As the deadly infection spreads, enveloping the world in suffocating despair, you are forced to endure the new horrific reality alone. An unexpected encounter with an enigmatic stranger changes everything. Your first meeting with him almost ended in...
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Your back presses against the worn-out fabric of the couch as you sit on the floor. Your legs are pulled in, knees drawn up close to your chest in a protective pose. Your fingers tug at the loose threads of your pants. The tiny movements of your hands betray the tension you feel. With a cautious gaze, you stare at the man in front of you as he sifts through your backpack. You want to say something. The words are poised on the tip of your tongue. But you stay silent, your lips pressed together in a tight line. The stranger tosses your belongings back at you, your backpack landing at your feet, when he doesn't find what he's been searching for.
The moment of tenuous silence shatters like glass. Questions start pouring out, all directed at you. He asks for your name, then he demands to know where you come from and what you are doing here. He also wants to know whether you are alone or with someone. Lastly, as his voice hardens and his eyes narrow, he asks why you attacked him.
At first, you refuse to utter a single word. In your stubborn mind, you convince yourself that you don't owe this stranger any explanations. You think that if he wants to know something, first, he should try to be more amiable rather than acting like some creepy investigator. But as he steps closer to you, his imposing frame casting a looming shadow over your curled body, his dark eyes piercing the very core of your being, you realise you have no choice but to play by his rules.
So, first, you answer the last question he asked.
"I thought you were a biter," you mumble, gathering up the courage to meet his gaze.
A puzzled look washes over his face, his head tilting to the side, as if he's not sure what you mean.
"A biter?"
"A dead man, you know, like the ones who roam around the streets, wanting to eat anyone they cross their paths with," you say, rolling your eyes in slight annoyance. You sigh, realising that if you have to explain every answer to him, this conversation is going to drag on longer than you expected.
You continue to speak. After you are done, apparently, he is satisfied with your responses because he gives you back your knife. You hadn't even noticed that he'd been holding it in his hand all this time.
The stranger is still wearing the skull mask. You wish he would take it off because it makes you feel uneasy, as if he's hiding some secret underneath it. But even if you can't see his face, you can tell he is anxious about something by the way he is pacing around the room, circling the couch you are sitting next to, and fiddling with his gloves as his eyes move from one window to another.
After some time, when he turns around and stops paying attention to you, you stand up. Your legs feel numb, but you grab your backpack, throw it over your shoulders and decide it's your cue to leave. The man doesn't seem to have vile intentions, but you don't know what might be going on inside his mind. As soon as you take the first step, trying not to make much noise, the floors creak and he turns around on his heel. His hand seizes your arm, and he sinks his fingers into your flesh, forcing you to halt.
