#infected!reader

[residentblackheart]

If I Were A Zombie ⏾ Masterlist

Series Summary: Leon Kennedy, Agent of the DSO, was already in Rhodes Hill Care Center for his own Agenda following Victor Gideon because of his connection to the deaths of the Raccoon City Survivors. What he didn't expect was to find a familiar face of his younger years infected with the same thing all the other patients were, what will he do now?

Chapter 01 ⏾ If I Were A Zombie

Chapter 0.5 ⏾ I Could Be A Good Mother

Chapter 02 ⏾ Unnamed

[pleasuresofsohodolls]

⋆.ೃ - Infected!Reader

Infected!Reader who was literally bitten on the first day. Girl can not catch a break. She was trapped in the schools when they all got locked up for 'the time being' and got bitten while on the way to the gym hall. She freaked out and ran away from her friends, locking herself in the classroom. The bite was ugly so she didn't dare look at it, instead letting herself just sit in the room and contemplate life. What about her parents? Siblings? Friends? Teachers? She's had a few of those things try and get in the room but they always got distracted. It was on day seven that she ran out of water that she'd been stealing from the bags people had left in the classroom that she decided she should finally leave the room - she hasn't heard noise in a while so it should be fine, right? Second she opened a door a Geek appeared right in front of her, and all it did was walk past her.

Infected!Reader who just wanders around Virginia in the herds, sleeping in trees and bathing in the rivers or lakes. She's joined a few small camps but they never worked out - they were too dysfunctional. When someone found out about her bite the first thing she did was panic and stab the guy in the chest before running away - into another herd of walkers until she finds another place to rest.

Infected!Reader who's always wearing sleeves. Whether it be the hoodie she snagged after visiting her home once she made her way out of the school (how it still fits she doesn't know), or it be whatever long-sleeved shirts she can find.

Infected!Reader who is basically a living dead girl. After getting bitten on her right wrist and letting it heal over, it's turned into the ugliest, purple and black scar you could ever see. Her flesh is literally rotting there and the veins are dead - how she can still move and use her hand she doesn't know. Her body is tilted to the left so far that she has to physically hold herself up so someone doesn't walk past and try shooting her because they think she's a Geek. She's clumsy too, she falls over a minimum of ten times an hour.

Infected!Reader who found an abandoned neighbourhood - which she later discovered was an old army training base - and now lives there. She's the mayor and the community, and the Geeks are her friends visiting from neighbouring towns. (You go a bit loopy after constant isolation and the only things you're able to trust are literally dead).

Infected!Reader who met Aaron before she met Carl. She ran into him when he was scouting one day, trying to convince her to join Alexandria. She refused despite how insistent he was, and they actually spoke for a bit. Every now and then they meet up, he gives her some food that will go unnoticed from the pantry. And they're genuine friends, he sometimes even complains about the Alexandrians when he can spare it.

Infected!Reader who was entranced the second she saw Carl wandering around the abandoned neighbourhood she's coined as her own. He was just wandering around with a care in the world, but still somehow constantly on guard. Clearly he needs to get better if some girl managed to successfully stalk him for almost three months.

Infected!Reader who's first meeting with Carl was him chasing her down after catching her following him around the run down neighbourhood at gun point. The only reason he even ended up catching her was because she tripped over an invisible brick, or something like that. She was faced down leaning on her arms on the floor when he'd finally caught up, and when he made her turn over and drop her weapons, she almost squealed like some fangirl. She's only slightly obsessed.

Infected!Reader who's honestly a bit loopy. She talks to herself, talks to the Geeks, is so socially awkward that instead of just approaching someone she decides to stalk them. The first words she ever uttered to Carl was "Erm, my bad?" After he asked her why she was following him - at least he doesn't know she's been stalking him (yet).

Infected!Reader who when her and Carl started becoming friends, would refuse to step anywhere close to Alexandria. She doesn't do communities and she doesn't trust people except for Carl and Aaron. It's easier to be alone or with one other person than to be in a community of over fifty where one wrong movement could disclose such a ghastly secret. In the end it takes a year for him to finally convince her to even step fifty feet in front of Alexandria (just a few months after the end of the Saviours war).

˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ 𐙚 ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖

Technically this couldn't happen but it's okay 💜. Some of this (most of this) is actually inspired by a bot on JanitorAI by Allyluvsu, and the whole Aaron knowing her is inspired by carlsangel "Ghost in the Woods", go read it its really good !!

[grrneettebrainrot]

Title: You Make Me Feel Human (Even When I’m Not) Chapter 2: Little Gifts from Nowhere

Genre: Post-apocalyptic psychological horror / Yandere romance Word Count: ~2,400 Tone: Tense, eerie, tender and obsessive Perspective: Second-person (gender-neutral survivor reader)

You’ve been seeing them.

