Caterpillars turn into butterflies. Ugly ducklings turn into swans. Then there's me—undead. I'm not the only undead in the world. Everywhere I go, I encounter hordes of undead people. Yet I'm still alone. No one communicates anymore; all that escape their mouths are grunts and raspy breaths, like a room full of smokers gasping for air.
Every day, I try to pick up fragments of my former life, piecing together memories of a world long gone. It all unraveled when a lab-grown virus, clumsily unleashed by a scientist with butterfingers, brought about the apocalypse.
First, you'll cough and feel a subtle tickle in your throat, but by the end of the day, swallowing becomes difficult. It'll feel like you've got a cactus lodged in your throat. Your body rejects all food and drinks. Three to five days later, you simply drop dead, but then you come back.
There are still a handful of survivors scurrying about. They run off and hide as soon as they catch sight of me. There's one little creature that doesn't run away scared from me. He follows me around, wagging his tail enthusiastically as he barks joyfully by my side.
Are you hungry, Buddy?
He barks twice and spins around.
I'm hungry, too. I crave for something human: a hand, some brain matter, and the rich, buttery flavor of fat that tantalizes the palate. I long for the human touch, and I see that the other undead do too.
For now, I guess it's you and me, Buddy.
Just you and me.