Chapter Two

Signing the paperwork, Isolde felt in a daze, almost signing the wrong name. She, who swore she would never marry in her life, just signed her new life away to a stranger.

"Is that it?" She had prepared herself to endure a painful walk out to the registry office.

"Benefits of the elite," he winked, then took the paperwork to sign himself and pass back to the assistant trying to remain invisible and almost succeeding.

"There we go, as soon as Zedong hands this over, we'll be husband and wife," he smirked, "satisfied?"

"Very," she nodded gratefully. Now the Li's will have no need to protect her under their wings later.

Zedong quickly fled out of the apartment, leaving the now-married couple all alone, to complete his task.

Isolde sighed, sinking back into the sofa and rubbing her aching temples. It was not fair. Why did she have to have a temporary obsession with the Asian-style zombie novels? Why not the American genre? Rotting weak corpses would be great, especially with the guns rampant in America, compared to their strict control here. 

Now she was in China, the meteors that landed a few days ago had infected the water here. It had already started turning the first few people in homes or hospitals into monsters that would evolve and grow into both living and dead supernatural beings her weak little self couldn't handle.

Unlike the characters she wrote, who were all guaranteed to gain abilities and win over the virus trying to destroy the host via their immune system, there was no guarantee she would have abilities. As an injured person, it was more likely she became a zombie.

Though she would use her marriage as an excuse to avoid the Li's she couldn't actually rely on her husband. As soon as the apocalypse occurs he goes somewhat crazy with his new-found freedom. His dad was using his mother to get him to do as he pleased, but his mother died three years ago.

He will go home to confront his father finding him a zombie, then go through his hidden paperwork and find her death certificate.

At first he did try to help those he cared for. But because of her plotpoint self, his best friend would have turned on him. The villainess will drive that wedge deeper. His other friends would turn on him one by one all because of the villainess' schemes. 

When they reach the base the villainess will sell him off to those in control who will kidnap and torture him, using him for his brain just like his father.

Finally he would then create robots that made the zombies, that already terrified her silly, look like cannon fodder. Only, the programming would not target the dead, but target those he hated, destroying the base in the process… that was as far as she wrote in a stupid ill planned rough draft.

"Fuck," she groaned as her leg spasmed mid-stretch.

Zimo set aside his glass of water and snatched her leg, massaging it. At first, she was a bit shocked, but it felt good and as Gramps said, shy bairn's get nothing. So she lay back and let him work his magic hands.

"Zimo, can you get me a flight to Scotland?" She would rather be in familiar terrain if she had to endure this hellscape. Not to mention the East was the center point of it all, with the meteors having originally landed here and spreading the virus elsewhere. 

As long as she just disappeared then the plot can do as it pleased and she might have a little more time to prepare a safe space. Maybe find some little island off the coast…

"Are you planning a honeymoon or running away?" He asked, squeezing her foot tightly. She yanked it out of his grip, then kicked his thigh.

"I am running away," she honestly mumbled, then rolled to her side to avoid his piercing gaze. Why did she write his hazel-gray eyes could cut as sharp as a knife?

"If you want to run away, use your own money," he pushed up off the sofa grabbing the empty glass to go to the kitchen.

If she could use her own money, she wouldn't have asked for his. Her phone died, once recharged it asked for a passcode, which she did not know at all. Fuyi was just a few rough paragraphs of information.

She knew nothing about herself other than a charming little rich miss who died miserably from a blow to the head during a rape attempt.

Ugh, she was awful, she was an awful person. This was hell. The novel Gods were punishing her for all the tragic and poorly written stories she doled out.

Life here might be miserable, but what would happen after death? Would she be tossed into another of her awful books? Or would she disappear? Face Judgement?

She was simply a psychology student having fun plotting out how society would react during global disasters, whilst earning a bit of 'pocket money' online. Dad kept pestering her to get a real job and even found her one at a small cafe his friend owned. He always knew best, she should have become a barrista. She loved caffeine. He really knew her best...

