Cured [ManxMan]

Chapter Twenty-Nine

My stomach rumbled angrily as I staggered forward.

I couldn't remember how long it had been since my last meal. Weeks, at least. Suitable meals were scarce these days, the humans having successfully hidden themselves away and the animals either dead or too smart to move too close to a zombie herd, and we were too slow and malnourished to catch most of what we did stumble across.

I clung to the edges of the herd, always arriving in time to push the last of the herd away from whatever catch they'd managed to make and take enough scraps to keep me moving. Sometimes, with warm, thick blood in my mouth, I would remember something else, something thin and salty and not at all like blood. I wasn't sure where the thought came from because blood was nothing like that, and I couldn't imagine enjoying the taste of something that salty, but my memory said otherwise.

With food so scarce, the herd was really in bad shape, and it seemed like every day our numbers dwindled. Yet, even as I watched my brethren fall and not get back up, even as all the other zombies wasted away, I... didn't. As starved as I was—and I was certainly starving, I could feel the skin pulled taut across my ribs and every day it got a little harder to drag my bum leg around—I was somehow in better shape than the rest of the herd.

I knew, if I wanted, I could push my way to the front, could lead the herd and get the first pick at any prey we did manage to catch, but still I hung back. The idea of actually killing something, of being the one to dig my teeth into the flesh of a still living creature, human or otherwise, repulsed me, made me feel physically ill.

This was an odd feeling for a zombie to have, and very inconvenient. If I wasn't able to get over it soon, I would die, would starve to death when the rest of my herd failed to bring down enough prey for me to get enough scraps to sustain myself. And that day was coming soon, and I knew it.

The herd jolted as a loud sound a few streets over drew our attention. I knew that sound. My brow furrowed as I followed the herd as they turned in this new direction to investigate. That sound, which continued as we approached, louder and louder, that sound was...

Gunshots.

I gasped and picked up the pace, pushing toward the front of the herd before I had the chance to second guess my actions. Gunshots meant humans, and I hadn't seen a human in years. They didn't venture into the city anymore, preferring their strongholds where they were safe from the zombies.

Why were humans in the city? And more importantly, why were they using guns? Every zombie within earshot would be drawn like moths to a flame, and even starving zombies were extremely dangerous in horde numbers. Who would be so stupid as to shoot gun in the middle of a zombie infested city?

My left forearm ached as if to remind me of something, and with it came a memory of standing in the middle of a street not unlike where I stood now, holding a gun in one hand and a knife in the other as I stared down a herd of zombies.

I shook the thought away. Right. Desperate people shoot guns in the middle of a zombie infested city.

I hesitated, and around me the herd pushed forward, jostling me toward the middle. As much as I tried to push the feelings away, I knew I wouldn't be able to hurt those people. Even as my stomach rumbled to remind me I was going to starve to death if I didn't, I couldn't kill humans. Even the idea of being there, of watching as they fell to the onslaught, as the sheer number of zombies overwhelmed them and they were torn apart screaming and died, their sweet blood spilled all over the streets, wasted, wasted—

I shook those thoughts away too, nausea bubbling in my stomach to war with the empty hunger. No, I wouldn't be able to kill them. It didn't matter if they were already doomed, whether it be by my hand or another member of the herd, nothing could save those humans now, not with every zombie left in the city heading toward them right now.