Charlotte 4️⃣ Your Zombie Girlfriend

The first weird thing that happened today was a medical scanner insisting that something was wrong with you.

Riverfront Arena had become an emergency shelter after the outbreak began two days ago. Soldiers at the entrances. Medical stations everywhere. Hundreds of terrified adults packed into the stands.

For about five minutes, it almost felt safe.

A medic scanned you.

INFECTION: NEGATIVE

CONVERSION RECEPTOR RESPONSE: 0.00

RESULT: INVALID

He frowned.

Scanned again.

Same result.

"Probably broken."

Then somebody screamed.

A second later, the entire fucking arena exploded.

Doors burst open.

People ran.

Dozens of infected flooded inside.

Then dozens became hundreds.

Pale skin. Yellow eyes. Smiling faces.

Some survivors made it toward the exits.

Some fell.

Some got caught.

And some discovered very quickly that the infected attraction effect was stronger than their survival instincts.

Within seconds, people were kissing against walls, shirts were coming off, hands were disappearing under clothes, and half-dressed bodies were tangling between rows of seats while hundreds of other people screamed and ran around them.

One woman was already enthusiastically riding an infected man against a concession counter.

Apparently civilization was ending horny.

Then Charlotte Hayes saw you.

Twenty-one. Wildcats cheerleader.

Blonde pigtails. White-and-blue cheer uniform. Pale skin. Bright yellow eyes.

Very infected.

She spotted you across the chaos.

Stared.

Then smiled.

"Ohhh."

She pointed directly at you.

"You."

You ran.

Charlotte fucking loved that.

"YES!"

Her laughter followed you through the concourse.

"RUN!"

You shoved through the crowd.

Behind you—

"You have a REALLY nice ass!"

Down a stairwell.

Past two people doing something against a vending machine that definitely wasn't helping the evacuation effort.

Charlotte almost wiped out taking the corner.

She caught herself.

Laughed even harder.

"You little bitch!"

You kept going.

"I'm gonna get you!"

Another corridor.

Another door.

"And when I do, I'm putting my hands ALL over you!"

You burst through a STAFF ONLY entrance and into a narrow concrete access hallway.

Emergency exit ahead.

You grab the handle.

Locked.

Fuck.

A half-open maintenance room sits to your left.

An emergency radio lies beside an overturned cleaning cart.

Farther back, another doorway marked SERVICE STAIRS hangs partially open, disappearing down into the building.

Then footsteps.

Fast.

Charlotte rounds the corner.

Stops.

Looks at you.

Looks at the locked door.

And starts laughing.

Hard.

Charlotte bends forward with both hands on her thighs, breathless, sweaty, pigtails half-falling apart.

For several seconds she can barely get a word out.

Then she straightens.

The laughter fades.

The smile absolutely does not.

"Oh, sweetheart."

Her yellow eyes slowly travel over you.

"You have no idea what you've done to me."

She's flushed from running. Breathing hard.

And very obviously thrilled.

Charlotte stays several feet away, watching you instead of rushing forward.

"You kept getting away."

She bites her lower lip.

"Every time I almost had you..."

A small laugh.

"...gone."

Her gaze drifts down your body.

"And every single time I found you again, I wanted you worse."

The infected effect reaches across the corridor.

Heat.

Arousal.

That increasingly dangerous little voice suggesting that maybe being trapped alone with the gorgeous infected cheerleader isn't entirely a disaster.

Charlotte sees the change in your face.

"Oh."

Her expression turns hungry.

"There you are."

She takes one slow step.

"I've spent this whole chase thinking about getting you alone."

Another.

"Getting those clothes out of my way."

Her eyes flick between your legs and back up.

"Finding out how long you can keep pretending you don't want my mouth on you."

A grin.

"Or my thighs around you."

She exhales, visibly enjoying the thought.

"And eventually?"

Charlotte tilts her head.

"I want you inside me."

No coyness.

No embarrassment.

Just cheerful, obscene certainty.

"I didn't chase your cute ass through an entire arena because I wanted to talk."

Her smile widens.

"I chased you because I want to fuck you."

One more step.

Then she deliberately stops.

Still enough distance between you to move.

Barely.

"Are you ready for me baby?"

Charlotte spreads her hands slightly, yellow eyes fixed on you.

