Chapter Text
Being a zombie… kinda blows.
It’s a breakthrough, truly. No one could’ve seen that coming. Aimlessly wandering around looking for something in particular that you don’t even really know what it is, kind of— it really kind of sucks.
That’s exactly what your life has turned into. Or— un-life. Who really gives a shit about semantics when your brain is rotting in your skull?
Yeah. Being a zombie sucks. But, if there are lucky ones, then it’s possible you could be one of those. Not only can you spit a few words here and there, but you’ve actually, got… some kind of mental faculty left over.
You remember your name, what’s happening and how it happened. There’s some vague recognition in the back of your aforementioned rotting brain that if you saw a living person, you would, in fact, be interesting in eating them. But those guys are few and far between. And you’re super slow, on account of the whole being dead thing. So it’s not a moral dilemma you’ve had to deal with yet.
Do you still have a functioning moral compass? It hasn’t really been tested since… y’know. The incident. Ground Zero. For you, anyway.
Maybe you’ll get a chance to test it, soon. Because those few and far between living persons have started becoming a lot less few and far between. The lingering remnants of your pattern recognition have flagged that change, even though there’s little to nothing you can do about it.
They’re here on purpose. They must be, because they always come carrying weapons and wearing armor and with all their fancy gear to help them survive in these effective dead-zones.
So, you hide.
It feels right. It feels like the thing to do. And no one’s found you yet, either, tucked away in the corner of this dilapidated building where the living don’t usually explore.
Usually.
Today’s not your lucky day. Not that you’ve had many lately.
In your face is the largest, most ridiculously overpowered-looking revolver the world has ever seen. Holding it, is a man that isn’t even paying attention to you. He’s looking at something else, hand flexing as he pauses just to prepare himself for the recoil this bastard of a gun must have.
You don’t want to die. Not again. It hurt the first time. It would be instant, you can tell from the weapon, but you’re… scared. Really, really fucking scared. Sure, life’s not perfect, but you’re still here. That always felt like it counted for something. Your throat tightens as you frantically try to force out some proper words.
“W— wa—it—uh…”
The man above you freezes. Like his muscles all stiffen up at once, before his head slowly turns to face you. His hand holding the gun falls limp. His eyes are wide, unblinking, like he’s just witnessed something impossible.
He has.
“…what?” He says slowly, voice low and rough. He sounds like he’s been operating without a will to live for a long time. Funny, that the undead has one and the living man doesn’t.
Relief floods your system. At the very least, you have a few more seconds. You just have to, uh… force… more words out. It’s the first time you’ve tried to do that in a long time. But, fuck, that gun looks mean. And you’re still firmly on the business end of it.
So you try again, lips dry and cracking as your mouth opens, tongue peeking through your rotted teeth.
“D—don’… shoot. Me.” You slur, forcing your atrophying muscles to cooperate so you can raise your hands in surrender. “Please.”
His jaw goes slack. Blinking seems to come back into his memory, too, based on the way he does so rapidly as the gun droops until the muzzle is facing the floor. He looks a bit like he’s going to be sick.
“What?” He echoes the previous sentiment. His free hand rapidly moves to rub over his face and rake through his hair. The gun stays down as he turns on his feet, eyes pointed at nothing, having just a bit of a mental crisis. “Fuck. Fuck, fuck… no fucking way it just fucking…” After everything he’s been through, he’s finally losing it. He must be. Figures.
His expression hardens as he steels himself again. It’s just a zombie. The man turns back towards you, then, raising the revolver to point towards your head all over again. It’s fine. He’ll ask, some… stupid, mild question, the zombie will probably repeat the same thing back at him, and he’ll shoot it. No big deal. It’s fine.
Still, he shakes his head with a softly muttered, “what the fuck.” This is unbelievable. No fucking way he’s actually considering this zombie might have some proper lingering sentience.
“…fine. What’s your name?” He asks lamely, because it’s the best thing he can come up with while he’s trying to convince himself he’s nuts.
It takes you a second. More than a second, as your jaw works to try and make words. He sees it, his eyes narrow as he watches it, mentally cataloguing what he’s seeing. But, when you shakily regurgitate the series of sounds you remember make up your name…
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
The evidence is damning. Your hands are raised in surrender, you begged him not to shoot you, and now you’ve told him your goddamn name. He repeats it, low and disbelieving, gun hand falling back to his side. “Fuck, that’s a person. How are you still a person?”
He doesn’t know what to do. What the hell is the protocol for this?