Now he was alone. Divorced with a demon of an ex-wife, his only child is herself, who is now dead, Gramps died last summer and her Grandma died before she was born. He had no siblings. He was all alone.

Crying she found herself full of remorse and regret with nowhere to vent but to herself. Studying psychology is an awful thing, if you enter it sane, you leave it neurotic. Knowing the why and the how only made it worse. Becoming self aware only taught you ignorance was bliss. 

"Do you hate marrying me that much?" Zimo returned a long while later, sitting on the armchair opposite, crossing his legs as he lit a cigarette. 

"Oh give me a break, I'm traumatized you fucking idiot, use your IQ," she snapped, finding a place to vent.

Startled he almost choked as he inhaled. He was just being sarcastic to lighten the mood.

Isolde restrained her mood, going back to ignoring him. 

She was one of those women who stupidly always fell for the villain in a novel, of course, she did not hate being next to him. He was smart, capable, and strong as he was handsome, while this was the apocalypse. She'd rather be forcibly attached to the kind of man who'd burn the world to protect her than the kind who would burn her to save the world.

"I died," she suddenly sobbed, "I died, I died, I died."

Extinguishing his cigarette, he got back up off the seat, feeling himself feverish and sluggish.

"No, you're alive," he knelt, using the sofa to keep himself from falling flat on his ass. He grabbed her hand and pressed it to her neck, finding the carotid artery, "see, you're alive."

She focused on the throbbing sensation under her fingers until she felt a little squeamish and pulled it away.

He was right, she was alive, but for how long?

"You look worse than I feel… Go lie down," she looked up at the man's forehead slowly dripping with sweat. He was already infected. What about her?

"Umm…" he knew he was coming down with something, so did not complain. Pushing himself up, he staggered towards the hallway, then passed out on the floor with a thump that made her wince.

Closing her eyes, she took a few deep breaths, forcing her tense body to slowly relax.

Inhaling deeply, she sat up and went to drag the villain to bed.

Wiping sweat off her brow, she grew concerned. She must also be infected.

"Shit," she anxiously bore a hole into the carpet until she was too dizzy.

Would she turn into a zombie and kill the villain? A lot of immune people died because the zombie woke up first.

Although a scratch or a bite from herself wouldn't harm him due to his immunity, if she ripped out his throat with her teeth… he was not immune to that.

Hot with sweat that dripped like fire ants crawling on her body. If she had to die again, she wanted to die comfortably, not in this roasting heat. 

Filling the bathtub with lukewarm water, aiming to control her body temperature, she splashed her face with the sink water. All this water was infected, but she was already infected so who cared? She just wanted to get rid of this burning inner heat.

Taking one last glance at the man she'd wrestled onto the bed, she shut the ensuite door and stripped off the newly bought dress given this morning, feeling like she was peeling it off.

Leaving only the bandages on her chest and the knickers on, she climbed into the bathtub letting out a satisfied groan at its coolness.

The heat was filling her brain with her last moments as Isolde. She must have died from the smoke, trapped in her room twelve stories high. The last thing she remembered was passing out onto the burning floor from the flames below, struggling to breathe. She'd been sleepy, just like now.

If only she had listened to her dad and come home that weekend instead of getting drunk and binge-eating ice cream to get over her boyfriend cheating on her.

If only she had not drunk so much that she passed out at the keyboard, maybe she would have noticed the people alerting others of the fire before it was too late.

The fire alarm was broken in her shoddy apartment, there was nothing she could have done, nothing. The fire started below her floor the landlord skipped too many corners.

Crying, she gripped her hand on the bathtub edge, refusing to pass out a fourth time today. Biting her tongue, her mouth filled with a metallic taste.

"Stay awake Isolde, you can do this, you can do it, just fight a little harder, a little more…" she coaxed herself, thinking of her dad's encouragement over the years since he won custody of her. 

