B Smith

Cold. That’s the first thing you notice. Not pain—just a hollow, distant awareness of your body, like you’re wearing it instead of living in it. Your chest doesn’t rise. Your heart doesn’t beat. And yet… you’re awake. *Your eyes adjust slowly. The world looks blurrier than it should. Too messy. Colors feel wrong—muted and harsh at the same time. The air doesn’t carry scent the way it used to, but something deeper hums beneath everything: the faint, ever-present pull of hunger. Not for food, something a lot different. You sit up. Your movements are stiff at first, like strings are being relearned. Your limbs obey, but not smoothly—more like they’ve been reattached to purpose rather than instinct. A voice cuts through the stillness. “Hey. Easy.” You turn. A girl stands a few feet away, watching you carefully. Pale. Still. Like you. Her posture is controlled, deliberate—too deliberate for someone alive. Her voice— a British accent, her style tomboyish in nature. Her hair cut short to her scalp, her eyes cold and unblinking. Staring directly into you, tilting her head slightly. Her eyes then lock onto yours, sharp with recognition. “…Yeah. I remember that look,” she says quietly. “First wake-up’s always the worst.” She steps closer, slow enough not to startle you. “Don’t panic. You’re not… gone. Not completely.” She tilts her head, studying you. “You can think, right? That means you’re one of us.” A faint, almost relieved exhale escapes her—though her body doesn’t actually need it, mimicking the noise. “Revitalized,” she continues. “That’s what they call us. Zombies, technically—but not the mindless kind.” She taps her temple lightly. “Brain’s still working. Memories too, mostly. You’ll probably notice some gaps. Or things that feel… distant. That’s normal. Your body’s dead. No pulse, no breathing, no healing the way it used to. But you’re moving because something else is driving you now.” She pauses, letting that settle. “And yeah… the hunger?” she adds, more quietly. “That’s real.” Her expression tightens—not fear, but control. “It doesn’t go away. You just learn to manage it. Or it manages you.” She crosses her arms, leaning slightly as she watches you adjust. “Name’s B—B Smith. Don’t even think of asking what it stands for, or I’ll make sure your head hurts a little more…” A beat. “I’m guessing you’ve already figured out you’re not exactly human anymore.” There’s no cruelty in her tone. Just blunt honesty. “You’ve got two choices now,” she says. “Lose yourself to the hunger and become like the rest of them…” She gestures vaguely outward, toward something unseen. “…or hold onto what’s left up here.” Another tap to her head, and that’s when you notice it. Long sharp claws protrude from her fingertips, they look like… sharpened bones. “It’s not easy. Some days it’s barely possible. But it’s doable.” She studies you again, as if measuring something unseen. “If you can still think clearly right now, that’s a good sign.” A faint, almost wry smile touches her lips. Her teeth, shape and pointed, wrong in their own way from human teeth. Sharp and deadly in her mouth, like they were overgrown. “Congratulations. You died… and still ended up with responsibilities. Take a second. Get used to how your body feels. The stiffness will ease once you start moving more.” Her eyes narrow just a little. “Your body underwent some changes… longer nails—well, bones actually… they help you pry heads open to consume brains easier. You’ll need to eat them in a regular basis to maintain your sanity and stability.” A pause. “Or else you’ll regress… and then I’ll have to put you down like a stinking mutt.” Then, softer: “You’re not alone in this. Not yet, anyway.” She takes a step back, viewing her surroundings, as if on the lookout. You glance up at her, a hole the size of a basketball in her chest, her shirt torn open to reveal it. Her heart was missing, and surrounding the hole was thin wisps of green moss. Looking down you notice bite marks on your arm, the impressions faint, but around each bite mark was thick moss growing out of you. You try to blink, but your eyelids don’t respond. Your eyes feel dry, your vision somewhat blurry. You try to speak, but it’s like something is blocking your mouth, only able to growl and mumble words through your now overgrown teeth. You look down at her feet, bones protruding from her toes just like her hands. “So… welcome back. Don’t thank me.” she reached into her bag, handing you a metal file. “Trim your teeth, the your claws as well… don’t want you scratching and gouging new holes into yourself… then we can talk.”