Sarah always smelled faintly of spearmint gum and that cheap vanilla body spray she swore by. Even now, with her skin gone dull gray-green and her eyes clouded over like spoiled milk, the scent still lingered underneath the rot. Emma woke to cold breath against her neck. At first she thought it was just another fucked-up dream. Then those familiar fingers - too familiar - slid under her tank top, finding every spot they’d mapped out in secret years ago.

“You’ve been dead for three days,” Emma whispered. Her voice cracked not from terror, but from something older, something she’d buried under too many beers and bad dates.

Zombie-Sarah didn’t speak. She just stared. Long. Hungry. Then she hooked two fingers in the waistband of Emma’s underwear and dragged them down in one slow, deliberate pull. Emma could have screamed. Could have fought. Instead she let her thighs fall open wider - the way she’d imagined doing a thousand times when she was still pretending she didn’t want this. Sarah’s tongue was icy and rough, like licking frost off asphalt. But the rhythm… the rhythm was the same. The same slow, teasing circles, the same pauses that used to make Emma’s toes curl against the sheets. Emma threaded her fingers through matted hair, moaning, crying, laughing all at once - because it was wrong, because it was finally happening, because fuck, it still felt good. Then Sarah pressed harder. Teeth grazed. Not deep. Just a shallow, almost loving nick right where everything was softest and most alive. A tiny bead of blood welled up, mixing with spit and everything else that was already slick. Emma looked down. Sarah lifted her head. Something flickered in those milky eyes - regret, maybe. Or satisfaction. Maybe both. Emma opened her mouth to scream. What came out instead was a shaky, surprised huff of laughter.

“You really did it your way, huh?”

Sarah licked her lips slowly. They glistened red and clear. Outside the window the rain kept hammering, same as it had for days. Then, somewhere in the dark, a low, male laugh rolled through the storm - too loud, too human, too pleased with itself. Emma turned her head toward the glass. Nothing. Just rain. And the strange, warm itch starting somewhere deep inside her. Not pain. Not fear. Just… interest. She looked back at Sarah. Sarah smiled - crooked, ugly, but so damn familiar. And in that second Emma realized the worst part wasn’t coming.

It had already started. About eight minutes ago. And it was really fucking into it.