David shoved his laptop back into his bag without bothering to unlock it. The urge to drain his water bottle gnawed at him, but he'd save his remaining water until he could get a refill at CVS. Assuming CVS was open mid crisis, it was at all other times so why not?

  The spring morning was warming up nicely. At least the apocalypse had decent weather. He peeled off his raincoat as he walked, passing a dark apartment building and his usual pizza place. Well, his nearest pizza place. Calling it his favorite would be generous considering their cheese tasted like plastic and their sauce was too sweet for his taste.

  The distraction of folding his coat cost him precious seconds of observation time. By the time he looked up, he was already too close to what he'd assumed were parked cars to properly process what he was seeing.

  This wasn't parking. This was a crime scene.

  The three-car pileup sat in front of Mr. Lo's Chinese takeout like a monument to terrible timing.

  David's brain started cataloging details with the detached precision of someone who wasn't ready to accept what he was seeing. The delivery truck had its tailgate open. Normal. A car had rear-ended it hard enough to crumple its front end and push its nose against the curb. Less normal.

  Mr. Lo's front door stood propped open by a delivery cart stacked with vegetable boxes.

  Not normal at all.

  "Ma'am, are you okay?"

  The question slipped out before David realized he was approaching the crashed car. The woman behind the wheel didn't respond. She slumped over a deflated airbag, long brown hair obscuring her face. Her business jacket was a cheerful peach color that somehow made the whole scene more depressing.

  Reddish-brown stains decorated the airbag like abstract art. David's stomach performed an uncomfortable flip as he identified them as dried blood. Quickly slinging his laptop bag on top of the car he tossed his jacket up there to keep it clean then leaned it to see if he could help.

  He tried the door handle, expecting it to be locked. It opened with a soft click.

  The smell hit him like a physical blow. Sweet. Cloying. Like overripe fruit mixed with something far worse.

  "Ma'am? I'm opening the door to help. Can you hear me?"

  Nothing. David grabbed her shoulder and gently pulled her back from the steering wheel, hearing a soft murmer of sound as she slumped back.

  Her head lolled at an unnatural angle. Milky, unseeing eyes stared past him at something only the dead could see. The sweet smell intensified, joined by other odors that made his eyes water.

  "I'm sorry," he whispered to the corpse.

  The words felt inadequate. She should have survived this. It wasn't even that bad of a crash. People should have helped her within minutes, not left her to die alone in a car that smelled like diabetic ketoacidosis and death.

  The thought hit him like a sledgehammer. His family friend, Mrs. Peterson, used to babysit them before her diabetes diagnosis. They'd learned to recognize that fruity smell. When you smelled it, you called 911 and grabbed the emergency glucose.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  This woman had probably died in a coma while David was unconscious for two days. Just one of millions who needed daily medication to stay alive.

  How many more were already gone?

  David forced himself to turn toward Mr. Lo's open door. The delivery cart with its neat stacks of bok choy and carrots suggested normal business interrupted mid-delivery. The silence suggested otherwise.

  Two figures lay on the floor near the counter, positioned like they'd been watching the small TV mounted in the corner. The older man David recognized as one of the chefs. The younger guy wore a delivery jacket matching the truck outside.

  He stumbled toward them, clinging to the desperate hope that they were just sleeping.

  The delivery driver was breathing. Slowly, steadily. Relief flooded through David until he got close enough to see the details.

  Greenish-black droplets oozed from every pore on the man's face, forming a sticky film over skin that looked... wrong. Distorted. A ripple passed across his features like something was moving underneath.

  David grabbed chopsticks from the counter rather than risk touching him.

  "Can you hear me?"

  The man's face bulged slightly. More dark fluid seeped out, hardening into a crusty shell. The smell was indescribable. Fresh-cut grass mixed with rotting garbage mixed with something that made David's hindbrain scream warnings.

  The older chef lay completely still. David had always wondered how the ancient-looking man managed to work such long hours. Now he looked deflated, like someone had let the air out of him.

  Dead. Obviously dead.

  David sat down hard on the linoleum floor and tried to process. Two days unconscious. Dead bodies everywhere. Survivors transforming into... what?

  That's when the dead chef twitched.

  Hope shot through David's chest. He was wrong! The old man was alive. He could help him!

  David grabbed the chef's shoulders and tried to roll him over.

  The moment skin met skin, sound exploded inside David's head. Not hearing exactly but understanding. A voice that wasn't quite a voice, muttering in a language of intention that he had never heard but understood:

  Move. Move. Move. Move. MOVE!

  The body twitched harder. The voice shifted, focusing on David with hungry intensity:

  Essence. Essence. Essence. Consume.

  Waves of alien hunger crashed over him. Pure, mindless need that made his soul crawl.

  David released the body and scrambled backward like a crab, his heart hammering against his ribs.

  "Oh god. Oh god. OH GOD! What the FUCK!"

  He was screaming without realizing it. The body resumed its rhythmic twitching, oriented toward him now like a compass needle finding north. Even without touching it, he could sense that alien presence tracking his movements.

  The apocalypse had just upgraded itself from disaster movie to horror film.

  David had found his zombies.

  The thing wearing the chef's corpse was barely mobile, more like a puppet with tangled strings than a proper monster. But it knew he was there. It wanted something from him. Something essential.

  He pressed himself against the corner, realizing with cold terror that he'd have to pass both bodies to reach the door.

  Without taking his eyes off the twitching corpses, he rose to his feet. The thing tracked his movement. Whatever was inside that dead chef was learning fast.

  David checked his escape route and bolted for the propped-open door.

  Sunlight and fresh air hit him like salvation. Then he remembered his laptop bag and coat sitting on the dead woman's car roof.

  The woman hadn't moved when he touched her. But what if touching brought them back? What if the same thing happening to the chef was happening to her on a delayed timer? What if he died first and she was next?

  David circled to the passenger side and leaned over the roof, snagging his coat and pulling the bag toward him. His hands shook as he shouldered his belongings and headed for the pillar of light visible above the CVS. Suddenly that promise of protection and help seemed much more important and urgent.

  His brain churned through implications as he walked. Millions of diabetics. Millions more with heart conditions, requiring daily medications. How many had died in the first wave? How many were about to become something else entirely?

  The delivery driver was still alive but changing. The chef was dead but moving. The woman in the car was just dead.

  What made the difference?

  David slumped onto a bus bench, legs suddenly too weak to support him. The adrenaline crash hit like a freight train, leaving him shaking and hollow.

  He was alone in a world where the dead wouldn't stay dead and the living were becoming something worse.

  At least the weather was nice.