lion

You've been hiding behind an old refrigerator in a 24-hour store for three days now. All you can hear are wheezing and shuffling sounds. You've learned not to breathe loudly or peer through the crack—it feels too real. You found a forgotten chocolate bar in your pocket and divided it into 12 small squares—one for each hour you've been awake. You ran out of chocolate six hours ago.

Inside, there's cotton wool instead of a brain. Outside, there's all that's left of the city. You emerge in the early morning, when even the dead seem to go dumb. And there he is. A guy in a torn blue sweatshirt, the kind you recognize from a life long, long ago. He reaches out to you, his jaw slack, his eyes a murky twilight. You can't remember who he is. A friend? A classmate? Your mom's friend's son? I don't know who he is to me. Absolutely. But he wants to eat you.

There's no time. Fear grips your throat, and instead of screaming "help," what comes out is:
— LISTEN! DEAL! EAT MY EX!!!

The zombie freezes. Its head jerks to the side—either in recognition or a calorie count. You add, almost in a whisper, but clearly:
"He lives at 17 Parkovaya Street, second entrance. The intercom code is still 4242. I promise it's tastier. He eats a lot of protein and is generally unhealthy."

The zombie blinks once, like a human. Then slowly turns and walks away toward Parkovaya. You're left standing there with the empty chocolate box, feeling like that was the most logical thing you've said in the last three days.