I've promised you a zombie story. And I make good of my promises, if I can remember to.

Beneath the fluorescent lights of a generic supermarket, in a corridor of canned foods, it seemed so surreal. So entirely impossible. But the air ran rife with screaming as people ran past (were there words in their screaming? coherence to their banshee cries?) , children wailing in their arms as carts clattered into clumsy, awkward, skeletal heaps onto the tile floors as bodies pushed roughly past them. And he, amongst it all, stood still. As inanimate as the produce that surrounded him, his eyes glazed and fascinated as he watched with out horror the thin stream of people and the mayhem they wrought. But it was the fresh corpse (hardly recognizable as that, if not for the large, seeping stain of feces and urine that trailed down a vile trail down her bare leg) that ambled awkwardly forth, just barely holding onto her recently lost motor functions.

Hands out in gnarled claws, revealing clothes upon a fit, youthful body torn and bloodied, the gaping wound upon her bare midriff, with the light mark of incisors around the jagged edges… this, enough, was eye catching. But it was the visage that struck him hard, drawing and keeping his eyes to it, like a car accident. That serpah's face, curtained by blood streaked platinum blonde, twisted into a mask so morose and desperate and yearning. So full of unmet want and need, as if she had wandered all the world without rest, searching relentlessly.

He had seen it somewhere before. Had seen it, in fact, too often before, shown so often upon the silver screen. But it was nothing like this, this wretch before him, who would not turn her face towards him. Those images were poor mimic of this miserable fiend.

… though who said she was one at all? It was merely a strike of fancy in his fluttering, stuttering mind, throwing out answers as it tried to right itself in this disaster while his body bided its time in paralysis. But, perhaps, that was the wisest move of all.

She ambled past the broad gateway of his aisle, towards the herd that had stampeded past him all driving after the exit, her glazed, half-seeing eyes only for their flailing, blood pumping limbs. Her nostrils flared as she scented it in their throbbing veins, unfallen and virgin and oh-so-sweet. And she pressed herself forward all the harder, hands clutching at the air as she beckoned them come to her in her serenade of uneven wheezes and moans, so riddled with her corrupt, feral desire.

… How long did he stand there like this, frozen in his own pocket of time as he watched her go?

Just long enough to hear the stirring just a few aisle beyond, from whence the beautiful, unrotted monstrosity had come, those throaty calls echoing pleadingly through the chill, empty room of the grocery. And he was on the move, as hollow eyed as they, his large hands clenching compulsively, moving silently for the moment before his feet began to pound hard against the tile as he picked up the run those before him had taken. A solo soon joined in an uneven, clattering rhythm as two, perhaps three, more steps joined his in melody. A song of desperation, a question unanswered.

Who wanted to live more?