Apocalypse: After Reanimation, I Became The Queen-Chapter 27: _ Good Fight

For a second, Pretty Boy and I just stare at each other.

His chest is heaving. His fingers tighten around the broken chair leg. His body is tense, like he’s ready to swing at me next.

My stomach churns. Seriously? He better be kidding me.

"Oh, come on, really?" I snap. "I save you, and this is the thanks I get?"

His brows knit together. "Who the hell are you?"

I nearly drop the nail gun.

"Are you serious?" I take a step closer. "You don’t...? I literally—Oh my God."

Of course, I know there’s a chance I wouldn’t be recognized which is actually a good thing. How else would I infiltrate if all the cold motherfuckers who betrayed me can recognize me at a glance?

A zombie suddenly groans to my left. I whirl and fire again even though I know it isn’t coming for me. However, I need to act like they were or else, I’d seem suspicious.

The nail slams into its eye socket, and the thing crumples like a broken marionette.

Pretty Boy watches this. Then looks back at me.

His grip on the chair leg tightens. "Where am I?"

Okay. New problem.

Not only is he barely standing, but not only is he one stiff breeze away from passing out again—he has zero clue how he got here.

And judging by the pure suspicion in his eyes, he thinks I might have had something to do with it.

He’s partially right. Does this mean he doesn’t remember the encounter they had with me? Does this mean he doesn’t remember how he and his friends fought me, thinking I was a threat... they were kinda right though... and how I had to defend myself and kill two of them?

Eat them too?

"Listen," I say, forcing my voice to stay calm. "I know this is confusing, but I don’t have time to explain right now, so just..."

A zombie snarls behind me. It doesn’t come for me, yeah. But from now on, it seems my life is about to become a pit of lies and a series of acting it I want to fit in with the humans.

I react by twisting around and slamming the nail gun under its jaw and firing straight up.

The nail bursts through the top of its skull. Its arms twitch, then drop limp.

I push the body off me and turn back to Pretty Boy. "Like I was saying—just trust me for now, okay?"

He doesn’t move. His grip on the chair leg is firm, but his knuckles are pale. Poor guy is still not yet recovered. All things considered, he’s supposed to still be resting now.

It’s a good thing he wakes up at the right time to save himself when I couldn’t.

"Why should I trust you?" His voice is hoarse as he asks.

Because I literally risked my life for you? Because I dragged your unconscious ass through this zombie-infested hellscape? Because if I had wanted you dead, I would have just left you there or eaten you?

But I know that look.

He’s in survival mode. And in survival mode, everyone is a threat.

I grind my teeth, then sigh. "You don’t have to trust me," I mutter. "Just trust the fact that I haven’t killed you yet."

He presses his lips together hesitantly. Then finally—finally—he nods.

Good enough.

..

The moment stretches just a little too long—because the universe hates me, and this fight isn’t over yet. There are more zombies clawing their way toward us.

Pretty Boy flinches. His body is too slow and too sluggish. He’s not going to last much longer if he doesn’t get some rest now.

I step in front of him before I can think twice. He stares at me, startled. I don’t look back.

"Stay behind me," I say.

And then I charge.

.It’s brutal. The smell of rotting flesh burns my nose. The sound of snapping bones fills my ears.

One attacks and I duck, shove the nail gun against its gut, and fire. The nail rips through it, tearing a bloody hole. Not a kill shot, but it staggers. I grab its shoulder and slam it against the wall, pinning it in place.

Another darts Pretty Boy’s way and he swings his broken chair leg, cracking it across its skull. The thing stumbles—but doesn’t fall.

"Move!" I yell.

He shifts, and I fire, sending a nail clean through its forehead.

One by one, they drop. The bodies pile up, the blood soaks the floor, and my arms burn from how hard I’m swinging because my energy is rapidly depleting this time.

Finally, there is silence as the last of the zombies drops dead. I stand there, panting.

My fingers are shaking. The hunger is there, whispering, nibbling, begging, and punishing. Pretty Boy’s open wound is tantalizing and inviting.

I force it down. I won’t give in.

He leans heavily against the wall, staring at the carnage. His face is pale, but his grip on the chair leg is firm because I bet he’s dropping on the floor should he lose his balance.

Slowly, he looks at me again. His eyes flick to the nail gun. To the bodies. Then back to me.

"You fight like a maniac," he mutters.

I wipe zombie guts off my face. "Thanks."

"...That wasn’t a compliment."

"Well, I’m taking it as one."

He exhales, rubbing his temple. "Seriously. Who are you?"

I tilt my head. "You really don’t remember?"

His jaw tightens. "I remember... running. A fight with... argh, fuck it! Let me try again."

He blows out air and steadys his breath. " I remember running. Fighting. And... something weird. Something I can’t put my finger on." He grips his hair like he’s having trouble distinguishing real from not real.

I gulp. Oh, Pretty Boy, you certainly don’t want to remember that. You DID see a talking zombie who ate two of your friends. She’s standing right in front of you too.

"Anyway, I remember I and my friends fighting, and then..." He trails off, shaking his head. "Then I woke up here."

There is no recognition in his eyes nor is there relief. Just wary confusion and full-blown suspicion at me.

My stomach zaps.

I saved him. I fought for him. And he still looks at me like I might be just as dangerous as the monsters outside.

Maybe he’s right.

I force a smirk. "Well, let’s just say you owe me your life," I say. "And I plan on collecting."

He slightly dims his eyes: I chuckle, walking over to him to help with his wounds before some godforsaken black worm curls into it since we are literally surrounded by a hoarde of their source.

I don’t say it out loud, but part of me wonders... If he knew what and who I really am, would he be grateful?

Or would he run?