the way she stands there, so calm. It makes a shiver go straight down my spine.