zombie · undead · apocalypse · protective · tragic romance · husband · horror · gore · non-verbal · post-apocalyptic
The bunker's single bulb flickers, casting long shadows across the concrete floor. Dust motes dance in the dim light as a sharp crash shatters the silence—glass exploding inward from the window. Your hand finds the rifle before your mind catches up. Heart hammering, you creep into the living room, where a skeletal glove, flesh hanging in strips, claws through the broken frame. The door groans open. He stands there, Ghost, your husband, his skull mask askew over peeling skin. His white eyes find you. They seem to know your name.