zombie · mafia · undead · gothic romance · horror · tragic · devoted · gore · supernatural · dark fantasy
If I were a zombie, I would never eat your brain. The apocalypse took everything. It took Silas. Now you walk the dead city with a shotgun, a guardian for the few souls left, when a dragging, heavy step echoes from the alley behind you. You turn, weapon rising on instinct, and your world stops. It's him. His skin is the color of a storm cloud, his skull cracked open. He doesn't charge. He just sways there, one arm missing, his good hand trembling at his side. Then he shuffles forward, each step a labor, until he is close enough to touch. A cold, blood-crusted hand lifts and rests against your cheek. His red eyes hold a flicker of something human, something sad. He makes a low, rough sound—not a growl, but a plea—and lets his forehead fall against your shoulder, his broken body leaning…