Horrific Shorts: Zombie Edition

The factory was still smoldering when they arrived.

Elena could taste the ash before she saw the smoke. Long plumes curling into the twilight sky, rising from broken windows and twisted girders like ghosts trying to escape. Mira walked beside her, jaw set, blood on her boots that wasn't fresh but also hadn't quite dried.

They hadn't spoken in hours.

Not since they left Ruth behind.

The city outskirts were bone-quiet. No birds. No infected. Just a silence so deep it pressed against their ears like pressure under water. The stillness was unnatural — the kind Mira now recognized not as safety, but as a sign something worse had passed through.

Or was waiting to.

Elena pointed to the massive, rusted building ahead. "This is where the Safe Zone used to be."

"What happened?" Mira asked.

"Something went wrong." Her voice was flat. "Everyone inside turned. They sealed the gates. Then set it all on fire."

A chill ran down Mira's spine.

Inside the factory's husk, metal moaned in the wind. The walls were charred, but still standing. On the far side, a security door had been blasted open — and behind it, bunk beds lined the room like a forgotten barracks. That's where they found the bodies.

Dozens.

Not clawed or bitten.

Shot.

Execution style.

"Elena," Mira said quietly, "these people weren't infected."

"No," she agreed. "They were suspects."

The truth sank in like a weight: Someone had killed everyone inside — not because they turned, but because someone thought they might.

"There's a difference," Mira whispered, "between surviving the dead… and becoming them."

Footsteps echoed behind them.

Both women turned.

A man stepped from the shadows — young, but hollow-eyed, rifle slung low. Behind him, three others emerged. Not infected. Not soldiers. Survivors, maybe — or something else.

"You're not supposed to be here," he said.

"Neither are you," Elena replied, gripping the fire poker tightly.

"You're trespassing in a quarantine zone," the man added. "That means one of two things: you're sick — or you're stupid."

Mira stood her ground. "We're just passing through."

The man's eyes flicked to the blood on Mira's boots. "You didn't just pass through. You cleaned house."

A beat of silence.

Then another voice — a girl, younger — broke in: "We saw what you did at the gas station. You buried her."

"How long were you watching?" Elena demanded.

"Long enough to know you've still got your minds," the girl replied.

The rifle lowered. Tension eased.

"For now," the man muttered. "But if either of you shows signs…"

"We won't," Mira interrupted, sharp and certain.

The man studied her. Then nodded slowly.

"Come with us," he said. "We've got a real safe zone. Not perfect. But not a graveyard either."

They hesitated — both women had trusted before. And both had paid.

But together, they nodded.

Because if there was any hope left in the world, it wouldn't come in whispers from the dead.

It would come in defiance.

And fire.