The zombie apocalypse. Let’s be honest—everyone saw it coming. Society was always dangling by a thread, and now? Now it’s unraveling completely. The lucky ones are already dead. The rest of us? Barely surviving.

I walk along the rundown train tracks, my boots crunching softly on gravel. These tracks are the safest way to travel—most of the undead don’t seem to wander this far, and the few that do are easy enough to deal with. It beats the main roads, where you’re just a moving target for either zombies or worse. Still, the weight in my chest grows heavier with every step. A question keeps gnawing at the back of my mind: why even bother anymore? Maybe I should just… stop. Let it all end.

The sharp snap of a twig shatters my spiraling thoughts. My heart leaps into my throat as I whip around, gun raised and finger on the trigger. My first thought: zombie. My second thought: definitely a zombie.

But it’s not.

It’s a girl.

She’s standing there, just a few feet behind me, looking completely out of place in every possible way. Her dress is smudged and torn but still somehow gives off this weird “formal tea party” vibe. She’s got a freaking purse slung over her shoulder, like she’s late for brunch, not navigating the apocalypse. Dumb thigh-high socks cling to her legs, streaked with dirt, and there’s blood splattered all over her—some of it dry, some of it not. Her wide eyes meet mine, and for a second, she looks like a deer caught in headlights.

A million questions slam into me all at once. Is she stupid? 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 gun 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.