Apocalypse: After Reanimation, I Became The Queen-Chapter 21: _ It’s Been A Year and a Half

When they return, they throw the supplies onto the table; a bottle of antibiotics, a few painkillers, and a roll of bandages. Not much, but it’ll do.

I mutter a quick thanks, grab what I need, and get to work.

I clean the wound carefully, wiping away the excess blood, ignoring how it sticks to my fingers, and how I can still taste it in the air.

I clean the wound as best as I can, trying to focus on the task and not the hunger gnawing at my insides. When I press a cloth soaked in antiseptic against the gash, he groans, twitching.

"He’s not infected," I announce, mostly to shut down any more arguments.

The girls both exhale in unison, tension easing slightly from their shoulders.

Then, right behind me...

"You are such a reckless idiot, Bea!"

"Oh, I’m the idiot? You’re the one who opened the damn door, Yara!"

Ah. So they have names.

Bea, the one with the gun, and Yara, the taller one, immediately begin a heated argument.

"If we didn’t let her in, we’d have a horde of zombies pounding on the door! She kept drawing them to us." Yara hisses.

"And if she turns out to be a lunatic who eats people, that’s on you!" Bea fires back.

"Then you should have fucking stayed away from the window like I always told you to, Bea!" Yara yells, throwing her hands in the air.

Suddenly, Bea recoils. "You know they might show up at any time. I want to make sure I am there to see them first, Yara. They deserve that much after everything..."

"I swear to God, Bea—"

Thump.

The entire room goes still.

Thump.

The sound is slow at first. Distant. I was going to ignore it but the universe says no.

CRASH!

The front door rattles violently as the undead slam against it with renewed force all thanks to Yara and Bea’s stupid loud argument.

The wood groans, splinters cracking under the pressure.

"Shit," Bea breathes.

"They’re getting through," Yara says, already moving.

The two girls scramble to push furniture against the door, reinforcing the barricade as the pounding grows louder.

I don’t move. I can’t.

Because I know that door won’t hold.

And worse, I can still smell Pretty Boy’s blood. 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝙚𝙬𝓮𝙗𝒏𝙤𝒗𝙚𝙡.𝒄𝒐𝓶

I press a hand to my stomach, clenching my teeth. Stay in control. Stay in control.

I just need to finish stitching him up. Keep my head down. Ignore the hunger.

But as the door groans under the weight of the undead, and my body screams for sustenance, I start to wonder...

How much longer can I fight this?

I don’t know but one thing I know is that the door isn’t going to hold.

I glance at Pretty Boy, then at the barricade, then back at the wound I’m trying to close.

Fuck.

I work faster, ignoring the growls and snarls coming from outside, ignoring the girls still arguing. We don’t have much time.

I just hope I can finish before that damn door gives way.

The barricade groans again in a sickening creak of wood splintering under the weight of the zombies outside. I don’t even bother looking at the door. I know it’s a matter of time before it gives way.

The girls have stopped arguing, thank God, and are now whispering hurriedly to each other while pressing their weight against the furniture.

I push forward, working harder on stitching up Pretty Boy’s wound. My hands are steady, but my mind is not. I can still smell the blood. Thick, delicious, tempting. I swallow hard, keeping my face unemotional as I tie off the last stitch and press a clean bandage against his side.

"Done," I mutter.

Bea exhales in relief. "Good. Now we just have to hope those bastards outside get bored and..."

A loud bang rattles the door.

"Yeah, I don’t think boredom is part of the zombie experience," I say dryly.

Yara clicks her tongue. "Maybe if we keep quiet, they’ll move on."

"Move on?" I repeat, raising an eyebrow. "Oh, right. Because zombies are famous for their patience and short attention spans."

Bea rolls her eyes. "You got a better idea?"

Actually, I do.

I shift on my knees, wiping my bloody hands on the least dirty part of my pants, and glance up at them. "Why not create a distraction?"

They stare at me.

Bea squints. "A distraction?"

I gesture vaguely at the window. "Something loud. Something that’ll make them go somewhere else."

Yara narrows her eyes. "Like what? You got a marching band in your back pocket?"

I ignore the sarcasm. "Do you have a speaker?"

Both of them blink at me. Then, as if in perfect synchronization, they burst out laughing.

Like full-on, bent-over, can’t-breathe, holding-their-stomachs laughing.

I stare at them. "Am I missing something?"

Yara wipes a tear from her eye. "Oh my God, you really think this is the pre-apocalypse era, huh?"

Bea snorts. "What next? You want us to charge our phones and call customer service to complain about the zombies?"

Yara gasps dramatically. "Oh no, maybe she’s expecting Amazon to deliver us a new barricade!"

Bea pretends to gasp too. "Damn, maybe we should check if UberEats is still running—I could really go for a burger."

I pinch the bridge of my nose. "Okay, message received. Electricity is dead... don’t think I don’t know that. I just wasn’t aware y’all have been using your speaker through the year in the apocalypse. I’m the idiot. Moving on."

Yara smirks. "Sweetheart, it’s been a year and a half. You really think a speaker still works?"

What the hell does she mean by a year and a half?

I blink. "A year and a half?"

Bea waves a hand. "Yeah. Since everything went to shit."

"No." I shake my head, frowning. "It’s only been a year."

I can remember Santiago shooting me just two days ago and it’s only been a year into the apocalypse.

Yara gives me a look. "Okay, sure. And I’m a Victoria’s Secret model."

Bea snorts. "With that attitude? Please."

"I..." I stop, feeling my stomach twist. My pulse pounds in my ears. "What do you mean a year and a half?"

Yara and Bea exchange glances. Bea tilts her head. "You really didn’t keep track, huh?"

Yara sighs, rubbing the back of her neck. "I mean, we get it. If we didn’t have calendars and weren’t stuck in here for literally forever, we might’ve lost track of time too."

"But," Bea adds, "we’ve been trapped here for a year and a half, with two jackasses, might I add—so, trust me, we know exactly how long it’s been."

I barely hear her. My mind is still stuck on that number. A year and a half.

No. No, that’s not right.

I was killed two days ago. I remember—the betrayal, the pain, the darkness. When I woke up as... this, the apocalypse had only been a year old.

So why the hell is there suddenly a six-month time jump?

What happened in between?

Before I can ask, Yara suddenly scowls. "And speaking of those jackasses..."

Bea groans. "Yara, drop it."

"No, I won’t drop it!" Yara snaps. "You know damn well I can call them whatever the hell I want."

Them? Who are they?