The wind swept through the desolate street, carrying with it a faint, eerie chill. A lone figure shuffled aimlessly along the cracked pavement—its movements jerky, its skin pallid and worn. This was no human. The figure's half-lidded eyes glowed a faint crimson under the dim evening light, their unsettling gaze fixed on nothing in particular. A crooked grin stretched across its face, a thin line of saliva trailing down from the corner of its mouth, gleaming like a twisted sign of life.

This zombie was one of many, a byproduct of the new virus that had ravaged the world half a month ago. It was a tragedy that turned humanity into mindless, predatory creatures. Now, this lifeless figure, with its soulless red eyes, wandered the streets with no purpose other than to kill or be killed.

Ahead of it stood an abandoned supermarket. The structure had seen better days; its once bright signage was barely readable beneath layers of grime and dried blood. The glass doors were spattered with a rusty brown coating—the clear evidence of a violent struggle that had taken place there. Through the partially open door, the interior of the supermarket was visible—shelves tipped at awkward angles, broken bottles littering the floor, and food scattered about in haphazard piles.

Just inside the doorway, another figure moved slowly—a middle-aged male zombie, draped in the tattered remains of what had once been a supermarket uniform. His gait was sluggish, and his head hung limply to the side as though weighed down by some invisible force. He had been one of the staff here once, a long time ago before the world went to hell.

The first zombie continued its march toward the supermarket, unfazed by the destruction surrounding it. As it passed the middle-aged zombie, something shifted. The walking corpse reached into its ragged clothing and, with an abrupt motion, pulled out a large, bone-cutting knife. The gleam of the blade caught the dying light as the zombie swiftly turned, raising the knife high. Without hesitation, it brought the weapon down with a sickening force, slicing through the neck of the middle-aged zombie.

Blood, thick and dark, sprayed across the shattered glass door and onto the ground. The decapitated body collapsed in a heap, twitching for a moment before falling still. The strange, knife-wielding zombie paused only briefly to observe its handiwork before stepping over the fallen body. With movements that seemed strangely coordinated for an undead creature, it retrieved a plastic shopping bag from behind the counter and began hurriedly gathering what remained of the food inside the supermarket.

---

Inside a dimly lit apartment on the outskirts of the city, Ronan wiped the sweat from his brow as he collapsed onto an old wooden chair. A large backpack lay at his feet, filled with food, bottled water, and various necessities he had managed to scavenge. His heart was still racing from the exertion of the day, but for the first time in a while, a faint smile crossed his lips.

In the corner of the room sat a figure—the same zombie that had just raided the supermarket. It sat motionless, its red eyes staring blankly ahead, no longer the predatory force it had been just moments ago. Instead, it seemed hollow and unthreatening. The mindless malice it had displayed before was gone.

Ronan sighed, looking at the zombie. "It's getting easier," he muttered, more to himself than the corpse. "I can finally control it without all the struggle. It's about time."

It had been two weeks since the world turned upside down. A new virus had swept through the global population in the blink of an eye, transforming countless people into these living nightmares. Cities once bustling with life had become wastelands of horror, where only the dead roamed freely. The survivors, those few fortunate or skilled enough not to be infected, were forced to live like rats—hiding, scavenging, and barely clinging to existence.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

Ronan had been an ordinary person before all of this, just like everyone else. But something had changed in him when the virus hit. He discovered, almost by accident, that he could control the zombies. It wasn't perfect at first; he hadn't known what he was doing. But there was a connection, a strange, invisible thread that linked his thoughts to the mindless husks around him. At first, it had been difficult—whenever he tried to manipulate a zombie, they would often break free, leaving him dangerously exposed to their attacks. More than once, his life had been on the line.

But over time, Ronan's skill had improved. He figured out how to stabilize that mental link, how to assert his control over the zombies more forcefully and for longer periods. Now, he could send them on missions to gather supplies, just as he had done with the zombie currently sitting in his apartment. He had even given his controlled zombies a name: corpse puppets.

There was only one limitation. The corpse puppets could not stray too far from Ronan, which frustrated him. It was as if the strings that bound them to him were too short, making it difficult to explore more distant areas for food and supplies. He wasn't yet as proficient as he wanted to be.

Still, his ability gave him a massive advantage in this new world, and for that, Ronan was grateful. The alternative—hiding and cowering in constant fear—was far worse.

Yet, there was something unsettling about the whole process. Whenever Ronan took control of a zombie, he felt a flicker of something dark and violent stirring within him, as if some of the corpse's bloodlust seeped into his own mind. It was subtle, but unmistakable. Whether this influence was dangerous, Ronan couldn't yet tell. But he didn't have the luxury of worrying about it now.

He stood up, glancing at the clock on the wall. "It's getting late. We should head back."

The apartment he used was just a temporary stop, a place where he could safely control his puppet without being detected. It was far from secure, though, and he knew better than to stay too long in one place.

Ronan grabbed his backpack and motioned to the zombie. As he watched it rise mechanically to its feet, there was always a moment of discomfort—seeing something so inherently dangerous obey him like a trained animal. The zombie looked like a boy, no older than seventeen or eighteen, but whatever humanity had once been there was long gone. Its skin was ashen, stretched taut over its bones, and its mouth hung slightly open, revealing teeth stained with the remnants of its last meal.

Suppressing his nausea, Ronan led the way downstairs, the zombie following close behind. He kept a tight grip on the boning knife he always carried, just in case. Even though the corpse puppet cleared the way, there was always a risk. Ronan had learned early on that safety was never guaranteed, not in this world.

Once outside, Ronan quickly scanned the area. His temporary hideout was across the street, but the route was risky. Earlier that morning, he had set off firecrackers to lure the zombies away, but a few still lingered. His eyes narrowed when he saw two zombies near the intersection, both splattered with fresh blood. One of them gnawed on the remnants of a human arm, its teeth tearing chunks of flesh from the severed limb.

It wasn't an unusual sight—death was everywhere in the provincial capital, a city once home to tens of millions. But it still stirred something in Ronan. A grim reminder of how easily he could join the dead if he wasn't careful.

Taking a deep breath, Ronan commanded the corpse puppet to approach the two zombies. When it was close enough, he signaled it to attack. As the puppet swung its bone-cutting knife at the first zombie, Ronan moved swiftly behind the other, driving his knife into the back of its skull. The two zombies fell almost simultaneously, their bodies twitching for a brief moment before going still.

Ronan stared at the scene, his chest rising and falling with exertion. A strange sensation coursed through him—a fleeting sense of satisfaction. Killing zombies had once terrified him. Now, there was something almost… pleasurable about it. He shook the thought away.

"The virus won't spread through the mental connection," Ronan muttered to himself. "If it did, I would have turned by now."

But what was it, then? That strange, creeping feeling of darkness?

Shaking his head, Ronan pushed the thought aside. There were more pressing concerns. He had to survive.

And in the back of his mind, always lingering like a distant dream, was a memory. His combat skills had improved, he was perfecting his control over the zombies and gathering supplies as fast as he could, all to make it through this nightmare and find her.