WHORERROR STORY DAY 1 || BANGCHAN

Chan’s heart was pounding, adrenaline coursing through his veins as he sat in waiting, the slow, sickening drag of rotting flesh against concrete right outside the store he was in. He felt like if they didn’t get to him first, the fear would kill him, the constant fight for his life and restless nights would certainly cause him to keel over sometime soon if he wasn’t eaten alive.

!

He heard a loud crash, the sound of shattered glass immediately accompanying it, a cacophony of noises that was only made worse by the groans of the hoard outside.

He had to run, whatever it was that caused that noise, was getting closer, every hair on his body standing on end and yet he sat still, unable to move. He strained his eyes, trying his best to see what it could be, only to see one of the living dead, a mangled corpse crawling towards him, it’s boney fingers grasping at the shelves, the ground, garbage on the ground; anything to try and get closer to him, and when he stood up to run, he saw that the corpse didn’t have legs, at least not functioning ones. They were distorted beyond recognition, shards of glass and bullet holes littering the rotting flesh, and yet instead of being able to finally rest peacefully, this body of what was once human was seeking him out; it's the only reason to keep going.

It made him sick, for a moment he contemplated putting the poor thing out of its misery, and yet without a loaded gun, he’d have to do it by hand, and he just couldn’t bring himself to. It looked much too human, flesh rotting off the bone and hair patchy atop its scalp, but with most of its clothes still intact.

“H-hung…ry…” It mumbled, voice strained and rough, and at that moment, Chan seriously considered offering himself up as sustenance. He saw the look of agony in their eyes, broken body continuing to move with the sole purpose to satiate themselves, to ease the obvious pain it was feeling.

He knew he wouldn’t be able to stand the pain of being eaten, let alone wandering as a half-conscious corpse until his body gave out and eventually decomposed, he knew he should kill it, at the very least run, and yet he couldn’t. They were suffering, and instead of ending it, he so badly wanted to console them, hold them and tell them it’d all be okay, even if it was all a lie. He knew they probably wouldn’t understand it, but he needed to try, right? Perhaps the isolation had driven him mad, he craved that connection he’d lost, he knew seeking it in a zombie was ridiculous, but in that moment, to his damaged psyche, it seemed reasonable.

Just as he was extending his hand for them, there was a loud disgusting splatter of brain matter across the dingy floor, the body convulsing for a moment before it went limp. He was about to scream, about to cry, but he couldn’t, not when there was a hand covering his mouth, a muffled plea for help escaping his lips only to be completely silent against their hand.

They stood before him, dishevelled but living, with a complexion that was one of the living, flesh intact spare for a few scrapes and wounds, though what was the most refreshing was seeing the light in their eyes, the consciousness, the will to live rather than to survive off of the flesh of others.

They finally lowered their hand, allowing him to speak as they got to work cleaning off the axe they’d used to split the skull of the once-human now corpse at his feet. His mind was racing with so many questions, why would they help him? Who were they? Were they alone? How did they even have the ability to snuff out the life of something that was once human? But none of those questions came out of his lips, just a shaky “thank you…”