The world had changed, but the sun still rose just as it always had, casting long shadows across the cracked asphalt of the highway. I walked alone, my white hair a stark contrast to the dull grays and browns of the desolate landscape. My name is Kaycee, and this is my story.
I hummed an old tune, a relic from a time before the world went silent, save for the groans of the undead and the occasional distant gunshot. My bright green eyes scanned the horizon, not out of fear, but habit. Danger lurked around every corner, yet my heart remained steady, calmness had become my refuge.
The light blue fabric of my skinny jeans hugged my legs as I moved, and the breeze played with the hem of my crop top. It was a risky outfit for the apocalypse, but practicality had lost its edge over personal expression. Besides, the undead didn't care what you wore.
A group of them emerged from the tree line, their gaunt figures stumbling towards me. I didn't run. Instead, I found a minivan, its color faded, and windows shattered. With ease, I climbed onto the roof, pulling myself up to sit cross-legged as I watched the undead below.
The undead were a grotesque parody of their former selves, each one uniquely disfigured by the decay that clung to them like a second skin. Their eyes, once windows to the soul, were now clouded and vacant, mirroring the void where their humanity used to reside.
Their movements were jerky and uncoordinated, a macabre dance dictated by the basest instinct to feed. The sounds they made were guttural and chilling—a symphony of moans and hisses that formed the backdrop of this new world.
Clothes hung in tatters from their bodies, not as a fashion statement, but as a testament to the struggles they had faced after death. The skin, where it was visible, showcased varying shades of pallor and decay, with some areas looking almost mummified, while others were freshly torn.
As they shuffled closer, the scent of death and rot filled the air, a stark reminder of the fate that awaited all in this apocalyptic landscape. Yet, amidst this horror, there was a strange sense of uniformity—a unifying trait among the undead was their relentless pursuit, driven by an insatiable hunger that knew no reason or respite.
They reached out with gnarled hands, but I was out of reach, both physically and emotionally. I had seen too much, lost too much, to be startled by their presence. So, there I sat on my makeshift throne atop the van, queen of a fallen world, waiting for whatever—or whoever—came next.
