Spike

 It's been two days.

I think.

Time is… weird now. The sky tells me it's day, then night, then day again, but it all blends together in the slowest damn shuffle you can imagine. If I'd had legs that worked before this, I'd have thrown them away out of spite by now. We've probably gone, I don't know, two kilometers total? And even that feels generous. The herd moves like spilled syrup—slow, sticky, and always backtracking.

We turned around yesterday. Not all at once, either. Just the lead walkers catching a noise, groaning, and the rest of us instinctively followed. Like dominoes made of meat and rot.

The existential dread was loud at first. I went from curious to horrified to straight-up panicking. But now?

Now I'm just bored.

I play games in my head to stay sane. I imagine who these people used to be. The dead around me. Like Jacket—his red blazer still has one of those name tags stuck to it. The white label kind, faded to beige. I like to think he was a maître d' at a very fancy steakhouse who hated his job, smoked on the roof during breaks, and only smiled for tips.

Tyson, on the other hand, was obviously a CrossFit influencer. Arrogant. Maybe ran a podcast about eating raw meat. That's why I've made him my rival. I don't trust those cheekbones or that hair. Even in death, the guy has good posture. It pisses me off.

And Red…

Red. She's still ahead of me, to the left. Her hair clings to her cheeks, wet with dew or old blood—I can't tell anymore. Her walk is janky, off-balance, but there's something graceful beneath the shuffle. Like she used to dance. Maybe a choreographer? Ballet instructor? Or hell, maybe she just liked Zumba. Who knows.

She stumbles a little closer to me today. I almost groan out her name on instinct—Red—but catch myself. Not like she'd hear it anyway. And if she did, what would happen? Nothing. Just more blank stares and twitching.

A squirrel darts into our path.

Suddenly, everything changes.

Four zombies—Jacket included—veer after it. Limbs swinging, jaws slightly agape. Their moans are more energetic, almost hopeful. The squirrel pauses just long enough for them to see it, then zips up the nearest tree like it's mocking us. One by one, the walkers pause, shuffle to the base of the tree, and then… forget what they were doing. Just kind of… stand there.

Red had followed them too. Not as fast, but her trajectory lined up. She pauses by me now, blankly turning her head toward the branches above. I try—again—to move. To reach for her, maybe. Not in some romantic way. Just… to make contact. Feel real.

Left index finger: twitch.

That's it. That's all I've got. After two days of trying, it's the same pathetic result.

We're still drifting vaguely in the direction the father and son had gone. I didn't expect to see them again—but then, through a break in the trees, there they are.

The man, beard bright in the sunlight, walks with his back rigid. The boy, a few steps behind him, is carrying something heavy. Buckets. Water, maybe. Must've found a stream nearby. They pause for just a second as they spot us again, eyes scanning the front line of the horde.

We're still maybe fifty feet out. But closing.

I can tell the man's weighing his options. He looks at us like a hunter sizing up a herd of cattle—except this herd bites. His shotgun stays slung over his shoulder. Smart. Too loud, too messy. Not worth the trouble. He murmurs something to the kid, and together they arc around the far edge of the horde. The boy stumbles once, the bucket sloshes, but they're past us in seconds. A few of the faster zombies peel off after them, groaning, but the humans are long gone before the corpses take ten steps.

My body keeps walking. No choice in the matter. But I wonder—what would I do if I could stop? Would I call out to them? Ask for help? Food? Mercy? A name?

It doesn't matter. I can't speak. I can't even lift a hand to wave.

So I watch them disappear.

And then comes the noise.

It starts from the rear of the herd—something loud, wet, and violent. Heads turn. Mine too. I don't mean to, but my neck shifts with the same molasses reflex as everyone else.

And then I see him.

Not a zombie.

A man. It's another survivor.

He strides toward us like he owns the forest. Black overcoat flaring slightly as he walks, chest bare except for a bizarre skull tattoo stretched between his nipples. His hair is brown, spiked, like a cartoon villain. Jeans the color of an open wound. Combat boots stomping leaves.

The first walker that reaches him gets a machete to the forehead.

The next gets beheaded. Clean slice. Rolls like a melon.

He spins. Laughs. Dances between them like it's all a game. Another arm gone. A leg. One zombie tries to bear-hug him, and he twists out of the way, dragging his blade through its neck without missing a beat.

I name him Spike.

Because what the hell else do you name a man who looks like Hot Topic's final boss?

More of the horde turns now, drawn to the sound, the movement. Spike doesn't flinch. He's having fun. He's humming. He cleaves a zombie down the middle like he's in an anime.

And now I'm getting close. Too close.

Panic rises again. If he gets to me—if my face is the next canvas for his machete—I won't be able to stop him. I'll die. Again. Maybe for real this time. No spark. No second awakening.

Just nothing.

But Spike, smiling like it's all one big party, stops just as the crowd starts pressing in.

He looks around. Counts heads. Shrugs.

Then turns and strolls back the way he came.

Casual. Effortless. Like he just wanted to stretch his legs and commit a little ultraviolence before lunch.

The herd groans louder. A few try to follow. Most can't keep up. He's already gone—just another ghost in the trees.

And I'm still here.

Shuffling. Thinking.