C8 The Nuclear Zombie

These simple explanations were enough for Frank to take them as unbreakable truths, deeply etched in his mind. The more profound lessons, however, would only be grasped as he aged, slowly coming to understand them over time.

Of course, this was all part of Horace's ongoing education. "When you grow up, do you want to be a good person or a bad person?"

Frank's face was stern as he replied, "I want to be a bad person."

"Why would you want to be a bad person?"

"Because bad people live longer."

"If someone asks you for help, should you help them?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because no good deed goes unpunished..."

Hearing his son's "correct answers" to his methodical "teaching," Horace approvingly placed the remaining half of a compressed biscuit in his palm as a reward. Watching his son's innocent joy while eating, Horace was struck by an old saying, "To neglect teaching one's child is the parent's fault," and he was suddenly overwhelmed with a desire to cry.

He was the glimmer of hope in his son's life, yet he found himself having to instill the darkness of human nature into Frank to ensure his survival in this bleak world. This, perhaps, was the greatest tragedy of fatherhood.

The lesson ended just past seven o'clock, with Frank yawning incessantly and Horace feeling sleepy as well. In a world devoid of the internet, television, or any form of entertainment, the survivors had no choice but to sleep once night fell.

"Dad, will you sleep with me?" Frank asked timidly, his eyes filled with hope.

Horace nodded. At home, to foster independence, they had always slept in separate beds. They only shared a bed when away from home, which had been a rare occurrence since the onset of desolation. He recognized his son's dependency on him and longed to offer more paternal affection, but to survive in this cursed nuclear world, he had to harden his heart and maintain the image of a stern father.

Father and son extinguished the candle, clutched their hand-cranked flashlights, and entered the bedroom. Dressed, they crawled into the musty-smelling blankets, instantly feeling cut off from the frigid world outside.

Horace moved the pillow aside and tucked the handgun beneath the bedding near his head before lying down. It wasn't that he disliked using a pillow, but in unfamiliar places, he couldn't afford to sleep too comfortably, lest he lose his vigilance.

He could only sleep soundly once he was back in his own home.

Frank nestled into his father's embrace and quickly drifted off to dreamland.

Horace listened to his son's steady breathing and traced his silhouette in the dark, gazing at him for a long time. It was in these moments that he allowed himself to express the softness of his heart without reservation.

The day's weariness seeped from his bones and muscles, engulfing his entire body. His eyelids grew heavy, and as he succumbed to sleep, he found himself haunted by memories he wished he could forget.

The morning after the nuclear blast, father and son bore witness to the dawn of a nightmarish apocalypse. Horace shielded his trembling son from the window, sparing his young mind from the horrific sight.

He quickly understood why those afflicted with blistered skin had transformed; they had been drenched in the black rain laced with nuclear fallout.

His thoughts turned to her in the bedroom—she too had been exposed to the black rain and was showing early symptoms.

He could never have imagined that a scene straight out of a sci-fi horror film, where his beloved becomes a zombie, would become his reality. Was he supposed to end her life?

Shaking more violently than Frank, Horace was on the brink of madness.

He adored her, believing she was an angel sent to rescue his love, but now that angel was becoming a demon...

No! Even if she became a demon, his love for her remained. She hadn't been heavily drenched in the black rain, and her symptoms were mild. There might still be a chance to save her.

He drew the curtains, piled all the toys and snacks in front of Frank, and let him play at home.

Then, locking the door behind him, he carried her downstairs and drove onto the chaotic, terrifying streets. He sped through intersections devoid of working traffic lights, racing towards the hospital once more.

But the hospital was no more. All the hospitals had vanished, or more precisely, all the medical staff had been devoured. They were unable to treat those covered in blisters, who were now nothing more than fodder for the enraged infected.

The journey revealed scenes of the apocalypse: not only were people preying on one another, but even ordinary individuals took advantage of the chaos to loot and riot. The worst of human nature always seemed to emerge in such desperate times.

The second wave of chaos, triggered by the nuclear explosion, caused even greater devastation and served as a grim reminder that humanity itself was the most destructive force on the planet.

The police were overwhelmed, and even the military police were deployed, with the sound of gunfire echoing intermittently.

Firefighters were battling blazes throughout the city, with at least a dozen fires raging in various locations.

He held deep respect for those guardians of the people who continued to stand their posts even after the nuclear explosion.

He took her home, trusting that she wouldn't harm him.

Despite the increasing number of blisters on her body, even inside her mouth and on her tongue, rendering her unable to speak, her gaze remained lucid.

In her excruciating pain, she still managed a gentle smile at him, although it was a terrifying sight.

He parked the car below his apartment building and watched as his neighbors, carrying belongings large and small, fled the building in a panic, scattering in every direction.

The city was no longer safe. Even if they couldn't leave the city, heading to the suburbs seemed like a viable option, as sparsely populated areas were relatively safer.

He waited until most of the neighbors had left before daring to carry her upstairs, so as not to alarm anyone.

What is true love? It is to never abandon or give up, to stay together in the face of calamity rather than parting ways.

His apartment was on the fifth floor. As he reached the fourth floor, he noticed a neighbor's door ajar, the interior in disarray, the key still in the lock as if they had no intention of returning.

Moved by the scene, he carried her into the neighbor's apartment and laid her on the bed, her hands still bound to prevent her from scratching herself.

She couldn't speak, but they shared an unspoken understanding. She blinked emphatically, urging him to check on her son upstairs.

He nodded silently, swallowing his tears, locked the fourth-floor apartment, and returned to his own on the fifth floor.

His son was fine, fast asleep among his toys, surrounded by a scatter of opened snack wrappers.

A grave concern dawned on him: he didn't know how long the chaos would last, and he needed to ensure he had enough supplies to care for both the young and the old.

Once more, he descended to the street, drove to a nearby small supermarket, which was also ransacked and deserted, the looters having targeted larger stores.

He loaded the car with provisions and left all the cash he had before departing.

This carload of food and drink sustained them for a long time.

The only thing that broke his resolve was facing her.

He informed his son, Frank, that his stepmom had been admitted to the hospital.

Whenever Frank fell asleep, he would go downstairs to look after her.

She was no longer the woman he remembered. The beautiful girl with the delicate, pointed chin and crescent-moon eyes had vanished, and her soft, magnetic whispers were no longer audible.