Apocalypse: After Reanimation, I Became The Queen-Chapter 28: _ The Aftermath

The problem with saving people in the apocalypse is that they don’t trust you for it.

I mean, I get it. There are no freebies anymore. No random acts of kindness, no Good Samaritans, no strangers pulling others from the depths of hell just for the sake of it.

If someone helps you, it’s because they want something in return. Maybe food. Maybe weapons. Maybe a warm body to act as bait when the next wave of zombies comes knocking.

So, when Pretty Boy wavers on his feet, his balance flickering like a candle in the wind, and I rush to steady him—he recoils. His muscles tense, his fingers twitch toward his weapon, and for a moment, I think he might actually swing it at me.

I risked my undead ass for this?

"Easy, champ," I mutter, gripping his arm and bracing against his weight. "Unless you’re aiming for an express trip to the floor, I suggest you cooperate."

His jaw tightens, but he lets me guide him to the nearest semi-clean surface which is a dusty couch, slightly sagging, but zombie-free.

Pretty Boy sits down hard, wincing as his leg stretches out. Sweat beads along his forehead, and his breathing is uneven. I can tell his body is barely holding together.

Up close, I can see just how wrecked he is; dark circles, feverish eyes, lips pale from blood loss. But beneath all that exhaustion, all that survival-driven paranoia, he’s still...

Unfairly attractive.

Not that I can appreciate it the way I used to. My senses are... different now. His scent doesn’t hit me like it should. There’s no comforting warmth, no lingering traces of sweat. No.

He just smells like food. Warm. Fresh. Pulsing with life.

I swallow hard, forcing the hunger back down where it belongs. Not today, Satan.

Instead, I focus on what I can fix. "Hold still," I tell him. "I need to find something to redress that wound before it gets worse."

I move to leave, but before I can take a step, his hand suddenly shoots out and grips my wrist.

It’s not tight. Not forceful. Just... enough to get my attention.

I freeze.

A strange sort of heat... or what I imagine heat should feel like because I don’t actually feel much these days settles where his fingers touch my skin. I glance down at his hand, then up at his face.

He’s watching me with his brow furrowed. "Why?" he asks.

My mouth quirks. "Why what?"

"Why are you helping me?"

Maybe because you fucking lost Lucas and I need you to find the poor teen in order to save my humanity?!

I twist my mouth sarcastically. "Uh, because you’re bleeding out?"

His grip tightens on my wrist and my stomach groans in response. "That’s not what I mean. People don’t do this. Not anymore."

My throat bobs. He’s right. People don’t. But I’m not people, am I?

I’m an intelligent zombie who has made finding and protecting Lucas a reassurance that deep down, she still has a heart that feels like a human.

Because I do.

I wet my lips. "I had a brother once," I say, the words slipping out before I can stop them. "Lost him during all of this. I tried to save him, but I wasn’t fast enough." I shake my head, letting out a humorless laugh. "Maybe saving you is just my way of making up for that."

Part lie, part truth.

His expression chills just a little... just enough that I can see a crack in that hard exterior of his.

"I was alone for a long time after that," I continue. "Still am. And honestly? Helping you..." I shrug, forcing a smirk. "Makes me feel a little less alone."

His demeanor remained unreadable. He studies me like I’m some puzzle he can’t quite piece together.

Then he exhales, leaning back against the couch. "You’re alone?"

I nod.

His brows knit together. "But I—" He stops, rubbing his forehead like he’s trying to pull his thoughts together. "I could’ve sworn I heard voices. Screaming. That’s what woke me up."

Wait a second. Screaming.

Oh, shit. Yara and Bea!

My stomach does a flip. I forgot about the girls.

I suck in a breath, my mind replaying the last time I saw them. They were fighting, holding their own... weren’t they? But now... now, the apartment is silent.

Too silent.

Dread coils in my gut. "The girls," I murmur, stepping back. "Oh, God. What happened to the girls?"

Pretty Boy straightens a little. "What girls?"

I don’t answer. I bolt.

.

.

The room is eerily silent when I push through the already broken door. The air feels heavier. My stomach knots.

There is no sign of them. In fact, there’s no sign of any life in here.

People always say silence is peaceful.

That’s a damn lie.

Silence is the sound of something waiting to happen.

And as I stare into the room where Yara and Bea are supposed to be alive and well, I realize this is the kind of silence that means nothing good.

"Bea? Yara?"

There is no answer. I push myself fully in and...

Oh.

Oh, it’s a mess.

The first thing that hits me is the smell. It is not just blood. It is rotting blood. Thick and pungent in a way that makes the air feel eerily wrong.

The second thing?

The bodies.

Tens of them. Or at least, what’s left.

One is slumped against the wall, neck snapped at a sickening angle. Another draped over the broken coffee table, guts spilling out in a glistening, black-streaked heap.

A third had its head halfway across the room, still rolling slightly as if it hadn’t gotten the memo that it was dead-dead. And so on like that...

And then there were the worms.

Tiny. Squirming. Black. 𝚏𝕣𝕖𝚎𝚠𝚎𝚋𝚗𝐨𝐯𝕖𝕝.𝕔𝐨𝕞

They wriggled through the blood, burrowing into flesh, slipping in and out of eye sockets and severed necks. The cause of infection. The thing that turns people from ’Oops, I got bit’ to ’Oops, I ate my best friend.’

I shudder. Great. Just great.

I step carefully around a severed arm—fingers still twitching and heart still pounding in fear of what could have happened to Yara and Bea.

Where the hell are they?