The world had gone to hell. Rody knew that well enough. The cities were dead, the streets choked with the shambling husks of people who had once lived their lives like he used to-working late hours, chasing lost dreams, trying to make sense of a life that always felt a few steps out of reach. Now, survival was all that mattered.
And then there was *him*.
Vincent wasn’t like the other zombies. He should’ve been, sure. His skin was ashen, stretched over sharp cheekbones that seemed more pronounced in death. His once dark hair was tangled and matted with dirt, hanging limp around his face. The clothes he wore, a shredded black turtleneck and grey slacks, were filthy and torn, hanging loosely on his gaunt frame. His eyes-clouded and hollow-should have been devoid of anything. And yet, somehow, they weren’t.
Rody had found him scavenging in an abandoned neighborhood a few months back. At first, he had thought Vincent was just another undead, another walking corpse to avoid or, if need be, put down. But Vincent hadn’t charged at him. He hadn’t lunged or snarled like the others did. He had just… stood there. Watching. Waiting.
Rody hadn’t killed him. And ever since that moment, Vincent had followed him. Silently. Relentlessly.
—
It was dusk when Rody slipped through the broken window of a dilapidated gas station, crouching low as he scanned the shelves. They’d been picked clean ages ago, but sometimes there were places other scavengers missed. Manon was outside, keeping watch. She had been tense since they let Vincent tag along, and Rody didn’t blame her. The idea of traveling with a zombie was insane.
Yet there was something about Vincent.
Rody felt it again now, as the zombie stood near the door, unmoving, staring at him with those dead eyes. They followed his every move, not with hunger, but something else. It wasn’t aggression. It wasn’t even desperation. It was… need.
Rody rummaged through the shelves, brushing past old candy wrappers and empty soda cans. His fingers closed around a dented can of beans, and he sighed in relief. Anything was better than nothing.
As he shoved the can into his pack, the door creaked open, and Manon slipped in. Her expression was drawn, her lips pressed into a tight line as her eyes flicked to Vincent, who stood in his usual eerie silence.
“He’s still here,” she muttered, her voice low and edged with frustration.
“Yeah,” Rody replied, not looking at her.
“I don’t like it, Rody,” she continued, stepping closer, her voice a harsh whisper. “You’re putting us both at risk. He’s a zombie. He’s *dangerous.*”
“He’s not like the others,” Rody said, though even to him, the defense sounded weak.
Manon’s eyes narrowed. “It doesn’t matter if he’s different. He’s not alive. He’s not *safe.* And you’re acting like he’s some lost puppy.”
“He hasn’t hurt us,” Rody argued, his voice tight. “If he was going to do something, don’t you think he would’ve by now?”
Manon’s jaw clenched, and she looked away, her hands trembling at her sides. “You’re obsessed with him.”
Rody opened his mouth to argue, but the words died in his throat. Was she right? Ever since he’d found Vincent, there had been this strange pull, something he couldn’t explain. The other zombies-they were mindless. Violent. But Vincent…
Vincent was different. And Rody couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something still alive behind those dead eyes.
“I’m not obsessed,” Rody muttered, turning back to the shelves. “I’m just-“
“What?” Manon snapped, stepping closer. “You’re just *what*, Rody? Trying to fix him? Hoping he’s going to magically become human again? You’re delusional. He’s a monster.”
The word “monster” echoed in the gas station’s hollow interior, and Rody flinched. He glanced back at Vincent, who remained as still as ever. But his eyes-they seemed to flicker. Just for a moment.
“I can’t do this anymore,” Manon said, her voice breaking. “I can’t keep pretending this is okay.”
Rody turned to her, his stomach sinking. “Manon, I-“
“No,” she cut him off, shaking her head. “You’re losing yourself, Rody. You’re more concerned about *him* than us. I don’t know what you see in him, but it’s not real. He’s dead. You’re clinging to a corpse.”
Her words were harsh, biting. But they were true. Rody couldn’t deny it. Ever since Vincent had started following him, things had changed. His focus had shifted. He spent more time watching Vincent, trying to figure him out, than anything else.
It wasn’t logical. It wasn’t rational. But it was real.
“I can’t leave him,” Rody whispered.
Manon’s expression hardened. “Then I’m leaving you.”
The silence that followed felt like a punch to the gut. Rody stared at her, unable to speak, as she grabbed her pack and stormed out of the gas station without looking back. The door creaked shut behind her, and the weight of her absence hit Rody like a freight train.
