Apocalypse: After Reanimation, I Became The Queen-Chapter 26: _ You’re Awake…
The cat’s blood coats my hands. It is still warm and still fresh. My stomach has stopped to protest, but there’s no real satisfaction. No sense of fullness. Just an aftertaste of regret and a fur-covered crime scene.
I stare at the little corpse dangling from my hands, its puffed tail is now limp, its body still twitching with the remnants of life.
Jesus.
I drop it unceremoniously onto the cold floor, wiping my mouth with the back of my sleeve. I feel like I should say something, maybe offer a quick lo siento to the universe, but all that comes out is a heavy exhale.
It’s a damn cat. A cat. A scrappy apocalypse survivor like me. It didn’t deserve this.
I bite my lip. Did he deserve it? The man I almost devoured?
What’s the difference between him and the cat? If I had killed him instead, would I be sitting here feeling the same thing? Or would I be sprawled out, satisfied, no longer wrestling with my own goddamn hunger?
No. I refuse to think like that.
I am not a monster.
At least, I don’t want to be.
I close my eyes for a second, then force my feet to move. I can’t sit here mourning a cat when people... human people—might be dying inside.
..
As I walk back toward the building, I address the one thing in my head that hasn’t been helpful.
"Hey, System. You know what would be really great right now?"
A familiar [Ding!] echoes in my skull, followed by its usual emotionless nonsense.
[System Online. Query?]
"A goddamn weapon. Preferably one that doesn’t look like it was dug out of a scrapyard."
[Weapons Available: LOW-GRADE HANDGUN (1), RUSTED DAGGER (1), MODIFIED NAIL GUN (1).]
I stop dead in my tracks. My eyes twitch.
"Are you kidding me? I completed a mission and still didn’t get a weapon upgrade?!"
[User Permission Level: LOW. Access to higher-grade weapons is restricted. Upgrade by completing missions.]
"Then give me missions. It’s about time you start pulling your weight."
[Confirm: Assign Missions? Y/N]
"YES. OBVIOUSLY. Why do you even ask?"
[Generating Missions...]
I roll my eyes, but the brief distraction is doing its job; it’s keeping me from thinking about the taste still lingering in my mouth.
[Mission 1: Eliminate 100 Zombies. Reward: +1 Weapon Unlock.]
"HUNDRED?!"
[Mission 2: Assist a Human Survivor. Reward: +1 Skill Upgrade.]
"A skill upgrade, huh? What? Do I get to fly or float or what?"
Of course, the system ignores my question.
[Mission 3: Consume Human Flesh Within 24 Hours. Reward: +10 Energy Points.]
I pause, staring at that last one.
"You really think I’m gonna fail that last mission, huh?"
[System does not possess opinions.]
Rude.
I sigh, scanning my pathetic weapon selection. A low-grade handgun? I used it well fighting Pretty Boy’s crew, but right now? I can’t even trust my hands to stay steady right now, let alone aim. The rusted dagger? Look, I might be undead, but I am not risking tetanus.
Which leaves the nail gun.
"Fine. Gimme the nail gun."
[Weapon Equipped: Modified Nail Gun.]
A weight settles in my hand instantly. I glance down and—okay, this is not what I was expecting.
The thing looks like someone took a regular nail gun and taped a bunch of random shit onto it. The metal is scratched up, the trigger looks finicky, and I swear there’s duct tape holding part of it together.
Why does the system even have such shitty weapons to begin with?!
Anyway, it’s not pretty, but it’ll have to do.
I take a deep breath, step toward the apartment, and prepare for the worst.
I left Pretty Boy unconscious, bleeding out and barely hanging on to life. The plan was to clear a path, come back, and drag his barely breathing body to safety before he became zombie chow.
I don’t even care much for Yara and Bea. Those cowards went ahead to save themselves, not giving a batshit about and Pretty Boy the moment hell breaks loose.
I don’t blame them; in the apocalypse, your caring capacity is low. Always.
But when I shove open the door, the scene I find is not what I expected.
Pretty Boy’s already awake.
Not just awake... he’s fighting.
What the Hell?
For half a second, I just stand there, blinking like an idiot.
I expected a bloodbath. I expected to find him slumped against the wall, his ribs caved in, his throat torn out. But instead...
He’s alive.
Weak, sure. Unsteady on his feet even. His wounds are still raw and his bandages are coming loose. But he’s moving. Swinging a broken chair leg like his life depends on it—because it does.
I don’t know whether to be thrilled or pissed off.
I nearly killed myself trying to protect him, and now he’s up like he just took a goddamn nap?
The shock doesn’t last long. Three zombies staggers toward him at once from the side. His eyes are too hazy and he doesn’t see it.
Fucking idiot. Whatever will you do without me?
I raise the nail gun and FIRE. FIRE. FIRE.
Thick and rusted nail punches straight through the creature’s skull with a wet, meaty CRACK. The zombies stumble, twitch, and collapse at his feet.
Pretty Boy jerks back, wild-eyed.
His gaze swings toward me and the confusion in his face makes me gulp. It almost seems like he doesn’t recognize me.
I haven’t even rehearsed what to say to him in case he does. What do I say?
Hey, I am the talking zombie who fought you and your crew, killed and ate two of your friends while watching the rest of you run away?
Okay, that definitely won’t do.
However, since the system modified 75% of my appearance and I don’t look one bit like the disgusting corpse they fought, there is a chance he wouldn’t link me to the unexplainable monster who killed his friends, right?!
ARGH! Why didn’t I think of all of this before saving him? I wasn’t rational. I just did. Now, I just might suffer the consequences.
