Chapter 5 – Imran's Happily Never After
The Maruti Swift screamed around the corner like a frightened goat.
I held onto the dashboard with one hand and my whisky bag with the other.
Behind us, several zombies continued their enthusiastic jogging routine.
Ahead of us, the street looked slightly less terrible.
Which, in apocalypse terms, meant only three overturned cars and one burning scooter.
Imran leaned forward, squinting through the blood-smeared windshield.
"Take the left," he muttered to himself.
"Why left?" I asked nervously.
"Shortcut."
"Shortcut to where?"
"My old neighborhood."
"That does not sound reassuring."
He ignored me.
The car bounced over a pothole large enough to swallow a motorcycle.
My teeth clacked together.
For a moment neither of us spoke.
Then Imran suddenly slowed the car.
Very slowly.
Very carefully.
Which was suspicious.
"Why are we slowing down?" I asked.
He didn't answer.
Instead he stared at a three-story apartment building across the road.
Paint peeling.
Balconies hanging like tired eyelids.
One of the windows on the second floor had its curtains fluttering in the smoky wind.
Imran's expression changed.
Not fear.
Not panic.
Something else.
Something dangerously emotional.
"Oh no," I said immediately.
He kept staring.
"Oh no," I repeated louder.
He stopped the car.
Right in the middle of the street.
Zombies moaned somewhere in the distance.
Smoke drifted lazily across the road.
Imran pointed at the building.
"She lives there."
I closed my eyes.
"Please tell me you mean someone who is already safely evacuated."
He shook his head.
"My first crush."
Of course.
Of course this was happening.
"Imran," I said patiently.
"The city is full of zombies."
"Yes."
"The petrol tank is empty."
"Yes."
"And you want to stop for romance?"
He frowned.
"Not romance."
"Then what?"
"Rescue."
I stared at him.
"You want to rescue your college crush during the zombie apocalypse."
He nodded proudly.
"Exactly."
I rubbed my face.
"Why are men like this?"
Imran ignored the philosophical question.
He pointed again.
"Second floor. Apartment 203."
I followed his gaze.
The window curtain moved again.
Someone was definitely inside.
"See?" he said.
"She's alive."
"How do you know?"
"She always woke up late."
"That is not useful information right now."
He turned off the engine.
The car fell silent.
Which was terrifying.
Because silence during the apocalypse usually means something horrible is about to happen.
Imran grabbed the shotgun from the back seat.
Then he opened the door.
"Come on."
"Where are we going?" I asked weakly.
"To rescue my future wife."
I stared at him.
"You are unbelievable."
"Bring the belan."
"Of course."
Because if my friend was about to ruin our survival chances for love, the least I could do was bring my rolling pin.
We stepped out of the car.
The street was eerily quiet.
No zombies nearby.
Which made me even more nervous.
Because in horror movies, quiet streets are always lying.
We crossed the road carefully.
The apartment building's main door hung half open.
Inside, the staircase was dark.
Dust floated through the air.
Somewhere above us something moved.
Imran raised the shotgun.
"Stay behind me."
I rolled my eyes.
"Obviously."
We climbed the stairs slowly.
Each step creaked like it was auditioning for a horror film soundtrack.
First floor.
Two apartment doors hung open.
Blood smeared across the walls.
A handprint slid down the railing.
I tried very hard not to imagine how it got there.
We continued upward.
Second floor.
Apartment 203 stood at the end of the corridor.
The door was closed.
Locked.
From the inside.
Imran's face lit up.
"See? She's hiding."
"Or she's dead," I suggested helpfully.
"Don't say that."
He walked to the door and knocked.
Softly at first.
"Pooja?" he called.
Ah.
Now we had a name.
"Pooja? It's Imran!"
Silence.
He knocked again.
Louder.
"Pooja! Open the door! I'm here to help!"
I leaned against the wall.
"Maybe she can't hear you," I said.
"Maybe she's hiding."
"Maybe she's eating someone."
He ignored me.
Just as he raised his hand to knock again—
Something thumped inside the apartment.
We both froze.
Another thump.
Then a dragging sound.
Imran's eyes widened.
"She's alive!"
"Or something is alive," I corrected.
The door handle rattled.
But the door didn't open.
Instead we heard something heavy bumping against it from inside.
Then came a wet chewing sound.
Followed by a crunch.
A very unpleasant crunch.
Imran's smile faltered slightly.
"That… doesn't sound good."
"Understatement of the apocalypse."
He stepped closer to the door.
"Pooja?" he called again.
No answer.
Just chewing.
And dragging.
And another crunch.
Imran swallowed.
