Un-deadly Love.

The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. The sudden presence of that innocent-looking flame was enough to send my exhausted body back into flight mode, and I ran away as far as I could until my legs failed under me, my chest and face hitting the ground hard. In that miserable state I gave into the emotions clogging my brain and sobbed. The months and months of wandering alone, desperately trying to find my grandfather’s old hunting lodge, were all for nothing. When I finally found the once familiar building where I hoped to hide for a while, I realized it was already colonized. There’s no point in trying to find out who is in there. In these God-forsaken times, you trust no one. Resigned, I stood up, climbed a nearby tree, and after settling as well as I could, cried myself to sleep.

As the sun rises my eyes flutter open and pain wakes me. I move and feel the vertigo of almost falling. My exhausted mind remembers I’m perilously perched on the tree's flimsy branches. I learned to sleep this way months ago, after spending two straight days running from a pack of Lovers. That’s what we call the undead: “Lovers.” They are the victims of the Contagion, the great downfall that hit humanity over a year ago.

It was a literal hit: instead of falling stars, the seasonal meteor showers brought into the atmosphere fragments of an asteroid crashing all over the planet. The initial impact reduced many cities to ashes. The rest of us lived to witness the beginning of the end. Multiple crashes launch the poisonous content of the asteroid into the atmosphere. The survivors closest to the impact sites succumbed to a wretched faith: they were zombified. When they breathed in the stench of the asteroid, it instantly killed their higher brain function while their bodies reacted as if they were already dead, decomposing. Worse, the lower brain functions still allowed the limbs to move: pitiful marionettes attempting to pull their own strings. The only other instinct remaining is craving contact with other human beings. That’s why we call them Lovers. The undead desperately search for the warmth and comfort of human touch. As their own heat evaporates, they chase the sweet scent of the living. When they get a whiff, the pursue is relentless, desperate cries escaping their decaying throats. It takes about two days for a condemned one to rot enough and stop moving. The pack that was after me has finally collapsed, and I can get off the tree, nose, and mouth covered, careful not to breathe or touch them, lest the deadly stench spills on me.

I survey my surroundings. After all, the Lovers are not the most dangerous thing around. I need to keep an eye out for the Hunters. There’s a lot of speculation as to what the Hunters want. Why do they roam the wasted land capturing other human beings? Nobody I ever met knew the real answer. That’s because no one ever escaped and lived to tell the tale. The victims are taken to the Fortresses, corrupted modern versions of medieval castles where a Lord of the Land rules, bestowing privileges on their lackeys to keep them loyal. What they do to their victims is anyone’s guess. Slavery, in all its horrific forms, is an almost certain option. But there is an even more macabre rumor: that the captured are thrown into some twisted form of entertainment. “Theater,” they call it—a roman circus for these wretched times. I shake my head, trying to clear out that disgusting thought. My hand automatically goes to the only thing that still centers me: a heart-shaped locket that hangs from an old shoelace tied around my neck.

The locket is the only reminder I have of a time when life had some hope. The way I got it was a bit pathetic: the cheap jewelry piece is not really mine. It was a present that Robbie Mitchell, the most popular boy in my old school, gave to his then-girlfriend, a cheerleader that was also part of the popular crowd. One day the two of them had a screaming fight; the cheerleader ripped it off her neck and threw it away dramatically in front of the whole school. I was a wallflower, so no one noticed that the locket flew off and landed next to my shoe. I stepped on it, then waited until the hallway cleared to pick it up. I saved it because I would never get a present like that from a boy like Robbie. For two days, I pitifully looked at it while locked in my room, dreaming of the impossible. Dreaming of what it would feel like, being kissed by Robbie Mitchell. Two days later, the asteroid hit. Now the locket is an amulet that reminds me that I am a survivor.

Looking around as far as I can see, there's no movement all the way to the contaminated lake that serves as my horizon. I decide the coast is clear. Another pressing matter needs to be solved: I have not eaten in two days. A sweet smell in the air makes the hunger pangs almost unbearable. The source of the scent is within sight: an orchard, trees heavy with ripe fruit. It’s perfect, beautiful. It’s a trap—Hunter devices for sure plague such a gorgeous display. But I do not see another choice: I need food. Maybe I can slither to the outer edge and check the ground to see if some of the fruit has already fallen and rolled out. A half-rotten apple sounds like a treat to my pained stomach.

I proceed toward the orchard slowly, watching the floor, but it’s hard; it’s all a thick cushion of fallen leaves. A few feet from the nearest tree, there’s an apple that looks intact. Hunger clouds my judgment, and I jump to grab it. I feel unbearable pain paired with the unmistakable crack of my ankle bones breaking. I fall face-first into the mud, caught in a bear trap. For what feels like a long time, I scramble in a futile attempt to open the infernal metal claw. In my desperation, I don’t hear the approaching steps.

“We got a good one! Say goodnight, sweetheart,” a cruel male voice mocks. For a second, I feel the wet cloth over my mouth, a chemical taste sipping in. Then nothing.

I awake to the roar of a crowd.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Bizarre Theater! Tonight, you get to witness up close from the safety of your booths the amazing transformation from living to undead. You were curious but afraid; now we bring the experience to you safely with our fabulous glass cage! We have had a lot of trouble finding our beautiful Juliet, and even more to capture a handsome Romeo and transform him right on time for this performance! Look, he aches for her! Shall we open the gate?”

The cheers clear my head. I’m in some sort of giant fishbowl, surrounded by spectators. Managing to sit up, I see a young, handsome man reaching from behind an iron gate. His expression is pained, but his eyes are blank. He’s a zombie. I recognized him, and my eyes cloud with tears. What a fucking cruel joke. My greatest longing, the thing I dreamed about back when I still had reasons to dream, is here, turned into the worst possible nightmare. Robbie Mitchell, the boy I was in love with back in high school, is now the Lover that will take me down. How many times did I long for his arms around me, his mouth in mine? And now, that longing becomes a sickening reality. I try to run, only to fall again, my crushed foot unable to hold me. I crawl, crying in despair while a groaning Robbie limps toward me, arms stretched, a twisted concern expression on his dead face. He falls on top of me, the weight pinning me down, while clumsy, frigid hands caress my body unskillfully. Dry heaves constrict my throat when the former love of my life shoves his cold, dead tongue in my mouth. As the wretched kiss chokes me, all I can do is hope that oblivion takes over soon.