_ The Last Confession

The door groans as it swings open, the metal frame scraping against the floor like a beast unwilling to let me in. The air inside has a distinct sour scent of abandonment—dust, old fabric, and something faintly rotten.

"Well, here goes nothing." I tutt, putting a hand on my hip. 

 I take a step inside, my boots making soft indentations on the dust-covered floor. 

Second rule of the apocalypse: never assume a place is empty just because it looks that way. 

I move carefully with my muscles tight as I scan my surroundings. The lobby is small, with a tumbled coat rack in one corner and a dusty reception desk in another. A few ancient chairs sit against the walls, their cushions torn and stuffing spilling out like guts. 

There's an elevator, but I'm not dumb enough to test if it's still working. 

Instead, I head for the stairwell, ears tuned to any sign of movement. Silence is its own kind of danger. 

I finally reach the second floor. The hallway is lined with apartment doors, most of them closed, a few left ajar. My instincts buzz, warning me to stay alert. There's no fresh blood, no signs of struggle, but that doesn't mean shit. 

People in the apocalypse have a way of hiding like cockroaches until they decide whether to stab you in the back or not. 

Just as I start to relax, I hear it. A soft and broken moan. 

I freeze, listening with my ears strained out. 

It's faint, almost swallowed by the thick walls, but my hearing is sharper than it used to be. I follow the sound, careful not to make sounds with my footsteps. 

My fingers are flexing at my sides. The sound is coming from the last apartment at the end of the hall. The door is slightly open, revealing nothing but shadows inside. 

I push it open with my foot. The hinges creak. 

The first thing I see is a small room. Then, a couch, a table covered in dust, and an old radio sitting on a shelf. The second thing I see is her. 

An old woman, sitting in a battered armchair, looking like death itself. 

She's pale—too pale. Her gray hair is matted and her face is hollow. Her hands tremble slightly as she lifts her head, blinking at me like I'm a mirage. But when she sees me, something strange happens. 

She smiles. 

"Oh, thank God," she whispers. 

I blink. That's… new. 

Nobody's ever been happy to see a stranger in the apocalypse. They said, 'Who the hell are you?' or 'Get out before I shoot you.'

But this woman? She looks relieved, like I just walked in carrying salvation in my damn pocket. 

I raise an eyebrow. "Are you sure you're in the apocalypse? Because I don't think you're doing it right."

A chuckle that sounds more like a wheeze leaves her lips. "Oh, I'm in it, alright. Just not for much longer."

With a slow movement, she pulls up her sleeve. I see the bite immediately. 

It's ugly. The skin around it is swollen, and bruised in sickly shades of black and green. If one looks well enough, one can almost see the black worms crawling underneath her skin.

The wound is jagged, the teeth marks deep. I don't need a doctor to tell me she doesn't have long. 

"My family is dead," she says in a quiet voice. "I'm the last one left." 

I don't respond right away. What am I supposed to say to that? Oh, sucks for you? 

Instead, I lean against the doorway, crossing my arms. "You don't seem too panicked about turning into a brainless flesh-muncher." 

She lets out another mirthless laugh. "What's the point? It's not like there's a cure." 

Fair enough. 

Silence settles between us strangely after. She studies me, and I let her. Maybe she sees something in my face, something that makes her decide I'm not a threat. Or maybe she just doesn't care anymore. 

Then, out of nowhere, she says, "You look like someone who's lost people too." 

My throat dries up. I don't know why. 

I exhale slowly. "Doesn't everyone?" 

She nods, understanding in her clouded eyes. "Tell me." 

It's not a demand. It's not even a request. It's an invitation. And maybe it's the loneliness of it all, or the way she looks at me like she actually gives a damn, but the words slip out before I can stop them. 

"My brother," I say. "He was all I had." 

I don't talk about him. Not ever. Not since the day I lost him. But now, the words are pouring out, like something smashed open inside me. 

"He was younger than me. Stupidly optimistic, always believed things would get better. Even after everything went to hell, he still thought people were good. Thought we could survive if we just found the right group." 

The old woman listens, silent. 

"We found one. A group. They took us in. Gave us food, and shelter. It felt safe." My lips curl bitterly. "Until it wasn't." 

I see it in my mind—the moment my whole world fell apart. It didn't fall apart when the outbreak struck and the world fell, no. For me, it was the day I lost Juan. 

"They left him behind. When the horde came. Just left him there." I shrug casually, saying the most serious thing to me in the whole world while my heart shatters. 

The memory burns, stinging through me like a fresh wound. His screams. The way he called my name. The way I couldn't get to him in time. 

I clench my fists. "That's when I met them. Santiago's group." 

I can still see his face… bloody Santiago; the sexy jawline, the lazy smile, the way he looked at me like I was the only person in the world. I fell for it. For him. 

I swallow. "I worked my ass off for them. Fought for them. Trusted them. And then they killed me. Over supplies. Over some fucking food and my little shelter." 

The old woman sighs. "People will kill for less." 

I laugh, but there's no humor in it. "Yeah. Turns out, being a zombie isn't the worst thing that's ever happened to me." 

She looks at me strangely. "You say that like you've been one before." 

I freeze. Shit. That was supposed to be the most confidential thing to me ever. How can I so carelessly mention it?!

I clear my throat, waving a hand. "Figure of speech." 

She watches me with thoughtful eyes, but doesn't press. 

Instead, she leans back, exhaling. "My husband was a doctor. My daughter was a teacher. My grandson…" Her lips tremble. "He was only six." 

I don't ask how they died. I already know. This is the fucking Apocalypse.