_ Finding Shelter

My fists clench. My jaw tightens. Standing there, my brain walks down memory lane. Santiago's smug face. 

The laughter. The betrayal. The pain. The way they left me to die like I was nothing.

Rage runs red through my brain, burning away whatever was left of my previous joy. My nails dig into my palms.

They did this to me.

Santiago. His people. Everyone who stood by and watched.

I was human once. They took that from me.

I'll take everything from them in return. They'll pay. 

I lift my chin. My voice is vibrating when I speak. "I'll make them regret it."

The system doesn't respond. Not that I expected it to.

Instead, I sigh, pushing the anger aside for now. Focus. Priorities.

At least, I won't have to engage in a roadside bloodshed once again just because some strangers are scared of my appearance. 

I glance down at my bloodstained clothes; they are ripped, and dirty, hanging off me in tattered pieces. 

Yeah, no. I might be undead, but that doesn't mean I have to look homeless.

"Alright, System. I hope you're keeping track of names because I have some people to kill." 

[SYSTEM HAS RECORDED USER'S HOSTILITY LEVELS.]

"Good," I snap. "Also, can I eat like normal humans now?" 

[NEGATIVE.]

Oh, please. It doesn't get easier, does it? I can't even imagine myself after eating these two assholes, and the thought of doing it again makes me sick.

The thought that I'll have to eat people to survive… I can't stand it. How does that make me any better than the zombies? 

How the fuck am I supposed to blend with humans when they have to become my daily meal?

I grit my teeth. "Why can't I eat normal food?"

[USER MUST COMPLETE ANOTHER TASK TO UNLOCK THAT FUNCTION.]

Oh, great! There's hope, at least. 

And what's the task?"

[TASK WILL BE ANNOUNCED WHEN DUE.]

"You piece of—" I slap my forehead and groan. "You're telling me I have to wait? I just ate someone, and you're saying that's not enough?" 

[CORRECT.] 

I roll my eyes. "Of course not."

The system is lucky I can't punch it in the face.

I sigh and shake my head, deciding not to waste more time arguing with a disembodied voice. "Fine. Whatever. I need new clothes first."

Just as I take a step toward the nearest alley, I hear it.

A chorus of gruff moans reverberates through the air. 

I stop and slowly turn my head. 

From the shadows of broken buildings and ruined cars, figures begin to shuffle forward.

Zombies. A lot of them. 

Their eyes glow in the darkness, their bodies moving with that usual, disjointed lurch. Their mouths hang open, slack-jawed, dripping with saliva and whatever rotten remnants they last fed on. Some are missing limbs. Others have gaping wounds with their bones exposed. 

They're all drawn here because of the gunfire. Because of Pretty Boy and Captain Authority.

I watch as the horde moves toward the direction they run slowly. They won't stop until they catch something living. 

I could go after them. I could help. 

…

Yeah, no. 

"Not my fucking problem," I say, turning around. 

I march off in the opposite direction, ready to find myself some new clothes.

They got what they deserved. 

I continue to march off, head held high, shoulders back, like the badass zombie queen I am.

Or at least, that's what I tell myself. In reality, I probably look like a homeless woman who just crawled out of a ditch.

Yeah. I need a wardrobe change yesterday.

I walk through the darkened streets, stepping over corpses, broken glass, and the occasional stray limb which I pointedly do not look at because I do not want my stomach to start growling again. 

The city is eerily silent except for the distant moans of the zombie horde drifting away in the opposite direction.

Which, let's be honest, is a goddamn relief.

Pretty Boy and Captain Authority can deal with that mess. I've done my part—by not eating them, which is more than they deserve.

Now, back to my personal side quest: Finding clothes that don't make me look like a freshly resurrected corpse.

My boots crunch softly against the pavement as I move down the deserted street, scanning the buildings for a place to hunker down. 

Most are too far gone—walls caved in, windows shattered, doors hanging off their hinges like they'd just given up on life.

But then, I finally see something worthy. 

A five-story residential building, old but sturdy, with a dark brick exterior and only a few broken windows. The apocalypse has done a number on it, but it still stands strong—like an old man who refuses to die despite having lived through five wars and three divorces.

"Alright, grandpa," I mutter, stepping closer. "Let's see if you're livable."

I reach for the handle of the metal door and give it a push. It doesn't open. I try again, harder this time. It doesn't budge.

"Of course. There must be people inside and they sure as hell will not leave the door open for anyone – dead or undead to just walk in."

If there is one thing I could count on in this miserable world, it is resistance. And if there is one thing this miserable world could count on from me, it is persistence.

I took a step back, rolled my shoulders, and delivered a solid kick right beside the handle. The door groaned but stayed put. 

At this point, I am already expecting a gunshot or a warning to leave, but I've got nothing yet. Maybe the people inside are weak?

That'll be precious because it means no violence. I don't want to kill anyone unless it is greatly inevitable. 

Anyway, I give the door another kick. A third. Finally, with a tortured screech of metal, the lock gives way, and the door swings open like a drunk stumbling home at 3 AM.

I smirk. "Thank you for your cooperation."

Now, to the trouble that definitely awaits me inside…