Not clearly. Not directly.

But it’s there. That prickling between your shoulders. The faint scent of dried flowers in places where no flowers should be. Strange offerings—notes, shiny things, half-rotted Polaroids with the faces scratched out, a scarf you swore you lost two cities ago now neatly folded on top of your ration pack.

You’re being followed.

Stalked.

Watched.

But the strangest part?

You don’t feel afraid.

Not exactly.

Not yet.

 

You find the first note three days after the arcade.

Tucked into the hollowed skull of a long-dead runner, its paper edges curled like petals, ink smeared with care. You hesitate before touching it, unsure why your fingers tremble. You haven’t seen handwriting like this in months. Too slow. Too human.

The message is short:

I saw you limping. Left you something in the back stairwell. It’s not much, but it’s soft. You always loved soft things. —Yours

You turn the note over, half-expecting a signature. There’s none. But taped to the back is a bit of fabric—plush. Purple. Familiar.

Your old hoodie’s sleeve?

You blink and look around, half expecting someone to laugh and pop out of the shadows with a camera.

Nothing.

Just wind and ruin.

Just the echo of your own name whispered through brick and dust.

 

That night, you don’t sleep well.

You dream of the safehouse tunnel. The one that collapsed. You dream of dragging someone out of the pile, coughing, shaking, their face smeared with ash and blood, and you remember the way they clung to you like your hands were the last light in the world.

But you can’t remember their face.

Only that they didn’t scream when the scanners went red.

Only that you let them go.

You wake up sweating, hand on your crowbar, heart pounding so hard it drowns out the moaning of the horde outside the barricade.

You think you hear someone crying.

But when you sit up, it’s gone.

 

Day four, there’s another note—left near your fire pit this time.

Folded into a tiny triangle. Stuck between the teeth of a dismembered mannequin.

You pry it loose.

I saw what they did to the last camp. You made it out. I’m proud of you. But your leg’s getting worse. I’ll fix it. You can rest when I find you. I’ll carry you.

There’s a flower pressed between the folds—Hollow Pine bloom again, radiant and unnatural, edges glowing like veins in moonlight.

Your mouth goes dry.

You pocket it anyway.

 

You start changing your route.

Backtracking. Making false trails.

But they follow.

You leave a can of tuna as a test—placed on a pile of bricks near the collapsed freeway. Hours later, it’s still there, unopened… but now it’s sitting on a folded square of newspaper, like it’s been served to you.

Next to it is a scarf. Yours again.

Someone’s laundering your clothes.

 

You tell yourself it’s a rogue survivor. Maybe one of the Runners messing with you.

But you’ve seen Runners.

They don’t leave notes.

They don’t press flowers.

They don’t fold blankets over your pack while you sleep and tuck a piece of chocolate in your pocket like they remember what brand you used to like.

 

It’s getting personal.

It’s always been personal.

 

The sixth night, you find a message scrawled on the window of an overturned bus, written in some kind of slick, sticky ink that glistens faintly under UV.

You shine your flashlight on it.

YOUR HANDS SHOOK WHEN YOU HELD ME. I STILL FEEL IT. DID YOU MEAN IT?

You stumble back, breath catching.

How could they know that?

You press your palm to the glass. It leaves a smear.

You sit in the bus and wait.

But no one comes.

 

When you finally speak to them, it’s accidental.

You’re rounding the corner of a broken hallway, sidearm drawn, when a voice—clear and low—croons from above:

“You dropped something, sweetheart.”

It’s calm. Polite. Warm in a way that shouldn’t exist in this world anymore.

You spin and spot a figure perched on the remains of a collapsed floor above—tall, stylish in a weird, DIY way. Their face is obscured by a broken lens-mask. Their skin is sickly but smooth, veins black and glowing faintly along their throat and wrists. They toss you something.

Your lighter.

The one you lost near the canal three weeks ago.

Your blood goes cold.

They tilt their head.

“You used to flick it open five times before lighting it. I always liked that.”

Your grip on the pistol tightens.

“Who are you?”

They pause.

Their voice cracks a little when they answer, like it hurts.

“You don’t remember me.”

There’s silence.

Then a hollow, trembly laugh. A buried sob.

“That’s okay. I remember enough for both of us.”

And before you can ask anything else—they’re gone. Slipped between concrete and night like a ghost.

 

You don’t see them again for two more days.

But the gifts return.

A scarf. A new set of boots. Bandages. A handmade trinket in the shape of a crow.

And a final note:

When you love someone this much, it doesn’t rot. Not even here. Not even me.

 

You don’t sleep after that.

You wait.

Crowbar by your side.

And maybe… maybe you’re not entirely afraid anymore.

Just curious.

