I am stunned into silence, frozen gradually as my legs weaken in energy. The hand, neither warm nor cold around my neck, loosens. But I can't run. I think I must be in a state of shock.

The boy backs away, his terrifyingly grey eyes wide with something I can't quite put my finger on. He disappears from my vision, a dangerous thing I'm allowing there. I struggle to sit up, using only my arms as levers, and prop myself up on my elbows.

He looks at me, with eyes that are not quite seeing, just icey cold, like they're painted on closed lids to pretend. He keeps his finger to his lips, so I follow his order. Keep quiet, don't let anything else find you, I'm starving here, I picture him saying. That keeps me from shuffling over to lean on the rails of the bed, next to him. That finger stays in place.

…

Shes frightened of me. At last, I'm the scarier one. I should feel happy about that, or as close to happy as a corpse can be. Perhaps content. Smug? Indifferent. I'm indifferent. But I don't like it, indifferent. Non-committal.

Why am I saving her? I don't know, but she looks as though she's settled on my motives. Keeping a kill to myself, no sharing; she's not a bucket of fried chicken.

"Shh…sh….k…k…e."

That went well.

She frowns at the sounds escaping my mouth, her bottom lip shaking. Her grey eyes never leave mine, invading them as though she thinks there's nothing there to invade. No soul, a soulless corpse slumped before her and therefore wouldn't mind. Hell, she impaled my neck with a stick! Sure sign she could care more.

My mouth seems to be making noises to argue against my inner monologue.

It starts with a popping sound. "S…sa…fe."

Im getting better at this.

…

Am I imagining this? Or am I actually knocked out and dreaming? Is he just wearing an outstanding disguise to blend in? Is he a little bit too committed to the role? Because if so, he should win something. An award, maybe, because I was sure he just spelt out 'safe'. Sure of it. But then I see the neck again, the black hole almost perfectly circular, and begin the vicious circle of disbelief all over again.

I hear that sound again, more distant now, but no less terrifying. It signals that I'm about to be a live meal, a cricket to a pagoda. Tears escape my eyes in a desperate, faithless bid to save myself.

"Please, please, don't hurt me."

He frowns, making his grey eyes more dominant of his features under the shadows of his thick eyebrows, and slowly shakes his head. "K…keep…safe-fe."

An involuntary gasp leaves my lips, and my limp arms loosen around my knees. "W-what?"

He looks looks like he's retching the words from his stomach, and his shaking hand rises to his chest, just below the hole. "S…sa..fe."

…

This is my life now. This is the world. I can impress a girl by making sounds that eventually gather into words. I stand and leave her on the floor to absorb the last few seconds, and gather the curtain in my arms, a slow and clumsy process. I hear shuffling about, and the girl comes into vision to help. I point up to the rail, motioning my plan. "Up…hi..hi…de…"

She wearily takes the curtain from the very edges, and throws it up so it hangs. She adjusts it until its equal both sides, and then widens it to cover the gap. "ok?"

I nod and hum in response, and gently and slowly pull the bed to fill the gap at the bottom. I nod in approval at my own work.

…

He certainly looks like a zombie, smells like flesh. Is that him? Or the oder emanating from whatever he's eaten? Has he just regressed this way as a result of being so isolated among the rest of them? I wonder internally, as the zombie movies I consider have otherwise severely misjudged the real thing. He talks, he thinks. Sure, his movements are sloppy and uncoordinated, his feet shuffle. He smells like the brown on the curtains, his clothes are holey and tattered. He's grey, a pale version of the colour of the clouds.

But his eyes aren't quite empty, and his brain hasn't quite stopped functioning just yet. While he moves the bed, however, I pick up the stick and wipe it clean, just in case. I never move my eyes from his person.

…

I waited for her to speak, to make any other sound that wasn't breathing to make the silence more bearable, less awkward. I have been sitting on the floor for this unendurably tense atmosphere for I don't know how long, while she sits on the bed and waits, her feet dangling off the edge. Its amazing how long I've been away from a living person, you never have this neurosis around the unspeakable dead. They just wander, and sometimes its comforting to know that they don't care, they don't see you. One might as well have evolved with the gift of invisibility.

But now, im around someone how has the ability to think as much, as fast, and as deep as I can, but its not unusual for them. Its compulsory, its nature for her.

…

I waited for him to launch his attack for minutes, but after a while I gave up. I wasn't really expecting anything now, since he displayed the human characteristic of innovation. The curtain, I could tell, was more protective than it looked. The smell emanating from him was characteristic of what he was, which I was now certain of his state of being. The smell was so strong, it negated any other smell. That's why I've subconsciously endured the smearing on my neck. Protection, a guise.

I look down on him, his black head trained forward to the opposite curtain, and consider saying something. I don't want to offend him by asking questions to which he might not know the answer; do they remember anything from their past? I had the slight memory of the news broadcasters warning us that they're not really the people they once were; just vessels, animals at their most savage form.

But was that true for this guy? He looked human, and sounded like a severely drunk one. He hadn't once attempted to kill me yet, I didn't even feel that desperation when he had me pinned to the floor.

He didn't strike me as dead as the undead I was used to seeing on film, was that a mistake? Or was it accurate, for anyone but him?

…

A small tap sounds next to me, and I check my periphery to find the girl making her way to the floor next to me. She isn't sitting away, she is directly facing me, intrigue in her countenance.

"I have some questions, not particularly in order of importance."

I frown, and thank the lord for her not talking to me like a toddler, since my speech was as advanced as one. I nod curtly.

"Ok, first off, do you have a name?"

That earlier line popped into my head, but now I was coming up to saying it, I questioned whether my name really began with R. It never felt right, but what did? I simply chose it because the first words remember I heard from anyone were, "Are you-", right when I bit his throat, made him like me. Mine and M's friendship didn't get off to the best of starts. I wonder if his name began with M. Anyway, I always thought it was something weird, like U. But then I can't think of any conventional names beginning with U.

I place my hand on my chest, for no reason at all. "U..U." I draw it in the air with my grey-white finger."

She nods, and smiles in a way that nearly reaches her eyes. "Ok."

Carefully, my fingers guide themselves to her chest, touching at the point of her throat, where mine was punctured. A solemn expression comes to her face, and she nods. "I don't know."