The problem with zombies isn’t that they’re dead.

It’s that they don’t stop.

Their bodies can rot to the bone, lungs useless, limbs dragging like sacks of meat, and still they’ll crawl across concrete for the smell of your skin. It’s not hunger. It’s not instinct. It’s obsession. It’s what we used to call “love” when we were desperate and stupid.

I drag my machete out of the old woman’s skull. Her nightgown’s soaked with gore. I don’t feel bad about it, but I do feel tired. Real tired.

“Clear,” I call behind me, voice low.

Dez creeps in through the busted storefront window, his rifle raised and eyes twitching in every direction. He’s twitchy by nature, young, talkative, always trying to make me laugh. I never do. Not because he’s not funny. But because I’m afraid if I start laughing, I’ll never stop.

“Damn,” he mutters, glancing at the mess. “She had a whole buffet goin’ on in here. Was this a family reunion or what?”

“There’s cans in the back,” I say. “Grab what you can carry. We’re not staying long.”

The grocery store’s barely standing. Ceiling sagging, windows shattered, aisles looted down to the bones. But the back? Still stocked, maybe raided by someone who didn't like beans.

He disappears.

I stay near the front. Watch the street. Always watch the street.

The city used to be called Saint Elmwood. Now it’s just Saint Hollow. Ruined churches, blackened windows, broken signs hanging like broken teeth. If the dead don’t get you, the gangs will. If they don’t, starvation will. And if somehow you survive all three? Good for you. You get to die of old age with nightmares still stitched into your skull.

Footsteps crunch behind me. Not Dez.

I spin, blade raised. But it’s only Karla, heavy pack on her back and blood spattered across her vest.

“They were in the alley,” she says. “Almost got me.”

“You should’ve waited.”

“You should’ve sent backup.”

That earns her a look, sharp enough to bite. “Then go ahead. Lead next time.”

She shuts up.

I’m not here to make friends. I’m here to keep them alive.

By nightfall, we’ve got seventeen cans of beans, two jars of pickled eggs, and one cracked water filter. Not enough. Never enough.

The walk back to base takes us through the old freeway, now just a graveyard of rusted cars. We travel in silence. Dez hums under his breath once, then stops when Karla snaps at him. We all know noise is a bad idea. Even in the quiet zones.

As we climb a burned-out truck, I glance over at our lookout post ahead. It’s built into a crumbling courthouse, second floor mostly intact, steel-reinforced doors. Home.

Home - for now.

Back inside, Mateo waits by the door, arms crossed. He’s tall, darker than me, with wide shoulders and eyes like a dog waiting for the world to turn on him.

“You’re late,” he says, voice low.

“You’re welcome,” I reply.

He doesn’t smile, but he doesn’t move either. Just watches me, like he always does.

I brush past him. My shoulders graze his chest. He doesn’t flinch. He never does. Just watches.

When we’re alone, it’s different. But we’re never alone. Not anymore.

That night, I lay on my cot in the far back of the courtroom-turned-barracks, blade under my pillow, ears sharp for anything that moves wrong.

I hear Mateo shift across the room.

I hear Karla mutter in her sleep.

I hear Dez cry softly. He thinks no one hears. But I always do.

The dead aren’t what keep me up. Not anymore.

It’s the living.

The ones that will break your heart, then break your bones.

And I don’t know it yet, but the worst ones haven’t even met me yet.