The lights flicker, a sign of their temporary life.
The man looks up at the ceiling, inwardly cursing the lights. He should have known that electricity might not last in this tiny town. He'd better grab all the necessities the resistance need before they start shouting in his ear. The light better last.
"So? Strawberry or Blueberry?" he asks.
"What?" the walkie-talkie crackles to life.
"Jam." The man unscrews the jar dips a finger into the sticky substance and stick it into his mouth.
"Take both. We need everything edible," the person on the other end sighs.
"Alright, alright," the man rolls his eyes, happy that he can't be seen. "See you."
"See you."
The man continues his shopping spree, if it can be called that. He swipes whatever that is left on the shelves into his cart while whistling an obnoxious tune.
The lights hiss.
The man curses under his breath and starts to jog through the mostly empty aisle. Life in a zombie infested world isn't that fun after all. Many modern day conveniences that he is used to are gone now. Electricity is hard to come by and there went mobile phones, televisions, computers… They may be trivial but that doesn't mean he does not miss them.
Life has been difficult since the apocalypse but their town has a small army, made up of volunteer like him. They go around and kill, if it is considered killing, zombies, or the undead, which ever you may like to call them.
He picks up his pace, a shudder running through his spine.
Nothing will go wrong in this place. He is certain. They are strong and the undead are weak.
He better be quick. There are people waiting for the goods back at the camp.
"Jesus, how long are you going to take?" Another voice crackles from the walkie-talkie.
"Down boy," the man laughs.
He can almost see the eye roll.
A loud clank resounds.
He turns.
"What is it?"
"Nothing. Be back soon," he says.
The light burns out.
And there's a scream that tears through the heavy air.
He fumbles for his gun. Zombies. They are here.
He runs through the aisle, following the last flickers of light that dots the pathway. The echoes of growls and cries fills his mind.
Oh god.
And he sees them, the undead, feasting on a woman he knows. His arms shake, a deadly mistake.
The undead senses him and abandon the mauled woman. They walk towards him, their unfocused eyes on him. He can sense their hunger in the air.
He curls his finger over the trigger.
Stop shaking. Damnit, stop shaking.
Something catches him from behind, knocking the gun out from his trembling hands. Shit.
The last thing he sees is a woman with stringy brown hair staring back at him.
…
Belle jerks up, her eyes wide open with terror. She can feel the hunger inside of her that screams for blood and flesh. She fuzzily remembers the man in the supermarket. He was the last victim she killed before she was brought to this hospital.
She is a killer, a cannibal, if she is still considered human. She isn't though, isn't human. Not since she died and came back as an undead, hungry for the living's flesh. The days as an undead is fuzzy to say the least. She can't fully remember what went on, but she remembers bits and pieces of them, enough to piece the fact that she is a monster together.
She sees him, the man, staring back at her, fear colouring his dark eyes.
She screams.
Monster. She is a monster.
"Belle. Ms French. Belle!"
She hears someone familiar and jerks up.
Monster.
"Belle, it's ok. It's ok," the voice is soothing.
Her mind clears and gone are the dark alley and fearful man. She focus on the sheets beneath her fingertips and the overwhelming scent of antiseptic.
"Another involuntary recount memory?" It is more of a statement than a question.
"They are more vivid." She sucks in air.
"That's a good sign. It means the cognitive circuitry is connecting again."
Pause.
"Like a computer rebooting."
That could mean many things, really. But it sounds good. Maybe it is good. She doesn't feel good though, hasn't in a long while.
"You are ready," the doctor says kindly and puts his hand on her shoulder.
She swallows and nods.
She doesn't think she is.
"What's wrong?"
"I don't feel ready," she admits, feeling all small and disgusting.
"That's good. You feel. It means the medication is working. You are responding to it."
"What happens to those who don't respond?"
"The hospital takes care of them," he says after a brief pause. "Your family is waiting for you. They miss you."
She smiles bitterly. Her father hasn't missed her in years, even before she turned. He is part of the reason why she was dead in the first place anyway.
"Belle."
"I am a zombie. I killed many."
The doctor's eyes narrowed down on her. "Look at me Belle," he requests. "What are you?" His gaze is reprimanding, like a mother to a child who has just stolen a candy. "You are a…?"
"I am a Partially Deceased Syndrome sufferer and…"
"and?"
She takes in a breath and forces herself to continue. "And what I did in my untreated state is not my fault."
The words taste bitter in her mouth. Lies! She wants to scream. I am a murderer!
The doctor lets her go with a satisfied nod.
...
"Name?" the nurse asks when it is her turn.
"Belle French." The nurse seems eager to get it over with and finish her shift.
"Brown or blue?"
"Sorry?"
"Your eye colour before… Your eye colour." The nurse blushes a little at the slip up.
"Blue," Belle answers. The contacts they give will never be the same, that she knows.
She remembers how he describes her eyes, whispering about the blueness into her ears as they made love on the bed, on the couch, on the countertop on the-
"Next!" the nurse calls out and Belle takes the cue to leave.
Belle goes to the room she is told to go and changes, pulling on a new set of clothes and putting on the lenses. She applies makeup too, foundation, blush, lipstick, essential steps to make her look human again.
"Ready?" the nurse asks.
She takes in a deep breath and walks out of the door, into the waiting room.
…
He is here.
Why is he here?
Her breath hitches and she thinks she is going to faint. He is here. Oh god. She had thought she would never see him again.
He is here, in flesh and blood.
She closes her eyes. No. She can't do this. She can't fall at his feet at the sight of him. No.
"Hi." He speaks first, his voice hoarse.
"Hi," she manages.
"Mr Gold was your emergency contact," the nurse states, like she read their mind.
"Mr Gold, I trust that my colleague has briefed you on the caretaking?" the nurse turns to him.
"... Yes. Sorry. Yes."
The nurse nods. "Very well then. Miss French, do remember to administer the medication thrice a day."
"I will," she is quiet, not exactly brave enough to look at him.
"You are good to go then. Please call if you have any questions."
They nod.
The nurse leaves them and they are faced with an unbearable silence.
She has millions of questions that are lodged in her throat.
But most of all, she misses him, misses his touch. With him a few steps away, she can almost feel his heat radiating from his skin. She can smell his cologne, a familiar, comforting scent that relaxes her.
"Come on. Let's go," he is stiff and cold and it scares her.
In the end, she is still a monster.
A/N: In The Flesh AU. Updates will be slower because school is starting and I write really slowly. I apologise.