And something else you won’t name.

Not yet.

part 1 and part 3 4 5 6 7

[pleasuresofsohodolls]

HEAVY AS LEATHER ִֶ ࣪˖

Basically Infected!Reader's Introduction !! I've been working on the character of the reader more and lowk actually like it now 🤞🏻

Warning(s) : Reader is 12 in this one since its the origin, I am very English I will get things about the American Education System wrong, Violence, Blood, Gore, Body Horror (?), Injuries, Person Called Jake, Mentions of Parents Fighting, Mild Language, Shitty Writing, Unedited But Will Be !

Uneasy, sick, any word under the umbrella was how you were feeling right now - and how you had felt the whole school day.

You were in history right now - a subject you actually quite enjoyed despite the shitty old teacher that taught it. She was genuinely such an old cow with her frizzy perm and too-big glasses.

Either way, you had just felt overall off today since you woke up.

You'd woken up earlier than usual - five in the morning despite not even having to leave the house until quarter past seven. You tried restlessly to fall asleep, and it wasn't until you dad's work alarm for six started buzzing that you gave up.

So you got up earlier than usual, and the only bonus to this was that you could use your mums super special face cream that she always hid from you (under the sink is not as good as a hiding place she thinks it is).

You said goodbye to your dad once you'd finished in the bathroom, giving him an awkward side hug due to the unresolved fight that had happen between your parents last night - one about you and your younger brother.

It was over some stupid shit, your mum complaining he spent too much time at work or with 'The Boys', and he was shouting back that he was allowed his own life away from his family.

Your brother was asleep during all of it, but you could barely sleep, only making the waking up so early aspect of your morning worse.

They did love each other and only got into the odd fight, but things were always so weird between the whole family for whatever reason for a day or two afterwards. But by day three, it was like a switch was flipped, and everything went back to normal. Odd.

By six thirty you had mad yourself some toast and butter, as well as some cereal for your brother since your mum would be waking the cute little six year old up soon, and sat on the sofa, flipping through the shitty morning TV shows until you just decided on the ever-lasting rerun of friends to wake yourself up with.

It's not like you hated your life or anything like that - if you weren't feeling so sick and tired you'd probably in less of a hater mood - but it's like you just knew something was wrong today, that something would happen.

By the time the bus had made it to your apartment complex, your brother was singing along to the Spongebob Squarepants theme tune and your mum was kissing your forehead goodbye, giving you a small grin before you began stepping down the cold stairwell.

You arrived at school at seven thirty on the dot, and everyone was talking. Literally everyone.

The second you walked in people were huddled around their phones, blocking half the lockers and chatting with wide eyes - and the other half were either doing their homework or grabbing a quick breakfast from the canteen - some soggy lucky charms no doubt.

That was when you heard something from one of the older kids : "Yeah, it's like some cannibal disease or something."

People were so gullible. As if anything like that could exist.

Yeah, totally.

First period has started at seven forty five and your class did independent work on reading 'The Outsiders' and planning on a whim of an essay. And instead of doing any of the work most people handing notes between themselves, and your friend passed you one reading : 'Seen the news ?'

The teacher just told you all to get on with it as she scrolled on her computer the whole lesson, squinting her glasses covered face at the screen as she mouthed the words from whatever it was she was reading - you managed to read the words 'Georgia' from her lips.

Second period was Maths, the worse, most made up thing in the world. But by this lesson you'd only felt more sick than this morning, as if your body was just waiting for something to happen.

The teacher was going over fractions, revisiting how to times and divide them, and most students just slept, something you were very tempted to join in on.

Just as you were a second away from the beautiful land of sleep - a noise came from the hallway. A crash, a bang, and then a yell, all one after the other. That most certainly woke people up.

The teacher paused, turning his head in the direction of the door as he pursed his lips, as if debating whether to go check it out, but overall ended up just carrying on with the lesson.

Third period wasn't too bad, you weren't necessarily the best at science but you were doing stuff on different cells and immune systems, how they work together to fight infections and bacteria, fairly interesting stuff.

It was a group project (you got to choose them, thank The Lord), but everyone seemed a little tense as you worked on the project. You and you friends were all going on about the finale of Season Five of Supernatural, and how sad you all were that it was the last ever episode of the show.

Then, you heard someone whisper to their friend : "Dude, did you hear? Some kid in another school attacked their French teacher. Bit her on the neck."

The teacher just slapped them along the head and told them to stop spreading rumours.

And now you're hear, in History, your weird sickness hadn't gotten worse since maths, which was probably a good thing, and you were learning about the Civil War. All exciting stuff.

But you couldn't focus for the life of you. Everyone was shuffling around on their desks, not so sneakily checking their phones under the table and muttering stuff over the teacher.

