Horrific Shorts: Zombie Edition

They handcuffed each other for safety.

Not because they didn't trust—

but because they did.

Too much.

The virus mutated again.

It started with a man from the eastern border—eyes clouded, teeth intact, still speaking between seizures.

Then it spread through contact faster than bullets could stop it.

This strain didn't kill in minutes.

It waited.

Lara called it "the Whisperer Strain."

You could walk, talk, even laugh... for 48 hours.

And then, just like that—

you were gone.

But not before you took someone with you.

So when Milo and Tess found themselves in an old ranger station—just the two of them, both scratched in a fight they couldn't win cleanly—they did what no sane person would.

They locked themselves together.

Steel cuffs. One key.

Each cuff on one wrist.

A pact sealed in steel and heartbeat.

"If either of us turns," Tess said, "we'll know."

Milo stared at the cuffs. "And if we turn together?"

She smirked grimly. "Then at least we'll dance one more time."

Hours passed.

Then half a day.

They checked each other's eyes. Their pulses. Speech. Sanity.

Every few minutes, Milo would ask, "Still you?"

And Tess would reply, "Still me."

Until night fell.

Until her hands started trembling.

"Don't," he whispered.

But her breath was shallow. Her skin pale. A fever building under the cuff.

She gritted her teeth. "I'm fine."

"You're not."

"Neither are you."

And he wasn't. The glow beneath his veins had returned—not bright, but flickering, unstable.

At midnight, thunder rolled outside. Rain lashed the broken windows.

Inside, Tess sat beside the lantern, staring at the cuff on her wrist.

"You regret this?" she asked.

He shook his head.

"Never."

"Even if I change?"

"You won't."

"And if I do?"

He hesitated.

Then: "Then I'll change with you."

Her eyes welled up. "That's not hope, Milo. That's madness."

"No," he said. "It's the only thing left."

She looked at the key—resting on the table between them like a loaded gun.

Neither reached for it.

At dawn, her fever broke.

So did his glow.

And when the sun rose, slashing light across their tired faces—

They were still them.

Tess let out a ragged breath.

"Guess we're immune to more than just the virus," she said.

He smiled, weak but real. "Maybe we're just stubborn."

They unlocked the cuffs. Let the cold metal drop to the floor.

But in their hearts, they were still linked.

Not by chains.

Not by fear.

But by the madness of hope they chose, even when the world made none.

Hope, they learned,

isn't a feeling.

It's a decision.

Sometimes you have to lock yourself to it—

and hold on, even if it kills you.