I said I was going to take a break and not post anything on Christmas but once again, I am a dirty liar. I got inspiration for this fic from the lovely Mush Roomie's animatic of The Zombie Song and I have no self control and this kind of became a thing? It's like the least festive thing ever, but whatever. Like usual, the first chapter is a mess and really short because how do start story? Hopefully you lovelies like this! ~Shaymie
Hunger.
Want.
Need.
Alexander pushed away the intruding thoughts and stumbled along with his group. Left foot. Right foot. Maybe a little intimidating growl every once in awhile. Repeat. Life (if it could even be called that) as a zombie was… incredibly monotonous. He had quickly learned that he was abnormal. Well, as abnormal as a zombie could be. While the others seemed to have quite literally turned into mindless creatures, he was still… himself, if not a less coordinated version of himself. He refused to feed on humans, choosing instead to hunt for animals. He may be undead, but he still had morals. He didn't want to submit anyone to this lifestyle.
He knew he had been human once, but that felt like an eternity ago. His human memories were foggy at best. The only thing he could remember clearly were his last hours alive, and they had been completely torturous. It was supposed to be a simple supply run into the mall, in and out. Then some idiots nearby shot their guns, and an entire herd filed into the mall. They had been cornered. He'd fought hard for his life, but it hadn't been enough. He ran out of ammo, and one of them got him before he could reach for a knife. He had never been so terrified in his life. There was nothing but searing pain as his throat was clawed at by jagged nails, and then he was lying on the ground, being brutally mauled by a zombie as gunshots rang out around him. He started to black out.
Hands. Warm hands had patted his cheek, begging him to stay awake. A broken voice tried to reassure him that everything would be okay. But it was a lie. He knew it was a lie. There was no cure for the infection, and even if there had been he knew he wouldn't survive long enough to make it back to camp. A scrap of cloth was tied around his neck, trying to slow the bleeding. He wanted to speak, to tell the man to just leave him behind, but he couldn't even breathe. His mind grew fuzzy as the life drained out of him. And then panic broke through.
He didn't want to die. He couldn't die. There were so many people relying on him. He wanted to fight against this, fight the infection that he could feel rapidly spreading through his veins. It burned. It felt like his entire body was on fire. He didn't know what would kill him first, blood loss or the infection. He wanted to scream, wanted to tell the man holding him to just put a bullet through his brain so he wouldn't have to go through this torture, but he couldn't do much of anything. It didn't matter anyway. He could feel himself slipping away, no matter how hard he fought to stay awake. Tears streamed down his burning face as he let his eyes slip shut.
TV shows and movies were bullshit. All of them portrayed death by a slit throat as quick. This was anything but. It was slow, achingly slow, and incredibly painful. He couldn't breathe, his breaths only coming out as pathetic gasps. Why couldn't he die? He should be dead. At this point he wanted to die. An endless oblivion was definitely better than the burning hell that was his reality. He didn't even get the reprieve of unconsciousness, the liquid fire that was coursing through his veins keeping him awake.
"We're almost back to safety," the broken voice had told him. He desperately wished that he could remember the face that it belonged to. He could remember the events leading up to him turning. He could remember the exact face of the zombie that had gotten him. But he couldn't remember the face of the person who had tried so desperately to save him. He couldn't remember their name. He didn't know anything about them, but he knew that they had patched up his wounds.
Alexander came back to the present, tracing a mangled hand over the stitches on his throat. There were more on his cheek and wrist. He didn't remember getting the other scratches. He didn't even remember getting the stitches. Whoever had tried to put his broken body back together must have done so when he was already dead, but before he turned. He didn't know who they were… But he had a feeling that they had been important to him. He felt like something was missing. And it wasn't his left eye, which he had lost in a fight with another zombie. He was missing someone. And he was willing to do whatever it took to find them.