And the weirdest thing was, the cranky bitch didn't seem to care for once in her horrible old life, she just carried on yapping about Abraham Lincoln and how he helped in the war.

Your friend had just leant over to tell you something when a sudden loud bang could be heard echoing through the halls, followed by another scream - the second time today that had happened.

Mrs Hannigan quickly rushed to the door, slamming it shut with as much force her frail body could and pulled down the shutters, even going as far as to turn the light off.

"Stay quiet and just listen to me, no shuffling."

"What a weirdo," Your friend finally muttered something to you, causing you to smile at her words.

"So dramatic," You muttered back, immediately noticing the way Mrs Hannigan was glaring at the two of you.

By the time lunch rolled around the sick feeling in your stomach had dissipated, instead switched with an insane amount of hunger as you and three of your friends rushed to the queue for the meal of the day - chicken nuggets and mash potatoes, arguably the most delicious simple meal in the world, especially since the school makes sure there are no lumps in the mash at all, it's heaven.

"Jake won't stop going on about this video he saw of this guy going absolutely feral at these police officers, it's so annoying," Mary moaned as she got her tray loaded up by the smiley (most certainly deaf) dinner lady.

"Don't even, my dad was going on about it the whole drive here," Abby whined back grabbing a bottle of water from one of the shelves.

"Is that the thing people have been going on about today? People randomly attacking others?" You asked when your chicken nuggets got plated and the three of you could finally find the other people of your friend group in the cafeteria.

"Yeah! The trend started in like - China or somethin', I dunno," Abbey shrugged as she took a seat next to one of your other friends - Jane - and you and Mary sat opposite them, Mary next to Jake and you next to Leah.

"Sounds like some made up stories to me," Leah mumbled as she bit into her sandwich - she was ever the joyous one.

"I dunno, if I had the strength I'd probably batter some police officers too, sounds fun," You grin as you take a bite of your nugget, noticing Jake staring at you.

"Have you even seen the full video?" He asked, immediately reaching into his pockets to grab his phone and unlock it.

"Well fucking done," Mary groaned, stuffing a spoonful of mash into her mouth with her head in her other hand, as if she was trying to block her brain from Jake's existence.

Jake started to make a come hither motion with his hand as he looked down at the screen in front of him, attempting to set up the video, "C'mere," He told you, turning his head to you as you stood up and walked over to where he was, leaning over his shoulder to see his phone.

It was some birds-eye-view video of this guy quite literally going feral at these police officers, scratching and running and being over all crazy.

"Is he from the looney bin-"

"Shush," Jake replied, making sure your eyes stayed pierced to the screen. And that's when it happened - the police officers began shooting like mad and nothing happened to the guy, he continued thrashing and going mental until one of the police officers shot him in the head.

You laughed slightly and Mary joined in, looking at Jake in disbelief as the others watched you curiously.

"That's the video you've been yapping about all day?" Mary asked with a teasing grin, looking at him as if he'd just told the funniest joke ever.

"You're so gullible," You laughed, tumbling back over to your seat when Jake tripped you up, "Bitch."

Leah turned her attention to something behind her while Jane started talking, "What was the-" She began before getting cut off by a cry.

You all quickly turned your head to see Marie - a girl in your grade passed out on the floor with a cut in her forehead from where she had banged it on the table, and her food scattered all around her.

"Holy shit!" Jake exclaimed as the teachers began surrounding her, all of their expressions growing grim as they looked at something that seemed to be on her exposed leg.

Lunch was shortened, annoyingly enough. But the plus side was that you got home from school earlier, so you'd remember to bless Marie for that during Sunday Mass.

The girls' locker room was filled with the usual chaos you'd expect - shouting, laughing, the sound of metal locker doors slamming shut, music coming from who knows where, and perfume being sprayed without a care in the world of the average asthma bearer.

You were just tying your sneakers when Mary began complaining about how the uniforms absolutely stink, which was fair enough - all they did was get sweaty twice a week.

You kept to yourself as Jane made some joke about smelling like a boy - while Abby added on that maybe hanging out with Jake too much had her turning into one, which made you smile a bit.

By the time everyone had made it onto the field the atmosphere was just overall weird - but your sick feeling stayed away for whatever reason. Must've just had a bad dream you don't remember or something last night.

The teacher seemed tense, as if they didn't know what to even say to their regular class of twelve year olds, while you just listened to the others gossiping about the odd rumour as you sat in a circle with your friends, waiting for the class to actually begin.

You heard something about a fight happening in the hallway with some older kids, another thing about a science teacher being ushered to the nurse's office after a student had 'lost it', and something else about Marie having to go hospital - that was the only one you really believed.

You were about to contribute to the conversation about whether Sam or Dean was the hotter brother before you saw someone collapse by the bleachers - again?

