Apocalypse: After Reanimation, I Became The Queen-Chapter 62: _ Habitable Apartment

I exhale through my nose in a quiet and controlled way. I can’t afford to lose my temper. My body doesn’t regulate emotions like it used to.

Anger boils too fast when it comes to me, and sadness doesn’t cool down like it does for regular humans. Everything stays somewhere between rage and hollow, and if I let it tip too far, I might stop pretending I’m human at all.

But you mean I go through that hell just for those sly girls to bail on me, huh? Not fair at all!

I don’t even need everything I went to scavenge—they do!

"You should’ve told them to wait," I say tightly. "I heard screams outside. For all I knew, they might be getting torn apart."

"I know. But their fear wins, Renata. I can’t blame them."

"I can."

His eyes drop to my shirt. "You had it rough too, huh?"

I look down at the blood and guts and bits of something that might be a spleen—I know it belongs to either Robbie or Hugh.

Humans.

Humans whose flesh I eat and whose blood I drink. Fuck.

I try to brush it off. It’s useless. The fabric is basically a crime scene.

"I’m fine," I say quickly. "We need to move."

"Where?"

"I found a habitable apartment in this building. We can crash there until you and Yara are fit enough to walk and fight well," I reply.

I start to move, and Pretty Boy tries to sit up again, slower this time, his hand bracing against the wall like it’s the only thing keeping him from melting into a puddle of internal bleeding and maybe regret.

"You should go," he mutters.

I pause mid-step, slowly turning my head. "What did you say?"

"You should go without me." His voice is rough, worn down from dehydration, pain, and the kind of despair you don’t pick up in a pharmacy.

"I’ll slow you down. Might even get you eaten. And between us, I’m not really interested in being zombie kibble."

"Oh, are you not?" I deadpan. "Wow, I was really hoping we could both get devoured together. You know, romantic apocalypse goals."

"I’m serious," he says. "Save yourself, Renata."

"Fat chance," I reply, marching toward him and ignoring the fact that his entire upper body looks like someone filled it with Jell-O. "You’re coming with me. Don’t make me throw you over my shoulder."

"I’m too heavy."

"You’re all bones and drama. I’ve carried worse. Hell, I’ve dragged corpses heavier than you."

"That is... wildly comforting."

"You’re welcome." I loop his arm around my shoulder and pull him up with a grunt.

He groans like an old floorboard. "Ow. Ow. Ow."

"Be quiet or I’ll assume you’re enjoying this and drop you on principle."

We shuffle out of the blood-soaked bathroom like the world’s saddest three-legged race team, his half-limp dragging, my arm flexing around his back to keep him upright.

My shirt still reeks of death. My hands are sticky with it. The worst part is I’m starting to get used to it.

We emerge into the living room, and I immediately spot my scavenged loot. The two overstuffed backpacks sit near the broken coffee table, along with a cracked toolbox I filled with weapons, vitamins, and some aged jerky that survives in a vending machine thanks to either divine intervention or chemical preservatives.

Pretty Boy whistles. "Damn. That’s a lot. In this city? I thought everything was either burned, raided, or rotting."

I sling one backpack over my shoulder and crouch to zip the other. "Turns out, I ran into some very generous men."

He raises a brow, then immediately winces at the effort. "You know, I don’t even want to ask what that means. I already know it means violence."

"You’re learning."

"And here I thought being half-dead would be the worst part of my day."

"Not even top three."

We don’t waste more time. I heft both backpacks. He’s still clinging to me like I’m the last tree in a flood. Together, we limp toward the hallway, shadows flickering across the walls as the light above us dies a slow death.

My nerves are taut as barbed wire. Every creak of the floor, every hiss of wind through broken glass sends electricity up my spine. I don’t breathe, but I pretend I do, just for rhythm.

The stairwell looms ahead, choked with debris and the stink of dried blood.

"Upper floor?" he asks.

"Yeah. One of the units still has a mattress, some canned food, and even working plumbing. Kinda feels like winning the lottery—if the jackpot included asbestos and mold."

"You had me at mattress."

I chuckle and help him up the first step. He grunts again... honestly, he makes more noise than the zombies sometimes, but we get into a rhythm.

Step, breathe, drag. Step, breathe, drag.

It’s painful, slow, but steady. Like hope... the sad kind. 𝑓𝓇𝘦ℯ𝘸𝘦𝑏𝓃𝑜𝘷ℯ𝑙.𝑐𝑜𝓂

The... snrk.

I hear a low rasping sound.

I grunt. My grip on him tightens. The noise echoes from the second-floor hallway.

What is it this time?

It sounds like a zombie. Just one.

Finally, it staggers into view from a half-open door, one arm missing, its jaw slack like it forgot how to hold it up. Bits of something stringy dangle from its lips... possibly hair. Or nerves. Either way, not an hors d’oeuvre.

"Stay here," I mutter, dropping the bags with a dull thud.

Pretty Boy leans against the wall, sweat dripping down his temple. "Be careful."

I glance over my shoulder. "Always."

I move forward slowly, letting my boots scrape just enough to catch its attention. The thing jerks in my direction, arms raised like a toddler begging to be picked up.

"Sorry," I mutter, "I don’t do hugs."

It jumps at the sound. I sidestep, grab a crowbar from the side of my bag, and swing. The metal crunches into its skull with a sickening crack, like snapping a frozen melon. The zombie drops instantly, its body spasming once before going still.

I shake the crowbar clean-ish, then wipe it on a half-burned curtain.

[Kill Confirmed. Countdown: 31]

When I return, Pretty Boy’s still there. Still whole. Still watching me like I’m made of questions he’s afraid to ask.

Questions I hope no one ever asks me. EVER.