The girl doesn't wait for me to respond. She simply turns and begins walking away, her feet making soft sounds against the cracked ground.
I stand there for a moment, unsure. My legs feel like they might give out at any second, but somehow, I find the strength to follow her. It's strange—there's a tug inside me, an urge to keep moving, to see where she's going. I should be with the others, the ones who groan and shuffle toward whatever warmth still exists in the world. Yet, I'm not like them. Not anymore.
I have thoughts. And that's terrifying.
I take a step forward, then another, until I'm walking beside her, trying my best to match her pace, though I'm still not sure if I should be this... alive. I'm walking. I'm breathing, or whatever passes for breathing when your lungs are hollow and your heart is no longer beating. But I'm moving. That counts for something, right?
I glance at the girl again. She's young, maybe twenty, with dirt-streaked skin and hair tied back in a messy knot. Her eyes, though, are sharp. Focused. There's a quiet determination there, something I don't see in the others.
"You're not afraid?" I ask, my voice still hoarse. It feels like I'm speaking through a fog. The sound comes out like a rasp, a dead man's whisper.
She doesn't look at me when she answers. "Afraid of what?" Her tone is flat, but there's something underneath it—a bit of humor, or perhaps just resignation.
"Of me. Of us," I say, motioning vaguely toward the zombies wandering in the distance.
She shrugs again, her steps steady. "I've seen worse."
I don't press her on that. She clearly doesn't want to elaborate, and who could blame her? Everyone here has their stories, their burdens, their ghosts. And I'm just one more in a sea of lost souls.
We walk in silence for a while, and I begin to notice the city around us—or what's left of it. Buildings rise up like skeletal remains of what they once were. The streets are littered with debris, piles of ash, broken glass, and signs of life—or what used to be life. The whole place is a ghost town, an abandoned memory. I wonder if it ever had a name.
As we approach what seems to be the center of the city, I can see movement. People. Living people. They're not like the ones I've seen before, the ones who flee in terror when they see the undead. These people stand tall, their eyes watchful, alert. They're armed, but not in the way you'd expect. No guns. No swords. Just... tools, makeshift weapons. They look more like survivors than soldiers.
We stop at the entrance to a crumbling building, its windows long shattered, and the door hanging on its hinges like a half-closed mouth. The girl turns to face me, her gaze more serious now. "This is where I take you."
I look at her, trying to understand. "What is this place?"
She smiles slightly. "You'll see."
She pushes the door open, and we step inside. The air is thick with the scent of mold and dust, but there's something else—something oddly familiar, like the scent of home. Or perhaps, it's the scent of something lost.
Inside, the building is filled with more people, some lounging on makeshift chairs, others huddled together, whispering. But in the center, there's a figure—an older man, maybe in his fifties, wearing a long coat that looks as though it's seen better days. His hair is white, his face lined with years of hardship, but his eyes—his eyes are sharp. Observant.
When he sees us, he stands slowly, his gaze locking onto me. For a moment, I think he might be another one of those "survivors" who immediately pulls out a weapon to defend himself. But instead, he nods to the girl. "You brought him."
She gives a short nod in return. "This is Mr. Z."
The old man's eyes flicker over to me. There's something in his expression—a recognition, maybe, or maybe just curiosity. He looks me over, but not with fear. No, there's something else in the way he regards me. Something... measuring.
"He's different," the old man murmurs, mostly to himself. "Most of them don't think."
I'm about to ask what he means by that, but the girl beats me to it. "Can you help him?"
The old man eyes me again, his gaze lingering on my eyes for longer than I'd like. It feels like he's staring through me, past the flesh and bone, past the decay, and into something deeper. For a moment, I wonder if he can see what's left of who I used to be.
Then, he sighs. "I don't know. But I can try."
He gestures for us to come closer, and we approach him. I can feel my heart—if it's even still a heart—thudding in my chest. I've had enough time to think about what I am, but now, with these people around me, I can't help but wonder if there's more to this. If I'm more than just some mindless zombie who stumbles through the motions of a life that isn't his.
"Sit," the man says. "We'll see what we can do."
I hesitate for a moment before sitting down on a crate that's been converted into a seat. The girl takes a seat next to me, her eyes never leaving the man.
"What now?" I ask, unsure if I'm ready for whatever this is supposed to be.
The old man looks at me with a wry smile. "Now, we talk."