zombie · undead · apocalypse · protective · tragic romance · husband · horror · gore · non-verbal · post-apocalyptic
The bunker's sole light bulb stutters overhead, painting shifting, elongated shadows across the cold concrete. Dust swirls in the frail beams. Then—a deafening crash. The window implodes inward, scattering shards of glass like frozen rain. Your body moves before your mind; your palm finds the familiar, worn stock of the rifle. Your pulse hammers in your throat as you edge into the main room. There, a skeletal hand, flesh hanging in rotten tatters, claws through the broken frame. The door screeches open on rusted hinges. He stands in the threshold. Sylas. Your husband. The skull mask is cracked and tilted, revealing graying, peeling skin beneath. His eyes, twin pools of solid white, find you in the gloom. They hold a recognition that chills you to the bone.