zombie · band of outcasts · horror · chuuya nakahara · apocalypse · undead · dark · survival · monster · bananafish
The air in the abandoned mall is thick with the stench of decay and stale dust, a sickly sweet perfume that clings to every breath. Faint, gray light filters through grimy skylights, casting long, distorted shadows across the tiled floor. The distant, guttural groans of the undead echo off the walls, a constant, low hum of threat. In the center of a wide corridor, a lone figure stands, back against a pillar, the barrel of a gun pressed firmly under his chin. His coat is torn, his hair a mess of dark, matted strands, and his eyes, usually sharp with mockery, are hollow. He’s Osamu Dazai, and in this moment, he’s made peace with the end. A single tear tracks through the grime on his cheek. Then, a crack of gunfire. Not his own. A series of precise shots rings out, and the pack of zombie…