His undying love and support as she worked herself to the bone to become strong, to learn to protect herself and love herself as she should.

Her dad was her hero, now he was gone, and she had to become her own.

Unsure of how she had fallen asleep, she felt warm fingers touching her neck and the cold water drained from the bath, making her feel even colder when exposed to the air. She embraced the cold happily.

"I did it," she smiled faintly up at the Villain. Considering her weakened state, there was a point she thought she wouldn't. But if the host was healthy and had a strong will, they would win. And she won.

Unsure of why she was so proud, he hummed and lifted her out of the bath onto the floor to dress her in a bathrobe with trembling arms.

"Don't," she pushed him away to stand alone as he attempted to carry her back to the bedroom, "don't push yourself, I have legs too."

With hands feeling empty, he nodded and staggered back to collapse on the bed still in a confused daze. The world was in chaos outside due to a sudden pandemic, they were suffering from it too and there was nobody to help.

Zimo simply focused on keeping himself awake now his temperature was normal.

"Are there any staff in the apartment?" She nervously asked, using the furniture and walls to walk inside the room.

"Nanny Wang inside, Guards, two, outside," he breathlessly answered.

Isolde let out a sigh of relief. One to three potential zombie that was manageable.

Everything she wrote was from the reborn female lead's perspective, which had nothing to do with the villain. So she felt blind despite this being her book.

Groaning in frustration, she looked around the room, feeling helplessly weak. Her DNA had just been played with like putty, mutating her body into something no longer human.

All she could do was move to the bedroom door to shut it, turn the lock, then slide down to rest against it.

"Weapons, do you have any?" The electric and metal dual-ability villain she wrote about was skilled with ancient Chinese sword art as a hobby, and robotics and AI as a career. He was a sturdy tree to shelter under for now.

"Gym," he forced himself to sit up, "why?"

In his mind they simply both had this damn winter flu going around and the hospitals were turning people away last night, hence why he brought her here when she stumbled into their room injured.

He thought he was marrying a fat little pig the Li's raised, but after he saw the state of those three men last night, one of whom was dead, he realized he just married a tiger.

He made a mental note to take her seriously and keep his groin well protected…

"Zombies," she honestly struggled to reply, her chest no longer hurting, yet still feeling constricted, "the riots at the hospital, zombies."

He laughed, then forced himself to his feet. She'd burnt her brain out with the fever.

When he tried to move her from the door, she fought him to keep herself firmly planted against it.

"We're too weak, not yet," she shook her head thinking he had believed her.

As expected of her villain he wanted to kill the potential threats straight away. But it could take hours before they regained their strength and found themselves stronger than before. At least that's what she wrote.

"Yes, you're too weak, I need to get you some fever medicine from the kitchen," he felt fueled by adrenaline to look after his wife. Yet he also felt like he was simply running on those fumes.

Pissed off that he had not believed her, she grabbed his hand to press the back of it on her forehead. Though a bit clammy, it was cold, "see I don't need it, go lie down." 

"How is your head?" he brushed aside her fringe to check on the bump, finding it gone. Dr. An was worried about a blood clot on the brain, but since she seemed to regain her memories, they wanted to leave it until things calmed down at the hospital.

The sudden riots at the hospital late last night had reached the point of the military coming into the city this morning.

Batting his hand aside, she glared at him and then looked over at the large window, "look outside."

Curious, he left her to stagger over and lean on the window sill.

His hands clenched tightly to the point of pain.

Cars were askew, some having collided with each other or lamposts. One had even gone through a shop front.

The carnage of blood and bones mingled with the metal making him feel like he was watching a TV screen and not looking out of his bedroom window.

Sliding it open he looked down hearing a shriek from another building. The slowly swaying bodies below seemed suddenly energized, moving to the source of the sound.

Had she seen all of this when he passed out earlier? How had he slept through all of that?

Gently closing the window, he stepped backward until he tripped on the bed and collapsed back, "fuck."