Summary: They call us names, dirty names. "The End" tag. Zombie POV. Am I crazy? Slightly.

Warnings: Three mildly bad words, and two very bad words. Dark.

Croatoan

Croates.

Bleeders.

Demonic zombies.

Diseased fuckers.

They call us names, dirty names. Maybe we deserve some of them, but the others—damn, really? Vulgar much? Not to mention, downright insulting.

'Course, for everyday use, "Croate" will do. It comes from "Croatoan," the word we scrawl on the walls and carve into every surface of every place we conquer. It's a battle cry of sorts, designed to strike fear into our enemies. It works, because boy, are they scared to hell of us.

I had a name once. It doesn't matter what it was. It's long gone now.

I had a boyfriend once too. Long ago. He was my fiancé; we were going to get married.

I remember picking out my dress. It was long, white. Sweetheart neckline. I remember trying on the veil and feeling like a princess. I remember planning the wedding, the ceremony and the reception after. I remember arranging every single detail of my perfect fairytale wedding.

It doesn't matter now. None of it ever happened.

It wasn't because I got dumped at the altar, or we broke up, or anything tragic like that.

I got infected. Simple as that.

It was the beginning of the end of the world, and none of us realized that. We should have, but we were all too wrapped up in our personal lives to care much. The earthquakes, fires, diseases. We should have noticed, but we didn't. I guess we had blinders on or something. We didn't want to see that our world was going all to hell.

I went on with planning my dream wedding. I had romantic candle-lit dinners with my boyfriend. I fucked him. He told me he loved me and I told him the same. I thought I did, and I thought it was the most important thing in the world.

I was wrong. Love doesn't matter. Nothing matters. Why try to live in a world that doesn't want you to live? It's downright stupid.

I got infected on my wedding day.

I didn't get left at the altar by myself; the groom came. Oh, he came alright. He came rushing up the aisle with wild eyes and grabbed me. Hard. He bit his own wrist and pushed it up against my mouth. As the warm blood dripped into my mouth, I felt fear.

That was the last time I ever felt anything. Emotions are overrated.

I turned a few hours later. My fiancé and I, we turned all of our wedding guests, everyone who hadn't run at the first sign of trouble.

To this day, I don't know why he came back for me. Maybe he wanted me with him, to be like him. It doesn't matter. Some idiot with a shotgun blew his head off of his shoulders a week later.

I didn't feel a thing. Like I said, emotions are overrated.

It didn't matter. Nothing really matters. As soon as all those self-righteous still-uninfected humans get that, the sooner it'll all be over.

Over sounds good.

I think.

I don't know much of anything anymore. It doesn't matter.

I'm dead anyway.