Horrific Shorts: Zombie Edition

The stench of decay clung to the air like an omen. The city ahead was nothing but a skeleton—its streets littered with corpses that refused to rest. The infected lurked in the shadows, their twisted forms barely human anymore.

Draven, Mira, and Elias moved cautiously through the ruins. Every step felt like walking on graves.

"We need supplies," Mira whispered, scanning the hollowed-out buildings. "And answers."

Elias grunted. "Answers? Look around, lady. The only answers here come with teeth."

Draven ignored them both. His eyes were on the mass of shambling figures ahead. These weren't ordinary undead. Their flesh was stretched too thin, their bones jutted at odd angles, and their mouths gaped unnaturally wide.

"These things…" Draven muttered. "They're different."

One of them turned its head—cracking like splintered wood—and let out a guttural moan.

Then they all did.

The horde lurched forward.

Draven raised his shotgun and fired. The blast ripped through the closest corpse, but the thing didn't stop—instead, it twitched, regrew, and kept moving.

Mira's heart pounded. "They're regenerating."

Elias swore under his breath. "Oh, hell no."

The horde broke into a sprint.

Draven grabbed Mira's arm. "Run!"

They raced through the crumbling streets, dodging debris and clawing hands. Elias tossed a Molotov behind them—the explosion sent flames roaring, but the creatures walked straight through the fire.

"This isn't normal!" Mira gasped. "Something's controlling them!"

A bell tolled in the distance.

Draven skidded to a stop. His gaze followed the sound—to the center of the city.

A church stood there, untouched by time. The bell rang from its belfry, and at its entrance…

A man in priest robes watched them. His face was gaunt, but his eyes burned with unnatural light.

Father Alistair.

The moment Draven locked eyes with him, the horde froze. Their grotesque bodies twitched violently—then dropped to their knees, as if in worship.

Alistair's lips curled into a smile.

"You trespass in the land of the Rotting King," he said, his voice a whisper that crawled through the air like a sickness.

Draven aimed his shotgun. "What the hell did you do to them?"

Alistair stepped forward, lifting a decayed book in his hands. Its pages pulsed, alive with something dark.

"The flesh is not meant to rot," he said. "It is meant to evolve."

The undead began to change—their bodies bulging, stretching, twisting into new horrors.

Mira grabbed Draven's arm. "We need to go. Now."

Elias took a step back. "Yeah. Before we end up like them."

The creatures screeched in unison, their bones cracking as they rose once more—faster, stronger, hungrier.

Draven clenched his jaw. They weren't just fighting zombies anymore.

They were fighting something much worse.