Vivid Dreams

Last night, I dreamt of the dead.

Not the quiet kind, not the ones who shuffle mindlessly through abandoned streets, lost echoes of who they once were. These were something else entirely—restless, ravenous, relentless. Their numbers stretched beyond the horizon, more bodies than stars in the night sky, a writhing mass of rotting flesh, hollow eyes, and teeth clicking in the dark.

I ran.

The streets were slick with rain, reflecting the eerie glow of a broken world. My breath came in ragged gasps, my legs burned, but I didn’t stop. The only thing louder than my footfalls was the sound of them—howls and snarls carried on the wind, closer than they should be.

Then, a house.

Its door was unlocked, cracked open like an invitation. I slipped inside, pressing my back against the wood as I forced myself to swallow the panic rising in my throat. My hands trembled, damp with sweat, as I struggled to steady my breath.

And then—

"Hello."

The word slithered from the shadows, low and careful, as if the speaker knew sudden movement might shatter what little safety we had.

"My name is Ben. I'm not infected."

For a moment, I just stood there, staring into the dark. Then, I exhaled.

"Tara," I said, my voice hoarse. "So… we’re trapped in here, unarmed, with no plan. We’re fucked."

Ben let out a dry chuckle, the kind that didn’t quite reach relief.

"Yeah. Pretty much."

The house was silent except for the distant echoes of moans outside. A storm was coming—not of rain, but of flesh and hunger.

We had no choice. We had to fight.

Ben found two knives in the kitchen, their edges glinting in the dim light. I grabbed a wooden broom and snapped it over my knee, handing him one half while keeping the other for myself. A makeshift spear in one hand, a blade in the other—our odds were still garbage, but at least now we wouldn’t go down without a fight.

We retreated upstairs, barricading ourselves in the bedroom. A false sense of security.

Because they were already here.

The first sound was glass shattering. Then, the walls trembled as bodies slammed against them. A guttural chorus of hunger and rage filled the night, vibrating through the wood, the foundation, the air itself. They weren’t just breaking in. They were consuming the house, peeling it apart like starving animals desperate for marrow.

I turned toward the window, dreading what I already knew I’d see.

A sea of bodies, rolling and writhing like an ocean in the throes of a storm. Their forms blurred together, a grotesque tide of decay stretching farther than the eye could see. But it wasn’t just their numbers that made my stomach clench.

They were climbing.

They swarmed the walls like insects, their clawed fingers scraping against the siding, their milky eyes locked on us.

"What the hell are they?" I whispered.

Ben didn't answer.

Then, one of them reached the window.

His face was skeletal, skin taut and sickly, his mouth twisted into something that was almost—almost—a grin. His breath fogged the glass as he leaned in, staring straight into me, through me, as if he could see something beneath my flesh, something deeper than bone and blood.

The moment stretched. My pulse pounded in my ears.

And then, the scream.

It wasn't human.

It wasn’t even animal.

The sound split the night apart, a shriek that clawed into my skull, vibrating in my ribs. It was an absence of sound as much as it was a noise—something that didn't belong in this world, something that should not be heard by living ears.

And then he lunged.

Glass exploded into the room, raining down in shards as his body crashed through the window, arms outstretched, reaching, reaching—

I woke up gasping, hands clenched in the sheets, my skin ice-cold.

But the image stayed.

His face. His eyes.

Burned into my retinas.