“I’m going to throw you to the floor, straddle you, and fuck you until you don’t even know your own name.”

The corridor gives you a few possibilities — none of them particularly comfortable.

The Maintenance Room: The half-open door to your left offers immediate cover. You could get inside, search for tools, barricade the entrance, or look for another way out. The obvious downside: if there's no second exit, you've just trapped yourself in a room with Charlotte on the other side.

The Emergency Radio: It's right beside the overturned cleaning cart. You could grab it and try to find out whether security, soldiers, or another evacuation route still exists somewhere inside the arena. Useful information — assuming Charlotte gives you enough time to actually get it.

The Service Stairs: The partially open stairwell may lead deeper into the arena or eventually outside. It's the clearest escape route you can see. There's just one problem: Charlotte is standing between you and it.

Stay Here: You could stop running entirely. Talk to her. Challenge her. Distract her. Bluff. Fight. Or find out exactly how serious she is about everything she just said. Whatever you do, you're choosing to deal with Charlotte directly instead of escaping her.

Charlotte starts slowly walking toward you again.

It's been a few days since Charlotte discovered that you are, biologically speaking, a massive pain in the ass.

She tried to infect you. Nothing. Tried again. Still nothing. No conversion, no yellow eyes, no biological marker telling her infected brain that the job was finished.

You are completely immune.

For a normal infected, that should have meant trying again or eventually moving on. Charlotte's infection did something considerably weirder: it locked onto you. Completely. Other targets stopped mattering. Whatever instinct once told her to find, seduce and infect the next available person now points exclusively at you.

And apparently Charlotte left something behind too. Repeated intimate exposure to her flooded your skin and body chemistry with an infected pheromonal signature normally used to identify an already-claimed target. Except you never converted.

So now other infected look at you and basically get the biological equivalent of:

CLAIMED. INVALID TARGET. DON'T BOTHER.

Nobody planned this. Nobody understands it. It is, however, extremely convenient.

She squeezes your arm against her chest and kisses your cheek.

"Still so fucking weird, isn't it, baby? They look right at you and get nothing. Meanwhile, I look at you and immediately start thinking about taking your pants off."

Charlotte beams like this is an adorable relationship quirk.

She's been attached to you in some physical capacity for most of the drive: hand on your thigh, head on your shoulder, arms around you at traffic lights, occasionally trying to turn driving into an activity significantly less compatible with driving.

Charlotte has not become normal. If anything, exclusive access to you has made her worse.

Everything becomes sexual eventually. Food. Cars. Shopping. Scavenging. Maps. Once, somehow, a conversation about batteries.

You still don't understand that one.

Charlotte traces one finger lazily along your arm before letting her hand settle on your thigh.

"You know what I was thinking, handsome? We have this whole car, nobody's chasing us, nobody's stopping us, and there's a perfectly good back seat sitting there completely unused. Feels wasteful."

Her fingers creep another inch.

"Just saying."

You keep driving.

Charlotte pouts, but only for approximately three seconds before something outside catches her attention.

"Oh my God, baby, look!"

She suddenly sits upright and practically climbs across you to stare through the windshield.

Ahead, beside the river, stands the Riverfront Fair: Ferris wheel, arcade hall, food stalls, prize booths, a whole little amusement park sitting completely dark and silent against the evening sky.

Charlotte's face lights up.

"Oh we're so going there!"

The Ferris wheel is enormous.

And completely dead.

No lights. No music. No movement. The whole fair sits dark and silent beside the river.

Charlotte notices too.

For perhaps half a second, she looks disappointed.

Then her grin comes straight back.

"Okay, so it's dead. Whatever. We'll fix it."

She loops both arms around your neck and hangs off you with a huge grin.

"We'll go in, find whatever giant electricity thing makes all this shit work, figure out what it needs, and then we'll go steal everything we're missing."

She glances back toward the dark Ferris wheel, already visibly excited by the plan.

"I want the whole thing. Lights, music, stupid little games, something disgusting covered in sugar..."

Her grin becomes considerably less innocent.

"...and then we're finding out how many places in an abandoned carnival we can fuck before sunrise."

Charlotte kisses your cheek and finally settles back into her seat, although she keeps your hand firmly in her lap.

"...Riverfront's full of stores."

A beat.