He stood there, staring at the empty doorway, his heart pounding in his chest. Manon was gone.
“Shit…”
His hand dragged down his face as he took a shuddering breath. He didn’t even know why he had let it get this far. He didn’t know why he couldn’t just let Vincent go.
There was a shuffle behind him, soft and hesitant. Rody turned, and there Vincent stood, his head tilted slightly, his empty gaze fixed on Rody. There was nothing in those eyes-nothing human, at least. But there was something else. Something Rody couldn’t name.
Slowly, almost instinctively, Rody stepped closer to him. His boots scraped against the dusty tile floor, but Vincent didn’t move. He never did.
“What are you, huh?” Rody asked, his voice low, barely audible. His hand hovered near Vincent’s face, his fingers trembling as they brushed against his cold, clammy skin. “Why are you still here?”
Vincent blinked. A slow, deliberate motion. His head tilted just slightly, as if he was listening. Understanding.
“Do you even know who you are anymore?”
Vincent’s mouth twitched, a jerky movement that looked like it had taken all the effort he had left. His lips parted, but no sound came out. No groan. No snarl. Just silence.
Rody’s hand lingered on Vincent’s cheek. His skin felt like stone, cold and unmoving. But there was a trace of life there-a flicker of something that shouldn’t have been possible.
He dropped his hand and stepped back, his heart pounding.
“I don’t know what you are,” Rody whispered. “But you’re not like the rest of them.”
Vincent remained still, watching him with those dead, unreadable eyes.
And that was the truth, wasn’t it? Vincent wasn’t like the others. He didn’t attack. He didn’t mindlessly crave flesh. He just… followed. Watched. Waited.
But for what?
—
Days passed, and Vincent stayed by Rody’s side. Manon was gone, and Rody had stopped looking for her. There was no point. She had made her choice, and so had he.
Vincent was still there. Always. Never speaking, never snarling, but always watching. Rody could feel the weight of his presence, even when his back was turned. Sometimes, at night, he’d wake up and find Vincent standing over him, as if keeping watch.
As if protecting him.
It was ridiculous, he knew. Vincent was just a zombie. But there were times-fleeting moments-where Rody swore there was something else. A flicker of memory, of recognition, in those hollow eyes.
One night, as they sheltered in the crumbling remains of a house, Rody found himself sitting next to Vincent. The house was quiet, the air heavy with the scent of rot. The only light came from the moon filtering through the broken windows, casting everything in a pale, ghostly glow.
Vincent sat still, his head tilted slightly as if listening to something Rody couldn’t hear. His eyes, half-lidded, stared into the dark, unfocused but still alert.
Rody couldn’t stop himself. His hand reached out, fingers brushing against Vincent’s arm. The skin was cold, too cold, but he didn’t pull away. He couldn’t.
“You used to be someone, didn’t you?” Rody asked, his voice barely a whisper. “Someone important.”
Vincent didn’t move. But his head shifted, just slightly, toward Rody. As if in response.
Rody’s chest tightened. He didn’t know why he felt so drawn to this corpse-this thing that wasn’t even human anymore. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that Vincent was still there. Somewhere.
“I don’t know why I can’t let you go,” Rody murmured. “Maybe I’m just as messed up as this world.”
Vincent’s eyes flicked to him, locking onto his. And for the briefest moment, Rody saw something there-something dark, something deep, something *alive.*
He wasn’t sure if it was real or if his mind was playing tricks on him, but it didn’t matter anymore. That flicker of something-whatever it was-was enough.
The silence between them was suffocating, but in a strange way, it felt comforting. The world outside was chaotic, full of death and destruction. Yet here, in this moment, with a corpse beside him, Rody felt a twisted sense of peace.
But that peace was fragile. Temporary.
—
The next morning, they were on the move again. Rody had started to grow used to the rhythm of their strange partnership. He scouted ahead for supplies, keeping low and quiet, while Vincent trailed behind, ever vigilant, though his dead eyes never betrayed any real awareness.
It was when they entered a long-abandoned grocery store that things began to spiral. The shelves were bare, the floor littered with shattered glass and debris. Rody’s boots crunched against the ground as he made his way down the aisles, his eyes scanning for anything of use.
Vincent stayed near the entrance, unmoving, his presence a cold shadow in the dying daylight.
Rody bent down to sift through a pile of ruined boxes, hoping to find something edible, when a sound echoed through the store-a low, guttural growl that sent a shiver down his spine.
He froze. His heart pounded in his chest, his fingers tightening around the handle of the knife strapped to his thigh. The growling grew louder, closer.