"The fuck," You muttered to no one in particular as you watched a teacher jog over.

"Isn't that girl like- homeless? She probably hasn't had water in a week," Abby said, trying to make sense of another person fainting in the span of what wasn't even an hour.

"Don't think that's how it works," Leah replied with one of her patronising grins, causing the rest of you to laugh while you just stared at the scene at the bleachers, the other kids being made to walk back onto the field while the teacher checked on them, and that's when the girl lunged.

You hit Leah and Jane's arms since they were the ones next to you and pointed to the teacher, a gasp leaving your lips at the sight of the Gym Coaches arm.

"She bit her!" You heard someone shout as the blood trailed down the poor woman's arm, and the girl continued trying to attack her.

You heard the other teacher shouting at everyone, but every word went through one ear and out the other - the only reason you even stood up and ran back to the school building was because Leah had the heart to drag you by the arm and practically pull you like a ragdoll. Ever the sweetheart.

By the time one p.m. had rolled around the intercom was blaring, telling students to stay in their classrooms and for those who were currently in the halls to just find any room to hide in until 'everything was sorted out'.

You still had no idea what the fuck was happening - the halls were crowded by panicking kids, shouting and screaming and shoving.

"Shit, shit, shit," You heard Leah mutter to herself as she tried to navigate the two of you through the crowd, preferably towards your French class where the others should be.

It was then that someone tugged on your hair, dragging you back and out of Leah's grasp towards the ground - only to step over you. What a fucking bitch.

"Leah!" You shouted as you began standing up, but then you felt a pressure in your right wrist.

It was a crushing force that stunned you, the grip of this thing was strong and secure, surely enough to break a bone. Then you felt your skin split - tear. It's not a clean cut, and the pain is ragged and burning, your nerves screaming at you as your literal flesh is ripped away.

You let out a blood-curdling scream and begin hitting the thing with your left hand, bashing down over and over until you brain caught up with your eyes and realised it was a person doing this to you - someone that must've been just a year older than you with a jaw that's got the strength of an elephant.

By the time you manage to get the fucker off of you you're sobbing in pain, gripping onto your wrist as you scramble yourself up in the slowly emptying halls.

You begin running. You don't know where, you don't know why but your body just tells you to keep running until your safe, alone.

It's when you run past one of the English classrooms that you stop, because thank the fucking Lord it's empty.

You practically slam the door behind you as you turn the lock and shut the blinds, slamming the light off and sliding down the door with a cry as the adrenaline starts running thin and the pain in your right wrist is back full fire.

The pain is hot and searing, with a deep, raw sensation as if something is festering within the ever-so hideous wound. Like genuinely, it's hideous and bloody. The skin around the bite is inflamed and tender to the touch, and you can actually see your veins turning...purple.

You bite your lip as you attempt to roll your wrist, only to be met with sharp, electric jolts of pain shooting through your forearm, causing you to let out a yelp and to curl in on yourself.

Blood is pouring out fast. It's thick and dark, dripping down your arm and onto your other hand, all the way onto your legs and shorts. It's thick and runny too.

It's pulsing as if it has a heartbeat, as if it's stealing the life from your lungs. You're only capable of sitting there in shock as your body starts shaking, struggling to process what the fuck is going on, and that nausea from early is back in full spring, only ten times worse than it was this morning.

The last bell never rung.

The halls were now deafly quiet aside from the small groan here and there.

You just held your arm, waiting to turn into one of those, waiting to just die from blood loss or something.

But it never came.

And then you passed out.

Not from infection, nor because you were about to die.

But because you were still tired from waking up so early.

[grrneettebrainrot]

Survivors x Zombie Yandere you

Title: “You Make Me Feel Human (Even When I’m Not)”

Genre: Post-apocalyptic psychological horror / Yandere romance Word Count: ~2,200 Tone: Unsettling, obsessive, poetic, tender and terrifying Perspective: Second-person (Gender-neutral reader) Theme: Love, infection, identity crisis, obsession

 You Make Me Feel Human (Even When I’m Not)

You find them again in the ruins of the old arcade.

Their heartbeat gave them away before their boots did—sharp, nervous thumps fluttering like moths in your ears. You hear them even now, beyond the brick wall, pacing near the broken vending machines. Fidgeting. Maybe reloading. Maybe chewing their nails again like they always do when they’re scared.

You adore that about them. Their little flaws. Their fragile routines. The way they cling to patterns—like patterns will protect them from chaos.

You press your rotted hand to the wall. You can almost feel their warmth through it.

It makes your skull ache.

Your body trembles once, violently. The thing inside you stirs. It doesn’t speak—it never needs to. It just pushes.

Pushes when you're close to meat.

