Furzombie - a gay furry zombie apocalypse

Friday night vibes - Joshua

It was a Friday night, and I wasn't going out. What the hell was wrong with me? I felt a little under the weather, sure, but even as I prodded my cheeks in the bathroom mirror, I couldn't shake the nagging regret. My youthful face stared back at me, my messy black hair refusing to behave despite repeated attempts to flatten it, and my striking blue eyes looking just as tired as I felt.

The skin around my nose was red from the lingering cold I'd been nursing all week. I didn't look my best, but honestly, when did that ever stop me? Going out for me always had one aim: finding another guy. I'd flirt, maybe dance a little, and if I was lucky, I'd end up bringing him back here. That's how it always went. We'd hook up, I'd catch feelings I knew I shouldn't, and by the next morning, I'd be staring at an empty bed, reminded that I was just another quick fix for someone who had no interest in sticking around.

That's what I hated most about being gay—the way it all felt so transactional. It was all about the sex, and once it was over, so were you. Maybe it was my fault for letting it get to me. Maybe I was just being dramatic. Or maybe it was just the flu talking, and maybe that's exactly what this was—a self-pitying, sniffle-ridden case of the man flu.

I sighed and left the bathroom, padding barefoot across the wooden floors of my apartment. It wasn't much, but it was mine. The 10th floor came with a decent view of the city and the river, and the balcony was perfect for late-night drinks or pretending I was too sophisticated to care about what the neighbours were doing.

The main living space was open-plan, modern, and minimalistic. My kitchen took up one end, all sleek wooden countertops and teal cupboards, with a flush electric hob and a gleaming extractor fan I barely used. It flowed seamlessly into the living and dining area, though calling it a "dining room" was a bit of a stretch. A white table sat in the corner, surrounded by four grey chairs I rarely used unless I had company.

The living room was where I spent most of my time when I was home. An L-shaped layout made the most of the space, with large windows that overlooked the city's patchwork of lights. A simple grey sofa faced a white coffee table, both sitting snugly on a soft contrasting olive green rug. In the far corner stood my TV, an essential part of my plan to watch a movie tonight and convince myself I wasn't wasting my life.

The balcony door was slightly ajar, letting in a crisp breeze that carried the faint sounds of the city below. Out there, a small set of garden furniture was arranged neatly, though I rarely used it unless the weather was perfect. The view offered more than just the skyline—it provided a front-row seat to the lives of my neighbours in the adjacent apartment block.

Living at this height, curtains were a luxury many people ignored. Their windows became unintentional stages, their lives playing out for anyone who cared to watch. I wasn't a voyeur, not really, but I couldn't help glancing now and then. People-watching was more entertaining than most reality TV, and I'd gotten used to the rhythms of my neighbours' lives. Couples fighting, a guy trying to impress his date by cooking, someone practicing yoga in their underwear—it was all there, raw and unfiltered.

Thankfully, my apartment was set back just enough that most of my own life stayed private. The balcony, though, that was fair game, and I was fine with that. Let them watch if they wanted.

The city below was a chaotic mix of humans and furs, living together in what was supposed to be harmony. It wasn't, not really. The tension was always there, bubbling just beneath the surface. "Furism," they called it—a new word for an old prejudice. I had friends who were furs, and they told me what it was like: the stares, the whispers, the jokes that weren't really jokes. I wasn't a fur, so I'd never fully understand, but I knew enough to see how unfair it was.