Rody stood slowly, his eyes darting to the end of the aisle. A group of zombies-three, maybe four-shuffled into view, their decaying faces twisted in hunger.
“Shit,” he whispered under his breath.
He took a step back, his mind racing. There was no way he could take them all on. He needed to get out-fast. His gaze flicked to Vincent, who hadn’t moved, hadn’t made a sound. He just stood there, his dead eyes locked onto the advancing horde.
“Vincent!” Rody hissed, motioning for him to follow.
But Vincent didn’t move. He just stared at the other zombies, his head tilting slightly, as if trying to understand them.
Rody cursed under his breath, panic flaring in his chest. “We need to go!”
The zombies were getting closer now, their growls growing louder, more urgent. Rody’s grip on his knife tightened. He was ready to bolt when Vincent finally moved.
Slowly, almost methodically, Vincent stepped forward, positioning himself between Rody and the approaching undead. His movements were deliberate, calm, as if he wasn’t walking into danger at all.
Rody watched, breathless, as Vincent stood in the path of the other zombies. They snarled, lunging at him with a viciousness that made Rody’s blood run cold. But Vincent didn’t flinch. His eyes remaining just as dead as ever.
The first zombie slammed into him, teeth snapping at his face, but Vincent grabbed it by the throat and shoved it back with surprising strength. Another lunged at him, clawing at his chest, but Vincent barely reacted, his hollow eyes fixed on the horde as they clawed at him.
It wasn’t until one of the zombies bit into Vincent’s shoulder, tearing into his flesh, that Rody snapped into action.
“Vincent!” he shouted, rushing forward, knife in hand.
He plunged the blade into the nearest zombie’s skull, pulling it free with a sickening squelch. Blood splattered across his face as he fought his way through the horde, slashing and stabbing with a desperation he hadn’t felt in years.
Vincent didn’t cry out as the zombies tore into him. He didn’t make a sound. He just stood there, letting Rody fight for him.
When the last of the zombies fell, Rody stood panting, his body trembling with adrenaline. Blood dripped from his knife, pooling on the floor beneath him.
Vincent stood in the middle of the carnage, his shoulder torn open, blood oozing from the wound. His once pristine skin was now ragged, shredded by teeth and claws. But he didn’t seem to notice.
Rody stared at him, his chest heaving. “What the hell were you doing?” he demanded, his voice shaking. “Why didn’t you move?”
Vincent’s eyes locked onto his, the same empty, unreadable gaze. He didn’t answer, couldn’t answer, but Rody could almost sense an emotion beneath the surface. Regret? Understanding?
Or was he just imagining it again?
Rody dropped his knife and ran a hand through his hair, his fingers trembling. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t keep pretending that Vincent was something more than what he was. But then why had Vincent protected him? Why had he let himself get hurt?
“Damn it,” Rody muttered, kneeling down to inspect the wound on Vincent’s shoulder. It was bad. The flesh was hanging in ragged strips, bone visible beneath the torn skin. But there was no real pain in Vincent’s expression, no reaction to the injury at all.
“Why are you still following me?” Rody asked softly, his voice thick with emotion. “What do you want from me?”
Vincent blinked, his eyes never leaving Rody’s. And in that moment, something passed between them. Rody didn’t know what it was-maybe just a trick of the light, a fleeting illusion-but he felt it all the same.
Vincent’s cold hand slowly reached out, his fingers brushing against Rody’s arm. The touch was light, hesitant, as if Vincent wasn’t sure of what he was doing.
Rody froze, staring at Vincent in shock. His heart pounded in his chest as Vincent’s hand lingered on his skin, the contact both chilling and strangely comforting.
It didn’t make sense. None of this made sense.
But in that moment, Rody didn’t care. All that mattered was that Vincent had saved him. And in some twisted way, Rody had begun to care for him-this walking corpse that shouldn’t have been capable of anything.
“I don’t know what’s happening to me,” Rody whispered, his voice barely audible. “But I can’t leave you.”
Vincent’s hand fell away, and he stepped back, his head tilting slightly as he continued to watch Rody. The silence between them stretched on, heavy and unspoken.
They were both broken-one dead, the other alive, but neither truly living.
And as Rody stood there, staring into Vincent’s hollow eyes, he realized that maybe that was why he couldn’t let go. Because in a world that was already dead, it didn’t matter if Vincent was a corpse.
They were both lost souls, clinging to the remnants of something that had died long ago.
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