Pushes when you bleed.

Pushes now, when you think of them.

But you resist. You always do. You’re not like the others.

Not mindless.

Not hungry.

Not anymore.

 

You still remember your name.

You still remember theirs.

You remember how they saved you once—dragged you out of the pile of twitching corpses after the tunnel collapse, bleeding, screaming, holding a rusted crowbar like it was a torch. They didn’t know you were one of “them” then. You hadn’t cracked open yet. Not fully.

You could still pass. You could still lie.

They held your hand all the way to the quarantine line.

They didn’t let go even when the scanners screamed red.

 

They didn’t kill you.

 

No one ever loved you before that moment.

 

And now they’re here again—alone. Just like before.

Maybe they’re searching for meds.

Maybe for you.

You like to think it’s the latter. You like to think they miss your voice. That deep down, they knew.

That when you left them... it hurt.

 

You slide into the shadow of the prize counter, crawling like smoke over broken tile. The light from the cracked neon sign glints off the brass buttons you sewed onto your jacket—the same one they gave you, back when your skin didn’t glow with black veins. You made it work. You’re stylish, still.

Ripped sleeves.

Rust-dyed scarves.

A mask of cracked sunglasses and a shattered makeup mirror strapped to your jaw. You made it yourself.

They used to call it “zombie-chic.” You called it armor.

They laughed.

 

You loved that sound.

 

You hear them curse now. Low. Sharp. Metal-on-metal as they pry open a register. A cough.

The sound of them breathing is... too much.

You lick your lips—dry, cracked, peeling—and press a hand to your chest.

“No,” you whisper to the other you, the monster curled beneath your ribcage. “They’re not food.”

It snarls in return.

Not in words, just instinct. An itch behind your eyes. A pulse in your fingers.

You tighten your gloves.

 

You peek around the corner.

There they are.

Same hair. Same profile. Same soft curve of jaw and wild look in their eyes like they don’t quite believe they’ve survived this long. Their shoulders sag like they’re always expecting a bullet.

You want to run to them. Wrap your arms around their trembling spine and tell them you never stopped thinking about them. Never stopped watching.

That the others didn’t deserve their attention. That you kept them safe. Cleared paths for them. Took care of threats. Followed them across cities just to be near.

They wouldn’t understand.

Not yet.

 

Your claws twitch.

You sigh and retreat back into the dark.

They’re not ready.

But you are.

You always are.

 

You wait until they’re done looting. They leave out the front, bootsteps echoing off waterlogged carpet and shattered glass. You follow, just far enough to see the backs of their heels vanish into the sunset-glow of the ruined street.

You trail them like a shadow—always have.

Tonight, though… you’ll leave a message.

You return to the prize wall. Scraps of faded tickets cling to rusted shelves. You tear a few pages from an old arcade ledger and use the edge of a broken claw to scratch out a note.

The letters are messy. Shaky.

But legible.

They’ll recognize your handwriting.

 

It reads:

YOU DROPPED THIS. YOUR SMILE. I’LL BRING IT BACK TONIGHT.

 

You sign it with your old name.

You tuck a dried flower into the page. One of those weird glowing ones from the Hollow Pines. They glow like veins. You thought it was romantic.

You know they’ll find it.

You hope they blush.

 

Because that’s the thing about you now. You're not just rot and rage and teeth.

You're still you.

Just... enhanced.

Better.

And you’ll protect them.

From the feral things. From the world. From the other you that claws its way up your throat when you get too close. The one that screams for warm flesh and won’t stop until it tastes them.

No. Not yet.

Not until they say “I love you” back.

Then?

Then they’re yours.

Forever.

Part 2 3 4 5 6 7

[grrneettebrainrot]

Genre: Post-apocalyptic horror / identity thriller Word Count: ~2,000 Tone: Introspective, eerie, tragic, darkly poetic Perspective: Second-person, gender-neutral reader Title: “Skin Between Storms”

You feel the breath before you hear the voice.

It claws up from the hollow of your chest—raspy, hungry, feral—and whispers through your teeth like a snarl:

Run.

But there’s nothing chasing you. Not this time.

The rain spatters down in bursts, spitting through the crumbling holes in the subway ceiling. You’re curled against the wall like a thrown-out mannequin, limbs long and crooked, tucked under a blanket of mossy jackets and salvaged vinyl. The concrete under your back is cracked and pitted. Beneath your skull, you can feel the heartbeat of the city—slow, rotting, mechanical.

You blink against the dark. The hunger’s there again. Quiet now. Waiting. Coiled behind your ribs like a second self.

You haven’t fed in days.

But you're still... you.

For now.

Your name used to mean something. You whisper it sometimes, just to test the taste. It still fits your mouth. You’ve kept it scrawled in sharpie across your arm, faded beneath grime and scar tissue. You rewrite it when it fades. It’s a kind of anchor. A promise.

