Apocalypse: After Reanimation, I Became The Queen-Chapter 55: _ Key to Survival

I sit on the edge of the clean bed for a whole thirty seconds, just marveling at it. A bed with corners and sheets. With a fucking pillow. It doesn’t smell like blood, piss, or failure.

It smells... like fabric softener.

This is the apocalypse coequal of a five-star spa day.

I run my fingers over the mattress, half expecting it to growl at me or explode into spores or some demon-possessed zombie priest. But no. It just... exists.

Maybe I’m dead. Like for real this time. Maybe this is hell and it comes with memory foam.

Still buzzing from the find, I pace the room like a raccoon in a new trash can. There’s a working faucet!

A working faucet like this wasn’t a year and six months into the apocalypse!

Lord, when I turn the handle, cold water splashes out like it’s no big deal. I catch some in my hands and splash my face, and it feels like a religious experience. I hiss, inhale, and nearly cry.

But then, logic tap-tap-taps its crusty little finger on my shoulder.

Lock the door, Renata. Right.

That’s a thing humans do to not get murdered in their sleep. I eye the door... Room 204’s entrance and stalk toward it like it might fight back.

There’s a standard twist knob and a separate deadbolt. Both look functional. I turn the knob and it clicks satisfyingly. Then I flip the deadbolt but nothing happens.

I frown and try again. Flip. Flip. Jiggle. Nothing. It’s not resisting. It’s just... not there.

I squint down at the mechanism and realize there’s no keyhole on the inside. It’s one of those lock-from-the-outside types. My heart drops.

I swing the door open wide. It doesn’t crea. Instead, it just glides. Suspiciously and too smooth. I lean out into the hallway and check the outer lock. Yep. There’s the slot. Clear as day. And guess what’s missing?

The fucking key.

I kick the doorframe. "ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!"

My voice bounces down the hallway like an angry ferret. I was just thinking I just found paradise in hell but of course, I’m damn wrong!

What a nice way to prove that to me!

Someone, some demonic, petty, twisted jerk left the door ajar and took the key with them. That’s not just neglect. That’s malicious intent.

I slam the door shut again and curse like my life depends on it. Because, you know what? It kinda does.

"Son of a syphilitic goat!" I growl, pacing.

"May your ancestors stub their toes for eternity on Lego bricks!"

I flip off the door like it offended me.

I search the room, ripping through every drawer, every crevice. The mini-fridge? No key. The first aid kit under the sink? No key. Under the mattress? Nope. I punch the pillow just in case it’s hiding something. It poofs at me like it’s done nothing wrong.

"This is some horror game nonsense," I mutter, dropping to my knees and checking beneath the bed. Nada. Not even a hairpin. Just dust bunnies and betrayal.

After thirty solid minutes of increasingly aggressive rummaging, I conclude the impossible.

There are no keys in this room.

The logical part of me—the tiny, emaciated voice of reason still clinging to hope says: Maybe the person who lived here just forgot them when they ran.

But the louder, sassier part of me screams: NO. THEY TOOK THEM. TO SPITE ME. PERSONALLY.

I kick the vending machine in the hallway out of pure principle.

Now I have a choice. A horrible one. A gut-churning, bile-rising choice.

I have to go back. Into the festering, groaning halls of rot and regret.

I need the damn key. And chances are, it’s clutched in the pocket of one of the zombies I already redeaded.

"Fantastic," I mutter. "Guess I’m going on a fuckin’ scavenger hunt."

...

Back to the hallway of horrors.

I approach the first corpse I dropped that is still crumpled like expired produce on the tile. I crouch beside it and gingerly pat it down. Its shirt is sticky and warm in the grossest way possible.

Nothing in the chest pocket. I check the pants. There’s a wallet.

"Sweet, what do we have here..." I mutter.

The ID reads: Jason Montgomery, Assistant Manager of Snacks. He’s smiling in the picture. All hopeful and full of dreams.

"Well, Jason," I sigh. "Guess you got promoted to rotten meat."

No key so I move on.

Second body is a crunchy eye-socket guy. Also keyless. Just a pack of gum. Cherry flavor. Ugh.

Third; Throat Wobble. Nothing. Just a torn badge and some lint.

"Why would any of you carry gum and not a KEY?!"

I’m grumbling like an irate squirrel by the time I get to Roger.

Big, heavy, lumbering, locker-smashing Roger.

"You better be worth this," I mutter, eyeing his bloated bulk.

I roll him over, grunting and straining like I’m flipping a boulder made of overcooked beef. His limbs flop like overfilled sausages.

I check his uniform pockets. There’s a dead Radio. A bent baton. ID tag still hanging a little: Roger T. Jenkins, Security.

"No key?" I hiss. "Are you serious? You’re SECURITY. YOU’RE LITERALLY THE KEY GUY."

There’s something in his boot. I tug it out and found a candy wrapper.

"I hope you trip in the afterlife," I growl and stomp off.

I retrace my steps through the blood-stained halls. My boots squish in all the wrong places. Every now and then, I kick over a limb to see if it’s hiding treasure.

Spoiler: It’s not.

At one point I find a zombie’s head under a broken desk. Just the head. I pick it up, glare into its milky eyes, and shout, "DO YOU HAVE THE KEY?"

It doesn’t answer. Of course, it doesn’t because zombies top the list of the Most Rude Motherfuckers in existence!

I yeet it across the hallway. It thunks into a wall and rolls.

Eventually, I return to the vending machine zombie. The one stuck underneath. He’s still there, flailing pointlessly.

"You’re my last hope, bud."

I pry the vending machine up just enough to reach his shirt. He groans like a rusted hinge and tries to bite my elbow.

"Back off, sweetie. This isn’t that kind of date and you can’t even eat me."

My fingers close on something in his front pocket.

A key.

I pause. WHOA!

It’s small and Heavy.

I pull it out slowly, like Excalibur from a very stupid rock.

I squint at it. "Room 206."

206?

206?!

I scream. Oh, take it from me when I say it’s a; from-the-diaphragm, primal wail of someone who just discovered the universe is run by trolls.

"That’s not even the ROOM I WANT!"

I collapse backward and lie on the blood-streaked floor, holding the key up like a cursed treasure.

206; Useless. Fucking useless.