Alex White had once been part of the "+3 club." A reply of "3" on a post meant earning 3 experience points. This was back before he was bitten by that accursed zombie in this cursed world. He never imagined that the number 3 could look so enchanting; he couldn't believe that this divine and intricate number had been penned by him.
"I'm truly remarkable," Alex White thought.
The other person also saw the number 3. Her expression shifted, clearly awed by the beauty and craftsmanship of the number, unable to believe that such a rhythmic and elegant figure could be written by a human.
But Alex White was overthinking it.
Her surprise was simply due to the fact that, after all this time, he still retained consciousness and could communicate.
She took out a notebook and began jotting down notes with focused intensity, like a specialist documenting a patient's condition.
Three days.
Such a duration was astounding.
Typically, someone infected with the virus would transform within half an hour, losing all sense of self and becoming a roving predator.
She flipped through a battered old notebook and verified this again. No one had ever survived beyond thirty minutes, and now here was a "fresh" zombie.
A fresh zombie.
And a stable one at that.
One who could even sing.
She looked at Alex White in astonishment, studying him intently as if trying to unravel some mystery about him.
Alex White sat cross-legged like an aged zombie in deep meditation. He found the term "fresh zombie" to be somewhat jarring, as if he were about to be deep-fried.
If anything, "fresh" should be used to describe "a fresh human" from a zombie's perspective.
But zombies can't talk, so no judgments are made.
Alex White sought signs of his recovery. At the very least, after enduring a harrowing night, he had regained some strength, able to sit cross-legged instead of collapsing against the wall.
He felt that some of his organs had regained their basic functions, such as his stomach. For the past few days, he had only craved meat, and the gruel he attempted to eat always made him feel like vomiting. Now, however, it seemed as though he had reached some sort of truce with the gruel—though this was just his impression for now, and there was no way to confirm it.
She smells absolutely divine.
Alex White found himself irresistibly drawn to her, his heart suddenly racing, and saliva trickling from his mouth without his realizing. Despite the nausea, he tried to divert his focus elsewhere.
So, the braces were still essential. Alex White checked his mouth to ensure they were securely in place.
Having someone to communicate with was a rare blessing; he didn't want to end up with two zombies interacting with each other.
The decay on his arm was still progressing. Alex White glanced at the suspicious spots around the wound. Could these be... necrotic patches? His heart sank further. Despite feeling a semblance of improvement, his physical condition was still dire.
He stared at his arm for a moment, then shifted his gaze towards her. He pointed to the wound, drew a circle with his finger, mimed scattering something, and then clasped his hands together in gratitude.
Alex White worried about their communication, but she understood quickly. She turned and went back into the room, emerging with some chewed herbs which she threw to him.
Initially, he had hoped for some anti-inflammatory medicine or, at the very least, some antiseptic or red ointment. Instead, the solution was strikingly primitive. Hesitating for a moment, Alex White applied the chewed herbs to his arm. This was likely her method for treating wounds, though he wasn't sure if it would be effective for a zombie. He had no choice but to try, hoping that even a dead horse could serve as a live one.
In such an environment, even a minor injury or illness could be fatal. Medicine was extremely precious; even if it existed, it was likely reserved for life-threatening situations and not dispensed lightly.
The herbal poultice offered no cooling relief or burning sensation—the wound had long since lost feeling. Alex White pinched the edges of the wound and painfully realized he could barely feel anything.
His movements were slow and deliberate. She observed him closely, pulling out a notebook and pen to record his condition.
After recording, seeing Alex White close his eyes and resume his meditative sitting, she placed the pen back in the notebook and walked away.
A zombie with stable emotions.
She glanced back, appraising him in her mind, and went to the eaves to brush her teeth and wash up. Her toothbrush was nearly worn out, but she hesitated to discard it. In a world without dentists, maintaining dental hygiene was crucial.
After washing up, she dried her face and chin with a towel. Stealing a glance back, she saw Alex White had picked up the pen again. The paper and pen she had given him were still in his possession. He seemed intent on writing something, but after a long period of contemplation and several attempts, he gave up.
For a zombie, managing to write a '3' was already quite an accomplishment.
Alex White struggled with the task as well. His head felt heavy, and he couldn't fathom why recognizing characters had become so laborious. Was there truly no hope left?
Sitting cross-legged, he made low, persistent sounds, trying to regain his speech. He felt that he should be articulating clearly, yet he sometimes realized he was merely making guttural noises.
"Ah, oh, oh."
Alex White experimented with various pronunciations and then tried to recite "a-b-c-d."
He continued this effort until dusk. The woman had been occupied all day—sorting grains, washing clothes, and hammering away at something. Finally, she cooked a large bowl of gruel and pushed it over with a stick.
Alex White wanted to reassure her that he wouldn't bite, but as she approached, his saliva uncontrollably dripped, and his eyes started to redden.
It was best to be cautious with the braces.
He finished the gruel in one breath, suppressing the urge to vomit, and turned his head to hide the saliva.
Today's gruel was different; it contained something peculiar. He frowned and spat out a piece of something. On closer inspection, it was a type of wild root mixed into the gruel. He surmised that she might be trying to supplement him with vitamins.
He looked up and saw her sitting on the steps, holding a bowl in one hand and a large piece of wild root in the other, biting into it like a sweet potato. It appeared his guess was correct.
Zombies could indeed benefit from some vitamins. Perhaps it would aid in their recovery?
While Alex White pondered this, he observed the necrotic spots around his arm wound. After finishing her meal and washing the bowl, she grabbed her gun and went outside.
Every evening at this hour, she takes her old rifle and heads out for a walk, perhaps as a post-meal ritual, because Alex White has never seen her return with any game.
This is the moment when he finds the most peace, untroubled by the faint, elusive scent that usually stimulates him. He sits there as if dead, motionless, until the person comes back with the rifle. Then he starts to suppress his faint urges and the drool.
A diligent human.
The diligent human waved at him and then went inside. Alex White paused for a moment—was that a goodnight? "Goodnight." The chains rattled as Alex White waved back. But what he heard was a low, rasping sound.
The night sky was unusually bright, something he hadn't noticed in days. Perhaps he has indeed become a zombie, Alex White thought with a profound sadness in this strange world.