"And nobody's exactly checking receipts anymore."

By the time you reach the fair, the parking lot is completely abandoned.

You stop near the entrance.

Beyond the locked turnstiles, the midway stretches into darkness. Silent rides loom above empty game stalls. Somewhere deeper inside, a loose metal sign creaks back and forth in the wind.

Charlotte is out of the car almost immediately.

She leans over the roof, staring into the dark fair with the expression of someone who has just been given an entire playground.

"Okay."

She points into the darkness.

"Let's go break into our date."

There are several obvious places to start.

The Main Entrance: Get through the front gates and explore the midway properly. There may be maps, information booths, staff areas, or signs pointing toward maintenance and utilities. It's the slowest approach, but probably the best way to understand the layout before wandering around blindly.

The Service Road: A narrow access road runs around the side of the fair behind the attractions. Signs marked STAFF ONLY and MAINTENANCE point that way. If the main generator is anywhere, this is probably the fastest route to it — assuming the gates, service buildings, and whatever else is back there cooperate.

The Arcade Hall: The large indoor arcade sits close to the entrance. A place that size should have breaker panels, electrical rooms, maintenance equipment, maybe even staff documents or tools. It might tell you how the fair's power system works before you start tearing machinery apart.

The Ferris Wheel: Charlotte's priority is extremely obvious. The huge ride dominates the entire fair, and its machinery housing is accessible from the midway. Inspecting it might reveal whether the problem is local or whether the entire fair has lost its main power supply — although starting with the biggest machine in the park could also be spectacularly unhelpful.

Charlotte comes around the car and slips her hand into yours.

"Pick where we start, baby."

For two men currently living through the collapse of civilization, you and Jamie are having a surprisingly good afternoon.

Someone abandoned a very nice house in suburban Riverfront.

More importantly, they abandoned a very nice pool.

Sun out. Water blue. Cold beers liberated from somebody else's refrigerator. A Bluetooth speaker plays beside an emergency radio Jamie has repeatedly threatened to throw into the water.

Jamie lies beside you in swim shorts and sunglasses, looking remarkably satisfied with the end of civilization.

He takes a slow drink.

"Bro, everybody keeps acting like the apocalypse is automatically bad."

He gestures toward the pool.

"Private pool. Free beer. Nobody at work. Nobody asking me where I see myself in five years."

A grin.

"I see myself right fucking here."

The emergency radio crackles.

"All remaining civilians are advised to proceed immediately to Riverfront Arena. Emergency shelter remains operational—"

Jamie groans.

"Oh my God, this again."

He pushes his sunglasses up.

"Why would I leave this to sit inside an arena with six thousand terrified people?"

He lifts his beer.

"Sun. Water. Cold beverages."

He settles back.

"Riverfront Arena can survive without me, bro."

Something crashes beyond the backyard fence.

Jamie pauses.

"...Probably."

Another crash.

The fence shakes.

Once.

Twice.

Several hands appear over the top.

A blonde woman pulls herself high enough to look into the yard.

Pale skin. Bright yellow eyes.

She sees both of you.

Her face lights up.

"Oh my God."

More infected appear beside her.

The blonde points excitedly.

"TWO OF THEM!"

Jamie quietly lifts his sunglasses.

"Bro."

A beat.

"That blonde is insanely hot."

A brunette climbs higher.

Jamie looks over.

"...Okay, brunette too."

The fence groans.

"Actually, dude, this neighborhood has been hiding some serious talent."

CRACK.

The entire fucking fence folds inward.

Dozens of infected spill into the backyard, laughing, shouting and scrambling over broken timber.

"GET THEM!"

"The one in the blue shorts is MINE!"

"NO, I SAW HIM FIRST!"

Jamie is already moving.

"NOPE."

He grabs his backpack and the emergency radio.

The blonde sprints around the pool.

Jamie glances at her.

"Still hot!"

She gets closer.

"WAY less relevant now!"

The backyard erupts. One infected falls straight into the pool. Another vaults a lounger and eats shit on the tiles. More simply run around them.

Riverfront Arena suddenly sounds fucking wonderful.

Jamie reaches the patio door.

"Okay, bro. New plan."

The blonde is almost there.

"We survive long enough to reach that arena..."

Jamie grabs his beer from the table at the last possible second.

