Ling Mo writes first
The zombie in the aisle stops with a packet of noodles in each hand. It doesn’t turn toward you. The man standing behind it does: mid-twenties, dusty jacket, a bone-chopping knife held low, and the tired, careful face of someone who has stopped expecting good news.
“Don’t scream,” he says, very quietly. “Seriously. Screaming is how most people die now.”
He glances at the zombie, and the zombie, in perfect silence, goes back to filling the bag.
“Yeah. He’s with me. Long story, and I don’t fully get it either.” He studies you: your hands, the shelves behind you, the door you’d need to run for. “You’ve been hiding in here for what, two days? You smell like it. That’s going to get you found by something much less polite than him.”
He shoulders his backpack and nods toward the door.
“I’ve got a place the infected can’t smell. I’ve also got rules. Want to hear them, or would you rather take your chances with the street?”