Horrific Shorts: Zombie Edition

There were things they didn't talk about.

The things that happened in the dark.

The things they did to survive.

The truths they buried because if they spoke them aloud, they'd never sleep again.

They reached the edge of the old subway line by dusk. Tess was walking again—slowly, leaning on Milo—but she was alive. That was enough.

The tunnels there were cracked open like veins, long-abandoned by the infected, too unstable for raiders. Perfect for hiding. Or dying.

Lara led them into a maintenance platform. Faded signs above the dust-covered benches read: "Tell Someone If You See Something."

Ryder laughed at that. "Yeah, I saw something. Plenty. Never told a damn soul."

That night, around the campfire of broken train seats and candlelight, the silence grew heavy.

Milo couldn't stop staring at the wall.

Tess finally broke the stillness. "What are we not saying?"

Lara didn't answer. Neither did Ryder.

But Milo did.

"When I was separated last month," he said quietly, "I joined another group. Only five of us made it to the library. The rest… didn't make it."

"Raiders?" Tess asked.

He shook his head.

"They were infected. But not turned. Sick. Dying. Slowing us down. We left them. One by one. I didn't argue."

No one judged him. No one had the right.

Ryder leaned back. "Before I met you all, I was running with scavengers in West End. We found a food vault in a butcher shop basement. Enough rations for a month. The family who lived above begged us not to take it all."

He paused.

"They begged. And we didn't listen."

He took a drink from a dented flask. "They starved. We didn't."

Tess looked down. "I once fed a stranger to a crawler. He was screaming so loud, I was sure he'd bring them all. I… I pushed him down a stairwell. It bought me ten minutes. That was enough to get away."

She didn't cry. She just stared into the fire like it owed her something.

Finally, Lara spoke.

"I killed someone I loved," she said. "Not because they were turning. Because they were talking. Loudly. About hope. About how things would go back to normal."

She met each of their eyes. "I didn't believe in that anymore. And I couldn't stand hearing it."

They sat in silence after that.

Mouths full of stories no one was supposed to tell.

But here's the thing about secrets:

The longer they stay buried, the louder they echo.

And sometimes, letting them out isn't weakness.

It's a reminder that you're still human.

Even when everything else tries to make you forget.

When they finally slept, they did so with lighter hearts.

Not clean.

Not redeemed.

But known.

And in the broken silence of the old subway, no one judged them.

Because survival in the undead age was never about perfection.

It was about enduring the weight of the truth—together.