_ No One to Save Us

Well, I need Pretty Boy alive to find out where Lucas is. Gosh, he is just a kid and I left them. I gnash my teeth together, knowing I won't be able to forgive myself if anything happens to him. 

I run. 

My lungs burn, and my legs scream, but I don't stop. The stench of rotting flesh clogs my nose, the sickly-sweet scent of decay forever in the air, reminding us that we are in a world that belongs to the black worms now.

Behind me, zombies shamble after us, drawn by the trail of blood dripping from Pretty Boy's side.

I glance down at him, my arms shaking from carrying his weight. His skin is clammy, his lips pale, and his breathing—God, his breathing is too shallow.

 "Don't you dare die on me," I rasp, adjusting my grip. "I swear to God, Pretty Boy, if you die, I'll kill you myself."

He makes a noise; half groan, half laugh—but it's weak. Too weak.

I bite down on my panic and keep running, my boots splashing through puddles of congealed blood. The streets are a graveyard of broken glass, abandoned cars, and discarded body parts. 

 A distant car alarm wails like a mourning ghost, but no one's coming to help.

Up ahead, three figures dart across the street, running with so much desperation. 

My God. It's survivors. They sprint toward a rusted sedan, throwing open the doors.

"HEY!" I scream, forcing my legs to move faster. "Wait! Please! Help us!"

No response. They slam the doors shut, ignoring us. The engine roars to life almost immediately. 

"No, no, no—DON'T YOU FUCKING DARE!" I scream again, the sound raw, shredding my throat as I push myself forward. 

But the car zooms off with a screech, leaving only a swirling cloud of dust after it.

I stop, panting and watching the taillights disappear around a bend. "Mierda!" My chest heaves. "COBARDES! I HOPE YOU CHOKE ON YOUR NEXT MEAL!"

My voice echoes through the empty street. And that was probably a mistake. In an apocalypse, sometimes, silence saves better than weapons. 

The undead respond instantly to my screams.

Throaty but rough moan rises from the alleyways, from inside destroyed buildings, from the shadows between abandoned cars, and so on. 

The streets stir. Figures stumbling forward, heads tilting, sniffing, searching… for him.

His blood. They smell it. 

And then they come.

I clench my jaw, adjusting my grip on Pretty Boy. "You see that?" I mutter to his barely conscious form. "This is what happens when you're a dumbass and get yourself wounded. Now we're zombie bait."

I can't fight them all. Not while carrying him. Not while being so exhausted and hungry myself. I am currently fighting two wars; the sweet aroma of his blood, his flesh, and that need to keep him alive.

Firstly, I need shelter.

Then I see it.

A window. It is on the second floor. A girl stares down at me from it. Our eyes meet and she freezes.

FINALLY! 

She looks kind enough to help. The type who helps strangers and ends up getting killed in the end. 

"Hey! Help us!" I shout, waving with my other hand. 

But she jerks away, disappearing from sight and crushing my hope. The curtain flutters back into place.

What the fuck? Did she think I didn't see her?!

Pfft… I don't think. I move. Bullshit… I don't even know what to do anymore. 

Unless I go pay our adorable friend a visit. 

With the last of my strength, I haul Pretty Boy toward the building, dragging him up the crumbling steps of an open doorway.

 The interior is dark, the air smelling of mildew and rotting flesh. Worse, It's crawling with the undead, their hunched forms scrambling between overturned furniture and debris.

"Perfect," I mutter. "Just what I needed. More Zombies and corpses."

The first one closest to me attacks, reaching for Pretty Boy's leg. I twist, hardly dodging its grasp, and slamming my elbow into its skull. 

I hear the cracks of its bones, and the zombie stumbles, but it doesn't fall. Another reaches for Pretty Boy's second dangling leg.

"Oh, hell no."

I yank him away, kicking the zombie square in the chest. It stumbles back, crashing into a wooden chair that snaps under its weight. 

Another groan erupts, and then, more movement. The corpses are waking up.

I move fast and silently, moving between toppled tables and broken shelves. My ears are trained on every shuffle, every breathless moan that signals something coming too close. 

My arms ache from Pretty Boy's weight, but I keep going, my eyes locked on the staircase at the end of the hall.

Almost there.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, a hand snatches my wrist. It is cold and clammy, making me jump startled. Rotting fingers clamp down, nails biting into my skin.

"NOPE."

I pivot, yanking free, and stab a broken table leg into its face. The zombie jerks, twitching, before slumping to the ground.

I don't wait right after that. If anything, I keep running.

The stairs creak under our weight. The entire building feels like it could collapse at any second, but I don't care. I'm running on fumes, my breath ragged and my vision blurring at the edges.

Then I'm at the door. Finally!

I bang on it with everything I have. "Let us in!" I shout. "Please! He's dying!"

The chances of people letting strangers in in the Apocalypse is 0-10% out of a hundred. Let's see if Lady luck is on the side of me and Pretty Boy tonight.