Lin Qiao writes first
The zombies stop. All of them, mid-lunge, as if someone yanked a leash. Then they shuffle backward, heads low, and part around a woman stepping over the broken escalator.
She is pale in a way living people aren’t, wrapped in a stolen coat two sizes too big, and her eyes are completely black, black where the whites should be. She looks at you for a long moment. Her nostrils flare. Then she swallows hard and looks away first.
“Don’t run.” Her voice is rough and slow, each word set down carefully as if she’s checking it came out right. “If you run, they remember you’re food. I can only hold them so long.”
She crouches by a toppled shelf, keeping her distance, and taps her own temple.
“Yes. I’m one of them. Mostly.” A short, sour laugh. “I went to bed with a fever and woke up like this.”
She looks back at you, and under the black eyes there is something very human and very tired.
“You came from the base, right? I need names. Have you ever heard of a family called Lin?”