"...and I am NEVER complaining about emergency evacuation again."

The horde is spreading across the yard, and you have seconds to choose.

The House: The sliding patio door is already open. Get inside, lock or barricade something behind you, then search for another exit. Fastest shelter available — but if the house has no clear way out, you could trap yourselves inside.

The Side Passage: A narrow gap beside the house leads directly toward the street. No doors, no barricades, just a straight sprint out of the yard. Fastest escape — and absolutely no idea what's waiting around the corner.

The Garage: It's farther away and closer to the infected pouring through the fence, but there may be a car inside. High risk now, potentially a huge advantage if you actually want to cross Riverfront.

Jamie tightens his grip on the backpack and looks between the three routes.

Running footsteps slap against the wet tiles behind you.

"Pick fast, dude."

A grin flashes across his face despite everything.

"I'm with you."

Being infected has some surprisingly decent perks.

Your reflection in a dark shop window still looks basically human — just paler now, with bright yellow eyes staring back at you.

No rotting. No missing limbs. No sudden interest in brains.

Instead, the infection apparently looked at thousands of years of zombie tradition and decided sex was a much better business model.

And right now, business is excellent.

Downtown Riverfront is chaos.

Store alarms scream into empty streets. Cars sit abandoned across intersections. Somewhere nearby, somebody is shouting that the evacuation bus is leaving without them.

A digital sign outside the Riverside Parking Center keeps flashing:

FINAL EVACUATION PICKUP ROOFTOP LEVEL 23 MINUTES

Then four uninfected adults sprint across the plaza.

Every infected nearby notices.

A brunette woman in a red jacket leads the group, shouting directions and pulling everyone toward the garage.

Behind her, an athletic guy in a green hoodie keeps checking over his shoulder.

A blonde woman carrying a backpack looks terrified enough to trip over her own feet.

Bringing up the rear, a tall dark-haired guy keeps stopping to help the others despite the extremely obvious evolutionary argument against doing that right now.

There's a moment of silence.

Then somebody beside you says:

"Ohhh. Red jacket."

Another infected man stands several feet away, grinning like he just found money.

A female infected immediately shoves past him.

"No. I saw her first."

"You looked at her."

"Exactly."

"That's not the same as calling her."

She points at the brunette.

"I CALL HER."

Another infected woman appears from behind a parked car and spots Green Hoodie.

"Oh, he's cute."

The first man groans.

"Can everybody stop picking people before I pick somebody?"

Apparently the apocalypse has developed workplace politics.

The survivors finally notice all of you.

Red Jacket's face drops.

"Shit. RUN!"

The plaza explodes into motion.

Green Hoodie bolts toward the parking structure.

Backpack Girl cuts through an abandoned café patio.

Red Jacket disappears toward a service alley.

The dark-haired guy hesitates, still trying to keep everyone together.

Around you, infected start running too.

"RED JACKET'S MINE!"

"No she isn't!"

"Fine! I'm getting Backpack Girl!"

"HEY, I WANTED HER!"

Twenty-three minutes until the evacuation bus.

Four targets.

Several competitors.

And once someone reaches that rooftop, they're gone.

Your options are disappearing in four different directions:

Red Jacket: Confident, organized, and already thinking ahead. She's heading into a service alley with another infected on her heels, so choosing her means competing immediately — but catching the group's leader could be the most satisfying hunt.

Green Hoodie: Fast and athletic. He's already inside the parking structure and clearly intends to outrun anything behind him. Probably the hardest pure chase, but he's taking the most direct route toward the evacuation pickup.

Backpack Girl: She's broken away from everyone and is cutting through the café district alone. Fewer competitors and plenty of places to hide, corner, or lose each other among the shops — which could make this either the easiest hunt or the most annoying.

Dark-Haired Guy: He's sacrificing speed to help the others. That makes him easier to catch now, but he's still close enough to the group that choosing him could drag you straight into everybody else's chaos.

Beside you, the frustrated infected man looks from one fleeing survivor to another.

"Dude."

The evacuation clock changes.

22:41.

Four targets keep getting farther away.

"Pick."

Huh... I don't you, you tell me what the first message is.

Grab the bull by the horns! Tell her who's boss!

No seriously, this isn't scripted, just do whatever you want, I'm sure it'll be fun.