The Sentients are rare. You’ve met two others. One laughed so hard they choked on their own tongue. The other didn’t speak at all, but painted something luminous on a cave wall in crushed berry pulp and bile—an image of a creature with two faces, one weeping and the other grinning wide and red.

You think that was a warning.

Your reflection in a shattered train window agrees. There’s a light in your eyes that doesn’t belong to the dead. But the skin under them is bruised black-green, and your jaw trembles when the scent of human sweat rolls down the tunnels.

You know what you are.

A host.

A halfway.

A living contradiction stitched together with fever, instinct, and something sharp enough to tear you apart from the inside.

You move when the rain stops.

The surface is dangerous in the daylight, but you need supplies—clothes, canned food, anything to bribe the part of you that thinks it's a beast. You dress with intention: a long, patchy coat, frayed gloves with the fingers cut, layered scarves that cover the worst of the sores on your neck. One half of your face is chewed raw, but the other still carries traces of who you were: high cheekbones, dark lashes, defiance.

You call it zombie-chic.

You keep a cracked mirror in your satchel, not for vanity—never vanity—but for reminders. Perspective. Balance.

When the hunger starts to whisper louder, you hold it up and ask, “Which one of us is driving today?”

Sometimes it answers.

Today, it doesn’t.

The wind’s wrong. You hear screaming three blocks away. Not the kind born of violence—but celebration. Somewhere out there, Survivors think they’ve won a skirmish. Firecrackers maybe. You hate how your heart jumps.

Your other self doesn’t.

It’s awake now. Purring like static behind your ears.

Your boots crunch glass. You make it to the pharmacy ruins by twilight. Half the place has collapsed, but the backroom’s intact. You find gauze, iodine, a half-frozen can of peaches. A cracked pair of sunglasses—useless but cool. You put them on.

You almost feel human.

Then: a noise.

Breath.

Not yours.

You freeze mid-step.

They saw you.

Three Survivors. Late teens maybe. One's got a shotgun. Another, a radio.

The third—freckled, too small for their jacket—makes eye contact.

They don’t run.

Neither do you.

You should.

But something in you stirs. Not the monster. Not the hunger.

Recognition.

You knew someone like them. Before.

You smile—just a little. A mistake.

The shotgun cocks.

You raise your hands. “I’m not like the others,” you say.

But your voice cracks halfway through, dipped in that gravel-edged undertone. The one that doesn’t belong to you.

They flinch.

The freckled one whispers: “Carrier?”

Worse.

You open your mouth to answer—but your nose twitches.

Blood.

Someone’s wounded.

The scent hits your spine like lightning. The world narrows to heat. To taste. To need.

It takes everything to say, “Run.”

And then you lose.

Your fingers twitch. Your muscles lock. Your jaw stretches wide, wider. Something inside you giggles.

It takes over.

You hear yourself scream. Or maybe roar. You lunge, not at the kids—but at the wall beside them. Just enough to scatter them. Just enough to satisfy the thing inside.

The tiles crack. The radio drops.

The kids bolt.

When you wake, your hands are coated in dust. Not blood.

The wall’s cracked, but no one’s dead.

You fell asleep standing up again.

Or rather—the other one stood while you slept.

You clutch your head and laugh.

There’s no relief in it.

You know this balance won’t last forever. The G-Strain is evolving you. Healing your cells. Sharpening your instincts. Giving you creativity and madness in equal measure.

You were never bitten.

You were built.

By war. By chance. By a lab accident no one will admit to.

You walk back to your hollow, scarf flapping like a battle flag.

In the dark, you whisper, “Thank you for not killing them.”

The part of you that isn't you... doesn’t answer.

But it purrs.

You smile.

Together, you survive.

Together, you’re something new.

Together, you are becoming.

[grrneettebrainrot]

Title: What You Become Genre: Post-Apocalyptic Horror / Body Horror Word Count: ~1800 Tone: Gritty, visceral, reflective POV: Second Person (Gender-Neutral Reader) Infected!Reader

What You Become

You never meant to get bitten.

You were careful. Always.

In this world, the careless don’t last more than a week—especially not in the Red Zones. You had a plan: mask up, patch in, grab the crate of antivirals from the pharmacy’s second-floor stash room, and ghost out before nightfall.

Easy.

But then came the noise.

A crash behind you—metal on glass, a shelving unit toppling in the dark.

You spun too late.

It was already on you.

You saw its eyes first—milky, filmed over, but aware. Then the stench: bile, blood, rot, and the chemical tang of the Vitality Virus leeching from its skin.

Its mouth snapped forward.

