Apocalypse: After Reanimation, I Became The Queen-Chapter 60: _ Incoming Crew

There’s no such thing near the euphoria of feeding.

I leap onto Hugh’s back like a rabid dog. He shrieks, but I’m already at his neck, tearing in, biting through muscle, snapping tendons with hungry, vicious intent. His blood sprays across the floor like it’s being squeezed from a busted pipe.

The motherfucker still isn’t dead.

Perfect.

I pull back, licking the blood from my lips and savoring every drop of it.

"God, you taste awful. Too much testosterone. Not enough brains."

His eyes roll back in his head, and I slap him awake.

"Don’t die yet. I’m not done."

I nibble down his arm next, stopping just before the elbow. His hand twitches in response.

"You tried to touch me," I remind him.

I bite again.

Crunch.

Yup, that’s me munching on his finger.

Robbie, who’s still twitching and sobbing like a dying insect, drags himself along the floor.

I pick up the umbrella.

Stab.

Right through his calf. The scream he lets out is beautiful.

I let out a light and carefree giggle.

"This is fun."

I crouch down again, nose to nose with him, my breath mingling with his.

"Next time you want to play bait-and-switch with a girl? Pick one who isn’t undead."

His mouth moves, forming the word "monster."

I wink. "Exactly."

The system pings in my head.

[Vitality increased. Hunger satisfied.]

The taste of their blood still clings warmly to my tongue as I drag their barely-alive bodies into the corner. The room is a mess—a blood-soaked nightmare. Footprints are smeared across the floor, the walls dripping red.

I sit down, blood-stained and triumphant. My shirt is ruined, my hair a mess, but I feel... good. No—better than good.

Powerful.

Alive.

Or, undead and thriving.

The room reeks of blood and fear, the smell clinging to the back of my throat. Robbie and Hugh lay in crumpled heaps, their bodies painting hideous murals on the walls and floor.

The euphoria of feeding still hums in my veins, but survival instinct screams louder. Their crew will come looking soon. Hanging back isn’t an option.

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, smearing red across my cheek. The irony isn’t lost on me... here I am, the supposed prey, standing over my would-be predators. But gloating can wait. I need to move.

The apartment is a dingy relic of pre-apocalypse life. Faded floral wallpaper peels at the corners, and a threadbare couch sags in the center of the living room. Ignoring the domestic decay, I focus on essentials.

A quick sweep of the kitchen yields a half-empty box of protein bars—probably Robbie’s, judging by his earlier stench—a couple of canned goods, and a bottle of water. Not much, but enough to keep my friends going.

In the bedroom, I find a backpack with a broken strap. It’ll do. I stuff my loot inside, the weight settling against my back as I sling it on.

Under the bed, my fingers brush against something cold. I pull out a handgun, its surface marred with scratches but still functional. Beside it lies a box of ammunition that’s half-full. Jackpot.

As I secure the gun at my waist, a distant sound pricks my ears. It’s a rhythmic thudding—boots against pavement. The crew. They’re closer than I anticipated. Panic flirts with the edges of my mind, but I shove it aside. There’s no time for that.

I sling the backpack over my shoulder and creep to the window. Peering through the dirt, my senses heighten when I see them: three figures moving, their silhouettes stark against the dying light.

They’re heading straight for the front entrance—the same way I planned to exit.

Damn it.

My eyes dart around the room, searching for alternatives. The back door is a no-go; it leads to an alley that funnels into the main street. They’d spot me in seconds. The windows are barred—paranoia from a world that feared looters before it feared zombies.

Then I remember the fire escape. I rush to the bathroom, where a small window leads to the rusted metal platform. It’s a tight squeeze, but adrenaline makes me flexible. I shove the window open, the hinges protesting with a screech that makes my heart stutter. I pause and listen.

The footsteps continue. They haven’t heard or noticed me.

Whew.

I wriggle through the opening, the backpack catching briefly before I yank it free. The fire escape groans rustily under my weight. I hold my breath, half-expecting it to collapse and send me plummeting into the alley below. But it holds. For now.

Descending as quickly and quietly as I can, I reach the second floor when voices drift up from below.

"Something’s not right," a gruff voice says.

"Robbie and Hugh should’ve checked in by now," another replies.

I peek over the railing. The three men stand at the building’s entrance, their faces etched with suspicion. One of them—a burly guy with a shaved head—tries the door.

It’s locked.

"Let’s break it down," he suggests, raising a boot.

Shit. If they get inside and find the butchery upstairs, they’ll tear the building apart looking for me. I need a distraction.

Scanning the alley, I spot a pile of debris—remnants of a collapsed balcony. Among the rubble lies a sizable chunk of concrete. An idea sparks.

I climb over the railing, gripping it with sweaty palms, and dangle above the alley. The drop isn’t fatal, but it’ll hurt like hell. Swinging slightly, I aim for the pile and release.

I land with a bone-jarring thud, pain jolting up my legs. Biting back a curse, I grab the chunk of concrete and hurl it toward a rusted dumpster a few yards away. It hits with a resounding clang that echoes through the alley.

"What the fuck was that?" one of the men snaps.

"Over there!" another shouts, pointing toward the noise.

They abandon the door and move toward the dumpster, weapons drawn. Heart pounding, I seize the opportunity and bolt in the opposite direction, keeping to the shadows.

I make my way through the alleys and back to the building where this nightmare began. The streets are eerily silent, the usual distant moans of the undead conspicuously absent. It’s as if the city itself is holding its breath.

The silence is wrong.

Not the good kind of wrong where your enemies are gone and you get to breathe again... no, this is the kind that presses against your ears, muffles your heartbeat, and makes every step sound like betrayal.

Not a single groan from the undead. No shuffle. No hiss.

It’s like they know something just went down, and they’re waiting to see who survives it.

Me, obviously. Hopefully.

I duck under a rusted pipe and dart into a side alley, keeping low. My legs ache from the jump, a deep bone-throb that radiates from my knees up to my spine, but I don’t stop. Can’t.

My lungs burn with the effort of running and the stench of rot clings to this part of town like a fetid perfume of piss, old blood, and the kind of decay that settles in after humanity gives up on showers.

I skid to a halt near the back of the building we’re holed up in. My boot hits a puddle, sending a splash of oily water across my jeans.

Gross.

There’s no time to complain, but that doesn’t stop the silent, mental string of curses I launch toward the universe. This place has been raided to hell before we found it—looted and emptied out by survivors with faster feet and fewer morals.

But it’s a shelter.

It has working doors.

A roof.

Walls.

The bar is in hell, and we’re limbo-crawling under it.

I pause near the service door, crouching in the shadow of a busted vending machine. My fingers tighten around the grip of the pistol I snagged from Robbie’s holster. The safety’s off. One in the chamber. The metal is warm now, clinging to my palm like it knows I need it to behave.

I reach out and tap the code on the keypad. It buzzes once, then unlocks with a metallic thunk.

I slip inside like a whisper and lock it again behind me.

The hallway is dark and narrow, choked with the musty scent of old fryer oil and dust. My boots squelch faintly as I move through, the blood from earlier now half-dried and tacky against my clothes. I should ditch the shirt, but the bloodstains might be enough of a warning sign to keep the more cowardly crew from attacking first and asking questions later.

My stomach knots—not from hunger, but from tension.

My friends are in here somewhere.

Assuming they haven’t bailed on me. I sincerely hope zombies haven’t gotten to them because indeed, I have been gone for long and it is nearly impossible to hope more zombies haven’t staggered into that doorless apartment.

However, I believe I can count on them to stay alive and make my sacrifice and sweat worth it.