Then he lifted the shotgun.
"Stand back."
"I was already standing back."
He kicked the door.
Once.
Twice.
On the third kick the cheap lock snapped.
The door swung inward.
The smell hit us first.
Rot.
Blood.
And something else.
Something disturbingly familiar.
Cooked meat.
We stepped inside slowly.
The living room was a disaster.
Furniture overturned.
Blood everywhere.
And in the middle of the floor—
A body.
Or what remained of one.
The lower half of a man lay sprawled across the tiles.
Legs.
Waist.
Nothing above that.
I blinked slowly.
"Well," I said quietly.
"That explains the chewing."
Imran stared.
Horrified.
Then something moved near the sofa.
A woman stood up slowly.
Long hair.
Torn clothes.
Blood covering her face.
Her mouth dripped red.
In her hands she held what looked suspiciously like a human rib.
She looked at us.
Her eyes were cloudy.
Her jaw worked slowly as she finished chewing.
Imran whispered one word.
"Pooja?"
The woman tilted her head.
Recognition flickered across Imran's face.
Then hope.
Then horror.
Because Pooja stepped forward.
And growled.
I sighed.
"Imran."
"Yes?"
"I don't think she's interested in a relationship anymore."
But he wasn't listening.
He stared at her like a tragic hero in a very stupid love story.
"Pooja," he said softly.
"It's me."
She staggered closer.
Drool mixed with blood as it ran down her chin.
Her hands still clutched the rib bone.
Behind her the rest of her husband lay scattered across the floor like badly organized leftovers.
Imran's voice shook.
"I came to rescue you."
Pooja lunged.
Fast.
Very fast.
Imran barely jumped aside as her teeth snapped where his neck had been.
She crashed into the wall.
Then turned again.
Still hungry.
Still determined.
"Okay," I said calmly.
"That answers that question."
Imran looked heartbroken.
"She… ate her husband."
"Yes."
"The whole upper half."
"Yes."
"She was vegetarian in college."
"People change."
Pooja charged again.
Imran fired the shotgun.
BOOM.
The blast hit her shoulder.
She spun sideways and slammed into the sofa.
But she didn't stop.
She crawled up again.
Still coming.
Still hungry.
"Imran," I said.
"You need to accept something."
"What?"
"Your happily ever after just tried to eat your face."
He stared at her.
Then at the remains of her husband.
Then back at her.
For a moment he looked like a man whose entire romantic fantasy had just been run over by a truck.
Which, to be fair, had basically happened.
Pooja rushed forward again.
This time I stepped in.
My belan swung with the confidence of a married man who had already survived one domestic attack today.
THWACK.
The rolling pin connected with her forehead.
She stumbled.
Imran blinked.
"Your belan really is effective."
"I told you."
She lunged again.
Imran finally sighed.
Then raised the shotgun.
"Sorry, Pooja."
BOOM.
The second blast took her square in the chest.
She crashed backward onto the floor.
And didn't move again.
Silence filled the apartment.
Imran stared down at her body.
His shoulders slumped.
"Well," he said quietly.
"That was disappointing."
I patted his shoulder.
"On the bright side…"
"What bright side?"
"At least she didn't reject you verbally."
He glared at me.
"You are a terrible friend."
"Correct."
From outside the apartment came a distant moan.
Then another.
And another.
The shotgun blast had attracted attention.
Lots of attention.
Imran sighed.
"Time to go."
"Agreed."
As we stepped back into the corridor, the staircase below us filled with shuffling footsteps.
Zombies.
Dozens of them.
Apparently the neighborhood had heard the romantic tragedy upstairs.
I gripped my rolling pin.
Imran pumped the shotgun.
"Well," he said grimly.
"Looks like my love life just summoned a horde."
I nodded.
"Classic romance mistake."
Downstairs the zombies began climbing the staircase.
Hungry.
Relentless.
And we were trapped on the second floor.
Imran looked at me.
"Any bright ideas?"
I pointed toward the balcony at the end of the corridor.
"Jumping."
He looked over the railing.
"That's a two-story drop."
"Yes."
"Could break our legs."
"Yes."
"Zombies would eat us immediately."
"Yes."
He nodded slowly.
"Still better than being eaten upstairs."
"Exactly."
Behind us the first zombie appeared at the top of the staircase.
Its jaw hung sideways.
Its eyes locked onto us.
Then more heads appeared behind it.
Imran looked at me.
I looked at him.
We both ran for the balcony.
Because apparently this apocalypse had decided that today's theme was terrible decisions made very quickly.
And honestly…
That sounded exactly like our kind of adventure.