Horrific Shorts: Zombie Edition

The crack in the sky spread like a wound.

Mira stumbled backward into the weak daylight, eyes locked upward. The pale sun bled through fractures in the clouds, but the blackness beyond those cracks was no sky—it was The Maw's skin, stretching and splitting to let its hunger seep in.

Wind roared, but it wasn't real wind. The air didn't move so much as shift, tugging at her hair, her jacket, her very bones. The ground beneath her feet seemed to tilt toward the growing void.

"Elena, stop!" Mira shouted, though she knew the human part of her friend was buried too deep.

Elena stood just inside the laundromat doorway, where the light cut across her feet. The darkness clung to her like a living cloak, snapping and recoiling from the daylight like a wounded animal. The chain hung at her side, dripping shadow that sizzled when it touched the tile.

Light is not your salvation, The Maw's voice whispered. It is your delay.

A sudden tremor buckled the ground. Mira dropped to one knee, fingers splayed to steady herself. The cracks in the sky widened, and thin trails of ash began to fall—not like snow, but like flakes of burned paper, curling and vanishing before they reached the ground.

One flake touched her cheek.

It burned.

She wiped it away, but a faint black mark remained on her skin, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat. Her pulse spiked—if the ash could touch her here, the light wasn't enough.

A sound rose behind Elena—a wet, dragging shuffle. Mira's stomach tightened as figures emerged from the darkness inside the laundromat. They were not zombies in the shambling, mindless sense. Their bodies bent at impossible angles, heads lolling but eyes glowing faintly red. Every step they took left smudges of shadow on the floor, like stains that would never scrub out.

"Elena…" Mira tried again, her voice cracking. "You're still in there. You don't have to—"

The human part of Elena surfaced for the briefest heartbeat. Her lips trembled. Her eyes softened. Then the chain snapped forward with blinding speed.

Mira barely ducked in time. The chain whipped past, gouging a deep scar into the asphalt. She ran—not toward safety, but toward the only place she could think of.

The old broadcast tower.

It loomed a few blocks away, its rusted frame clawing at the sky. In the chaos of the outbreak, it had fallen silent—but if she could reach its generators, she might push enough floodlight into the streets to carve out more unclaimed ground.

Behind her, the sky tore wider. The ash fell thicker now, hissing as it hit her jacket, leaving smoldering holes.

She reached the chain-link fence around the tower and scrambled over, her hands stinging where the metal had been eaten thin by rust. Dropping to the other side, she bolted for the door.

From the street, Elena watched. Her voice drifted after Mira, carried on the hiss of falling ash.

"Run to the light, Mira. I'll turn it into night."

And above, the sun began to dim.