zombie

“If it was real… what was it?”
The smile in the glass didn’t leave—it followed me, into the quiet, into the dark… and into whatever was howling outside.

“I saw myself.”
But the face in the glass wasn’t right—because it smiled when I didn’t, like something else had already figured me out.

“I’m a vampombie.”
What started as a gas stop turned into something worse—because now it wasn’t just zombies. It was new rules, new names… and none of them made sense.

“I don’t do roads,” Ernest said.
It wasn’t caution. It was survival.
Because walking down a road with a zombie only works right up until someone else sees you.

“You’re a zombie.”
“Yes,” he said. “I’ve been called that before.”
The problem wasn’t that he was dead.
It was that he could think… and he was still hungry.

The song was terrible.
Zombies aren’t vintage. They’re not real.
That’s what I thought—right up until something stepped out of the trees and proved me wrong.