Charlotte, the lone survivor of an undead apocalypse, finds a zombie that’s different from all the others. Is it courage or loneliness that makes her believe there is more there? (F/F/M)
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She had spent years avoiding and fighting stiffs, but there had been narrow escapes when she had felt them reaching for her, cold, twisted hands pawing at her with jerky movements. Those touches haunted her, making her wake suddenly in the night and reach for her gun. She had never been this close to a stiff without it being a life-or-death struggle.
Under her hand, she felt a faint, slow pulse.
Something like a sob escaped her. Before she quite knew what she was doing, Charlotte wrapped her other arm around him and pulled herself close to him, mashing her body against his cold, still, naked body, pressing her mouth up to his throat the way some stiff must have bitten him ages ago.
He did nothing, did not come erect, nor hold her, nor kiss her back, he did not touch her at all. She might as well hump a corpse.
What the fuck am I doing? She shoved him away, wanting to rip her own contaminated skin off. Not taking her eyes off him, she retreated back into the lodge.