I didn't know what I expected from "we talk."
Maybe a lecture. Maybe interrogation.
Maybe a bullet to the head—just to be safe.
But what I got… was tea.
Yes. Tea.
The old man placed a steaming mug in front of me. Steam. Real steam. I watched it swirl upward like a ghost trying to escape. I didn't drink it, obviously. I mean, I'm not even sure my stomach still works. But I appreciated the gesture. Or maybe I just pretended to. It's hard to tell when half your face can't smile anymore.
"So," the old man said, sitting across from me. "What's the last thing you remember?"
A question. A normal, human question.
One I've asked myself a hundred times since I woke up in that rotten field.
And now someone else is asking it. That makes it feel real.
I search the fog in my head. It's like digging through a ruined library—everything's burned or buried. But there are scraps. Shards. A name. A feeling. A smell.
I try to speak, and the words come out slow, like oozing tar.
"A door… a hallway… rain. I think I was… someone."
The old man raises an eyebrow. "That narrows it down."
The girl snorts beside me. I glance at her—she's got one of those half-smiles that says "this is absurd, but I'm still here for it." I like her. Even if I don't know what like means anymore.
I sigh—or, more accurately, I exhale dramatically through my broken nasal cavity.
The old man leans back. "You have more awareness than most of your kind. You speak. You reason. You're self-aware. That's… unprecedented."
"Thanks?" I reply, not sure if it's a compliment or a diagnosis.
He ignores my sarcasm. "There have been rumors. Stories of certain 'infected' regaining thought. But most are feral. Violent. You're the first I've seen sit in a chair and not try to eat someone's face."
"Small victories," I mutter.
He studies me again. "Do you feel hunger?"
I pause. "Yes. But not… for brains."
(Lie. I mean, I do think brains smell delicious, but it's not polite dinner conversation.)
"I feel... empty," I continue. "But not in the stomach. In the soul. Like something got taken. Or died. But left the lights on."
That gets a reaction. The old man's eyes narrow, like he's watching a puzzle put itself together.
The girl's expression softens too.
"You remember what a soul is," she whispers.
"Do I?" I look down at my hands—gray, scarred, not quite human anymore. "Or do I just want to?"
Silence.
Then the old man stands. "Come with me."
We go down a set of stairs that groan like they're haunted. He leads us to a dim room lit by broken monitors and a humming generator. Maps cover the walls. Diagrams. Brain scans. Heartbeat graphs.
"Before the fall," he begins, "I was a neuroscientist. I worked on memory recovery, brain mapping, trauma reconstruction. After the outbreak, I started studying you—the undead. I wanted to understand what was lost… and if anything could be brought back."
"And?" I ask.
He turns to me, eyes sharp. "And you might be proof that the answer is yes."
I blink. "So what? I'm a science project now?"
"You're a miracle, Mr. Z. A second chance in a dying world."
There's that name again. Mr. Z. I never chose it. But it fits, doesn't it? Like a mask that's grown into the skin.
I shake my head. "I'm not a miracle. I'm just… broken. With leftovers."
The girl finally speaks again. "But broken things can still be useful."
Her voice cuts through the gloom like a sunbeam through the ashes.
I don't know why, but something stirs in me when she says that. A flicker. A spark.
And for a moment, just a moment, I swear I feel the faintest pulse in my chest.
Maybe… just maybe… I'm not dead yet.