A/N: I... I don't even know anymore. My mind is complete fuckery, so don't even ask.
I guess this is the result from too much zombies. Pewds and Cry playing zombie games, Warm Bodies, zombie songs... Well, anyways...
This won't really have much to do with the original charecters like R. I'm just basing it around the storyline of the movie. There will be a few run ins though... I just... I don't now.
I guess I'll write more, it's still buzzing in my head like the annoying insect it is. So I guess I'll see ya'll in chapter two then. ^^

Cry. My name is Cry. Or at least I think it is, seeing as I think I was called that a lot from what little I can recollect. And even at that, it isn't much. I guess you could say I have a major case of amnesia. Funny how for some reason that one word leaves a small spark in my mind, as if I'm more familiar with the term then I think I am. I can't really remember anything, other then what I think to be my name and the possible fact that I once had a family. But I don't think that's any different from what any of the rest of us can remember as well. "Us" being those who have called this shitty run down airport home. Though I can't really say for sure if anyone else has the same troublesome case of memory loss I do. I've never heard any of these guys actually speak besides the occasional moaning and grunt of "Hungry" and "City," which is pretty much the gist of our language at the moment. That's just one of the disadvantages of being dead, I guess.
Yes, I said dead. As in deceased, departed, extinct, kicked the bucket, pushing up daisies, and whatever the hell else you want to call it. But that's the fact. I'm not a ghost. God no, I'm completely solid. Well, the occasional spots of squishy flesh could say otherwise, but heh, you get what I mean. But anyways...
Cutting to the chase, I'm what humans call a zombie, or walking corpse. I know this from tugs of memories from my past life and basic knowledge I guess. Surprising I actually have a thought process when my brain has pretty much semi rotted and the fact I'm dead adds to one of the reasons I shouldn't be able to make a full sentence in my head. Maybe that's why we can't really speak and only grunt out a word or two. Wait, I've gotten distracted. Damn. What was I talking about again? Oh yeah. Zombies.
Well, that's what I am, along with all the other pour souls living in this dump. We usually stay here except for when we go out to hunt. I mean, would you want to go out when there's a bunch of crazed people running around trying to constantly blow your cranium off your shoulders? Yeah, I didn't think so. But it makes sense. I would to if the predicament entailed a bunch of hungry flesh eating corpses chasing after you and trying to eat you alive. So I can't really blame them. But hey, we gotta eat one way or another.
At the moment, I'm doing my daily routine of wandering around the southern part of the airport and letting out the occasional grunt of what I would call a greeting to my fellow zombies. What? Just because I'm dead and supposedly mindless doesn't mean I can't be polite. Even if there's a part of me wanting to limp off as quickly as I can and hide in the nearest corner to get away from some of these creeps. Nah, instincts don't really matter when you're dead anyways. Besides, I have grown to sort of call these guys my family. My big undead family of people I actually haven't the slightest clue who they are. Sure, we share the same taste in food and exchange the occasional conversation of moaning and groaning, but that doesn't mean I know them. But they can still be considered my family anyway.
I let out a small grunt of apology as I unintentionally shove past them in my goal to amble to nowhere. We both stop and turn to stare awkwardly at each other. The guy looks around my age, his tattered red hoodie suggesting that we were most likely in the same jobless predicament. That or he just liked hoodies. I mean, who doesn't like hoodies? Actually, I can say that I have seen this guy before. He usually stayed in this one airplane stationed on the runway. We could always hear some older music blasting from inside the machine, which usually cheers me up (as much as a zombie can be cheered up) as the tune plays through the night. And I have seen him smuggle random items from around the airport and usually hunting sights back to that little hideout of his. It made me curious, but hey. I'm not going to get nosy and go peeping around places I shouldn't be.
We both exchange a blank look and let out some small moans as we try to be polite and communicate in our primitive ways. After a moment of more awkward staring, we amble on and go our separate ways. And thus ends another everyday conversation with my fellow peers. Sad to say, this is mostly how my days go. Limp around, moan, maybe eat, avoid Boneys, moan some more, limp around more, and repeat. I know, it's not much of a life. But this is the only life I can remember since I woke up; so who am I to question it? Besides, there isn't much I can really do about it.
I shift my gaze around the room and feel a tiny spark of excitement upon spotting a good sized group forming at the nearest entrance of the airport, looking antsy and making small excitable noises at each other. A hunting party. Good thing too, I was getting hungry and wasn't about to step out of this building without some form of buddy system. I amble towards them and join their ranks, the excitement reaching me and making my hunger grow stronger at the thought of the upcoming hunt. I know. Eating people is wrong and sick. Trust me, I'm not to proud of it either. After all, I was one of them once. But a guy's gotta eat, and at this moment I was starving. Besides, I had nothing better to do with my time.
By the time we finally start to slowly shuffle away from the airport, I spot the red hooded kid from earlier at the front of the pack. The corners of my pale lips twitch into a small smirk and there's a bit of speed in my shuffling as they lead us outside. Well, let the hunt begin.