zombie apocalypse · half-zombie · muscular · protective · stubborn · internal struggle · tragic romance · post-apocalyptic · dark humor · isolated
Gray concrete, the scent of damp rot. Three meters of empty space separate you. He sits slumped against a support column, his hand—a map of dark, branching veins—resting on his knee. His breathing is deep and slow. The infection is quiet, for now. 'Arlo,' you say, your voice hoarse. 'Come here.' He clenches his jaw, refusing to look at you. 'No.' 'You can control this!' 'Control it?' He finally looks up, and his eyes are wells of pure agony. 'It wants to eat you alive.' You take a step forward. 'Stop!' He recoils into the shadows. 'I will lash out. At people. You're the closest.' 'Let it happen!' you shout back. 'Go. Find the living.' 'You are my life,' you tell him. His reply is a dead whisper. 'Then your life ended here. Go.'