The road is empty and the sole street lamp on the corner flickers; the power waning. It will eventually go out for good, just like all the other electrical equipment. I pull back the curtain and shudder out a breath as I lean against the wall. The house is silent, with only the tick-tock of the mantle clock filling the air. The urge to cry overwhelms me for the third, maybe fourth, time today. Tears fall, and sobs rack my body. This continues for several minutes, and afterward, I feel a sense of relief. As I rise from kneeling on the floor, a thump at the back door breaks the cathartic moment. 

I walk through the house to the boarded-up back door. It’s that time of day. Like clockwork, I scoop out a bowl of dog food every day. My dog, an older chihuahua, lies quietly in his bed in the living room. He knows this food isn’t for him since I feed him in the mornings. The kibble clangs as it hits the metal bowl. Another thud sounds, and I hurry towards the doggy door. I lift the flap carefully and set the bowl inside of the opening. There’s a stick I keep nearby and use it to push the bowl the rest of the way out. 

As the bowl breaches the ground outside, they let out a growl. 

“Sorry. Some stuff distracted me earlier.” I whisper through the doggy window. 

The creature lets out a huff at my weak excuse. I think he understands what I’m saying, but it’s most likely a coincidence when his reactions match my words. The shuffle of his feet against the ground is loud as he makes his way to the bowl. The stick props up the plastic flap of the doggy door and offers me a small window to my backyard. I can see his legs walk over to the food bowl if I lay flat on the tile floor. The pants from his knees have long been torn away, exposing the green flesh underneath. He must have turned when he was outside, as he’s still donning a pair of work boots, although how they stay on his feet is a mystery. What seems like years pass by until he reaches my daily offering. Finally, he  stoops at the waist and flops his arms forward to grab the bowl. He moves sloppily, as if he has no strength, but I know that’s not true. Just yesterday, he ripped the limbs off an intruding zombie who wanted to enter our backyard. No, he’s strong, but he doesn’t have any fine motor movements. 

All of them that turned act like him. Jerky steps and hanging arms. He’s lucky none of the others attack each other like he does them. I still don’t understand why he does it. The stray zombies that wander near the house sometimes never fight one another. Their prey are the live, unturned humans, and they show little interest in their own kind. My backyard guard dog is the glaring exception to the rule. One day, after the world turned to shit, he stumbled through the gate I had accidentally left open. I thought I would have to kill him, but instead of attempting to break into my house, he moped around my vegetable garden. When a second zombie tried to breach the yard, my guy pulverized him and threw his remains in the alley behind the house. 

This continued several more times, so I decided it was in my best interest to keep him. He has a routine where he’ll leave the yard at dawn and dusk, probably hunting for what he eats, and I venture out to water my vegetables. On one occasion, my chihuahua escaped outside through the doggy door before the zombie had left. I thought he was a goner. However, my zombie stood there as if he didn’t notice the small dog peeing near his leg. That sealed our strange symbiotic relationship. 

I’m startled out of reminiscing by the crunch of chewing. Peeking out the opening, I get a rare closeup of his face. His eyes are glazed over as if he’s blind, and his nose is crooked. It will never be known whether it was broken before or after he was turned. He’s handsome in a “monstrous” kind of way. That could also be my loneliness since I haven’t talked to another human, let alone a hot-blooded man in weeks. Regardless, I suppose he’s my “little” pet now. It’s nice having someone protect me, even if he can’t converse and has the potential to eat my face off.

He finishes the last few crumbs in the bowl and lifts his head toward me. I tentatively slip a hand out to collect the bowl. Each instance I do this, I wonder if it will be where he strikes. My fingers curl around the lip of the metal, dragging it back inside when he bends his head and laves my knuckles. His tongue is rough and warm. That surprises me, considering he’s dead. But I allow him to lick me a few more times before wrenching myself back. I cradle my arm close to my chest, the skin cooling as the wet saliva dries. My face flushes from the interaction, and I’m ashamed I allowed it. No matter how much I want companionship, I will not sink to that level of desperation. 

“Oh, what the hell.” 

I want to see how much he’s willing to lick.