You felt the bite on your arm. Just above the elbow. A blinding burst of pressure and heat as its teeth sank into your jacket, through to flesh.

Your scream caught in your throat. You drove your knife into its temple without thinking.

It dropped, twitching.

You stumbled backward into broken glass, clutching your bleeding arm, breath coming fast and shallow.

You’d been bitten.

The realization struck harder than the pain.

Your mouth moved, shaping silent denials.

No, no, no.

You wrapped it fast. Tight. Tried to keep your hand from shaking. Infection needs time. You remembered that from the old posters. From broadcasts. From survivor gossip. You still had time. Maybe.

You found cover in a dead storefront, collapsing behind a wall of overturned mannequins.

The city around you pulsed with heat. Your skin itched. Rain sizzled against metal and concrete. The stormwater picked up glow from the cracked neon signs that still flickered in the skeletal skyline.

You didn’t dare cry. Crying wasted water.

But you wanted to.

You were alone.

And you were infected.

You fumbled in your pack. Found the last injector of anti-V. U-Strain only. Maybe. The dosage wasn’t even calibrated for someone your size. Didn’t matter. You jabbed it into your thigh and squeezed the plunger.

The cold flood hit you like ice in the marrow.

At first, you thought it worked.

Your vision cleared. The pain dulled. You could breathe again.

Then came the hunger.

It hit like a freight train.

Your stomach convulsed. Mouth flooded with bitter saliva. You curled forward and vomited—thick, black bile that clung to your fingers when you tried to wipe your mouth.

It smelled like rot. Like decay. Like everything wrong with this world condensed into a single, sticky mass.

You coughed until your ribs ached.

Something behind your eyes began to burn.

Your muscles spasmed—hips jerking, spine arching like a live wire. You gasped, and it came out as a rasp, animal and desperate.

Your nails cracked. Lengthened.

Your fingertips split, leaking threads of pus and something... stringy. Vein-like.

You reached for your mask, but your hands wouldn't cooperate. They twitched and clawed at your own face.

You screamed into your elbow.

The scream wasn’t fully yours.

Your reflection stared back from a shard of broken glass.

Bloodshot eyes. Gray skin. Teeth that had grown too sharp, too fast. Your pupils shimmered—green ringed in crimson, unfocused.

Inside, your thoughts flickered like a damaged screen.

Eat.

Breathe.

Run.

Hunt.

You tried to say your name. Remind yourself who you were. It came out as a groan, wet and strangled.

Memories slipped sideways—your brother’s voice, the sound of an old record spinning in a safehouse, the feeling of sand beneath your boots.

All melting.

You blinked—and suddenly, you were standing.

You didn’t remember getting up.

Your legs carried you through the alley like they knew the path. Your body hunched slightly, movements low and tense, like a predator. You didn’t walk anymore. You stalked.

Every sound was louder.

You could hear a heartbeat. Not yours.

Human. Frightened.

You could taste their scent on the wind.

Fresh.

Your tongue slid past your teeth—longer now, prehensile. It lashed the air, gathering data like a serpent’s.

Behind your forehead, what remained of you screamed: STOP.

But your body moved forward.

Claws flexed at your sides.

Your mouth parted.

Hunger drowned everything else.

 

You remember it later, in flashes—climbing a wall in one leap, crouched on a rooftop, the city stretching like a maze below you. Every alley a hunting ground.

You moved with inhuman grace.

Fast. Agile. Fluid.

You were a shadow. A ghost.

And when you saw them—two survivors picking through a gas station’s remains—you froze.

One of them looked like they could’ve been your friend, once.

The other held a shotgun.

They didn’t see you.

But you saw everything: their breath in the cold air, their pulse in their necks, the warm glow of blood beneath their skin.

You felt yourself rear back. Ready to strike.

But then—

You hesitated.

Not because of mercy. Not really.

Because you remembered.

A flash of who you were. The sound of laughter. A voice calling your name.

It was enough to stop your body for a second.

And that second was all they needed.

The one with the gun turned.

You bolted.

Your mind screamed for control. You leapt fences, tore through plastic sheeting, ran until the hunger blurred into pain and confusion.

You ended up alone again. In the dark.

You curled into yourself and waited.

The sobs that came weren’t yours.

But they came from your throat.

 

The infection doesn’t kill everyone the same way.

Some people just go feral.

Some mutate—get claws, bile sacs, venom tongues.

Some, like you, stay aware. Trapped inside.

You are a Carrier now. Maybe worse.

You still think. You still feel.

But you are no longer “you.”

And when the hunger takes over, nothing can stop it.

You don’t know how long you’ll last before there’s nothing human left.

But for now, you write this message on the wall of an old bunker.

In charcoal. In blood.

What you become… isn’t the worst part.

It’s remembering what you used to be.