Love is Dead

Sanctuary of Thorns

        Logan didn't hesitate. He snatched a rusted pipe from the ground and swung with surprising force. The impact sent the feral zombie staggering, its skeletal frame crashing into a pile of broken pots and tangled thorned vines.

"Stay back!" Logan growled, his voice feral and gravely, almost unrecognizable. It reminded me that he too was undead. I was glad I was the one being protected.

 He staggered on his injured leg, black ichor from his wound mixing with the dirt, but he didn't retreat.

The wild zombie twisted unnaturally, clawing its way upright with jerky, predatory movements. Its glowing eyes locked onto me, and for a moment, I froze—paralyzed by the raw, animalistic hunger in its gaze.

Logan didn't give it a chance to lunge again. With a guttural snarl, he drove the pipe forward, the sharp, rusted end piercing through the zombie's skull. The creature let out a strangled hiss, its limbs twitching violently before it collapsed into the dirt. The silence that followed was deafening.

SCREECH!!

"Dead," Logan muttered, his voice thick with exhaustion. He leaned on the pipe for support, his shoulders sagging as the last remnants of tension seemed to drain from his body. I stayed rooted where I was, my chest heaving as I tried to catch my breath. 

"You... you got it," I said breathless.

"Yeah." Logan yanked the pipe free with a wet squelch, ichor dripping from the jagged end. He wiped it on his pants and looked at me. "You okay?"

I nodded slowly, though my hands were slightly trembling. "That... that thing was faster than the others."

"Some of 'em are," Logan said, his voice flat. "The wild ones, the more ferals—they don't rot the same way. We were lucky it wasn't stronger."

The distant shouts of the survivors snapped me back to the present. They were still out there, voices echoing faintly through the greenhouse walls.

"They'll be on us soon," I said, glancing at the gate.

Logan shook his head. "Not yet. They're too busy showing off for each other. Yelling, shooting. They'll draw more of the ferals before they figure out how to get through that gate." He smirked grimly. "We've got some breathing room—let's use it."

I helped him to his feet, careful not to jostle his injured leg too much. He reassured me he felt no pain, as his mismatched blue and brown eyes scanning the interior of the greenhouse.

The space was larger than I'd realized, its towering glass walls cracked but still standing. Overgrown plants spilled from their broken pots and long-forgotten planting beds. Vines climbed the rusted framework, reaching toward the shattered ceiling where sunlight filtered through in thin, golden streams. It seemed especially beautiful in the morning light despite the events that occurred.

Among the chaos, patches of greenery thrived.

"This place is a goldmine," Logan murmured, limping toward a cluster of planters. He reached down and plucked a handful of leaves, sniffing them before handing them to me. "Dandelion greens. Bitter, but edible."

I took them, my stomach growling at the sight of something vaguely resembling food. Nearby, I spotted more—wild mint growing in a cracked trough, small clusters of cherry tomatoes clinging stubbornly to a dying vine.

"They've gone wild," I said, kneeling to examine the tomatoes. "But they're still good." Logan chuckled softly. "Plants don't care about the end of the world. They'll keep growing wherever they can."

I scanned the room again, the sense of dread easing slightly as the greenhouse revealed its hidden bounty. In a corner, I noticed an old rain barrel, its lid askew. Peering inside, I saw it was nearly half-full of water—stagnant but drinkable if we boiled it.

"This could keep us alive for weeks," I said, almost in disbelief.

"If we don't get ourselves killed first," Logan replied, leaning against a rusted beam. He watched me for a moment, his expression unreadable. "We should hole up here for a while. Rest. Let the survivors burn themselves out."

I hesitated, glancing back toward the gate. The shouting was distant now, muffled by the thick foliage. Logan was right—they were making too much noise, and in this world, noise was as good as a beacon.

"We need a defensible spot," I said finally, turning back to him.

Logan nodded, his gaze sweeping the room. His mismatched eyes landed on an old metal workbench tucked beneath a tangle of vines. 

"Over there. We can barricade ourselves behind it."

Together, we worked to clear the area, dragging broken shelving units and crates to form a makeshift barrier. The effort left us both winded, but it felt good to have even a semblance of security.

As we settled in, I handed Logan a handful of the dandelion greens. He accepted them silently, his pale, decayed fingers trembling slightly as he chewed.

"They'll come for us eventually," I murmured, staring at the faint glow of the gate in the distance. Logan leaned back against the wall, his voice calm despite the tension in the air. 

"Let 'em. They'll run out of steam—or get distracted by something worse. And when they do..." 

His gaze sharpened, his grip tightening on the bloodied pipe. "We'll be ready."

For now, the greenhouse was quiet, its overgrown sanctuary shielding us from the chaos outside. But I knew it wouldn't last. It never did.