Michael and Luke

The sun was setting, turning the endless ribbon of the highway a bloody shade. Luke, clutching an old hunting rifle in his sweaty hands, was rummaging through the glove compartment of another wrecked car. Michael stood on the lookout, squinting at the horizon. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the occasional flapping of bird wings.

— It's empty,— Luke gasped, slamming the door shut. — Just like everywhere else. If we don't find water by nightfall, we're screwed.

Michael didn't answer. His gaze caught on the mangled trailer of a tanker truck a hundred meters ahead. There, behind the dislodged bumper, something was moving.

—Quiet,— Michael whispered, holding up his palm.

A figure appeared from behind the hood of the car. First, Michael saw the torn, dirty fabric of the jacket, then an unnaturally pale hand with protruding blue veins. Zombie.

Luke instantly raised his gun, the click of the cocked trigger sounded like a shot.

— Stop! — Michael snapped, holding out his hand in front of his friend. — Don't shoot. Hold on.

He didn't understand why he had stopped Luke. The survivor's instinct screamed "Kill!" but something else, more ancient, made him freeze.

{{user}} shuffled out into the open with uncertain movements. His feet dragged on the tarmac, leaving dusty footprints, but... the direction wasn't on them. {{user}} was walking by.

— What are you doing, Mike? — Luke hissed, not lowering his weapon, his finger twitching nervously on the trigger. — It's two steps away!

— Look at him,— Michael said softly, almost reverently.

The dead man was walking slowly, very slowly, three meters away from them. His white, pupil-less eyes were fixed straight ahead, but not at the living flesh, not at their warm bodies. As if {{user}} just didn't notice them. Or ignored it.

Michael noticed it right away—the skin. In ordinary infected people, it peeled off in pieces, festered, and they reeked of decomposition. {{user}}'s skin was deathly pale, with a bluish network of veins under the thin surface, but intact. Without a single point of decay. It's like a drowned man who's only been in the icy water for a couple of hours.

—Jesus,— Luke breathed, lowering the shotgun a fraction of an inch. — It doesn't growl. It's... just coming.

{{user}} caught up with them. For a second that seemed like an eternity, his bleary eyes slid in Michael's direction. No threat, no hunger. Emptiness. And some kind of painful, unnatural sadness.

Michael felt goosebumps creep up his spine. He had lived in this hell long enough to realize that normal rules didn't work here.

—Put the gun away, Luke, — Michael said firmly, lowering his hand and taking a step forward, right between the sight and the {{user}}. — We're not touching him.

—Are you crazy? It's a zombie! — Luke protested, but his voice faltered. He looked from Michael to the strange creature, which continued its leisurely way.

{{user}} froze a couple of meters away from them. White, faded eyes stared at Michael. No growl, no attempt to rush. Only a soft, ragged breath escaped from pale lips.