His Mark, Her Curse

The lab coat fluttered in the cool evening breeze as Penelope stepped into the open air, her heart pounding. The last streaks of sunset painted the sky blood red, clashing with the lifeless gray of the city walls. She inhaled deeply, catching the sweet, surprising scent of blooming flowers clinging to life amidst decay.

The moment shattered with the echo of booted footsteps. Her stomach dropped — she knew that cadence. The undead king’s guards. She darted into the shadows, scanning for cover. A rusty fire escape loomed overhead. Gripping the cold metal, she climbed, the rungs biting into her palms. Below, the guards drew near, their grotesque moans thick with hunger.

She pressed against the fire escape platform, barely breathing. One guard paused directly beneath her, sniffing the air like a bloodhound. Penelope froze. The creature's dead eyes swept the alley before it lumbered away. She waited a beat longer, then began her descent. The metal groaned, but she moved like a phantom. Reaching the alley floor, she listened. Silence. She took off, every sense sharpened by fear. The king had marked her with his bite. That scar on her neck? A beacon. If his guards found her, she'd be dragged back — not rescued, but possessed. Another piece in his twisted court.

A distant bell tolled. Curfew. The undead would surge soon. Panic rising, she slipped into a narrower alley, praying it was less patrolled. The walls loomed closer here, the stench of rot and garbage clinging to her like a second skin. She was nearly through when— A hand clamped down on her shoulder.

She was spun around, face-to-face with a guard. His eyes glowed faintly, hunger radiating from him. Blood stained his teeth, his breath foul with death. She opened her mouth to scream but choked on the terror. His grip tightened. Over his shoulder, something gleamed under a flickering streetlamp — a knife.

Without thinking, she grabbed it, her hand wrapping around the cold hilt. The guard's eyes widened just before she plunged the blade into his skull. He dropped, lifeless. She stumbled back, panting, the knife still slick in her hand. No time to process. No time to break. She wiped sweat from her brow and ran.

The streets were darker now. More dangerous. The shuffling of the undead grew louder, closer. Penelope’s muscles screamed, but adrenaline shoved her forward. The king’s voice boomed across the city — a thunderous, inhuman call. Her blood turned to ice. He was close. She ran faster, heart thundering. With every echo of his voice, the undead stirred like hornets around a nest. They were being pulled toward him — and to her.

Then, from nowhere, an arm wrapped around her waist and yanked her into the shadows. A hand covered her mouth. She fought instinctively, fists flying, but the grip held firm. “Quiet,” a voice hissed in her ear. Human. Not undead. Her body sagged with shock. She turned and saw him: Marcus. One of the survivors from the lab. His expression was taut, eyes sharp with urgency. "You can't be out here," he whispered. "The king’s patrols are thick tonight." He led her through the back of a crumbling office building. The air inside was stale but safe. Cubicle walls and overturned desks formed makeshift barricades against windows. Dust tickled her nose, but she welcomed the break from the stench outside.

They moved quickly, flashlights flickering as they picked their way through debris. Marcus never let go of her arm — a tether in the dark. "How did you find me?" she asked, voice unsteady. “We saw you on the lab’s cameras — climbing that fire escape. We’ve been watching, trying to catch up before the guards did.” He didn’t look at her as he spoke, just kept moving. But his voice carried something steadying — certainty, maybe even concern. They reached a staircase. He raised a hand, signaling for silence as they climbed. Each step creaked ominously. The place was a ghost town — old office posters hung crookedly, light fixtures dangled, long since dead. “We keep our heads down,” Marcus said softly. “The king ignores us as long as we don’t threaten him. But you, with that bite…”

Penelope touched her neck reflexively. The mark still burned. She’d tried to forget it, to pretend it meant nothing. But now? It felt like a neon sign screaming her identity. “It’s like wearing a target,” he finished grimly. Her voice cracked. “So what do we do?” He paused at the top of the stairs and looked at her, his jaw tight. “We get you back to the shelter. You’re not safe out here. Not tonight.” He glanced toward the boarded-up windows, listening. “The horde’s too close.”

The question of how many survivors remained in the city tugged at Penelope’s mind as they crept through the darkened office space. It felt more like a mausoleum than a building, haunted by silence, by memories, by the threat that stalked just beyond the walls. The undead outnumbered the living now, and those who had managed to survive did so by staying invisible. Every day was a fight — not just for food or shelter, but for hope.

The shelter was more than a safe place. It was a symbol, a flicker of resistance in a world gone dark. Protecting it had become the priority for everyone left. Each survivor had their role — scavenger, lookout, medic, defender — and they leaned on each other, because going it alone meant death. The cameras they’d salvaged and reconnected were the city’s new lifeline, offering glimpses of danger and chances at salvation. Penelope had been one of those chances.

They moved quickly, the air stale and thick with mildew. Marcus’s path was confident, his instincts honed by months of survival. Before the fall, he had delivered packages across the city — now he delivered people from death. Every alley, shortcut, and escape route lived in his memory. He led her down a stairwell blocked off with scavenged metal and debris. But then came the sound — slow, dragging steps above them. Marcus halted, one hand raised. He pressed an ear to the wall. "They're here," he whispered. "Close. But not inside yet."

Penelope’s breath caught. Her legs twitched with the urge to run. “No,” Marcus said, gripping her arm. “If you go now, they'll follow.”

“But if they find the shelter…” His gaze hardened. “Then we make sure they don’t.” He opened a battered door. The rooftop waited — windswept and grim, the cries of the dead echoing on the breeze. “We fight here. We die here. But we don’t lead them home.”

Penelope nodded, her fear turning to resolve. She knew the stakes were high, and she wasn't about to let her newfound family down. She gripped the knife tighter in her hand, the cold metal a comforting weight. Marcus pulled out a makeshift bow, the string pulled and ready to use. They were outnumbered and outmatched, but they had one thing the undead didn't: the will to survive.

They stepped out onto the rooftop, the wind biting at their faces. The moon cast a pale light over the cityscape, illuminating the hordes of undead that had gathered below. They hadn't noticed the humans yet, their focus on the building they believed held their prey. The air was thick with the scent of decay and the tang of fear. Penelope took a deep breath, willing herself to be brave.