The Last Delivery

Maria's golden retriever, Buster, nudged her hand with that persistent wet-nose insistence that had once annoyed her but now felt like the only tether to a world that still made sense. The apocalypse had arrived not with fireworks or war, but with a contagion that turned people into something else—something the news had called zombies before the broadcasts stopped.

She stared at her reflection in the cracked mirror, running fingers through graying hair that hadn't seen color in years. Funny how she'd spent half her life dyeing it, plucking it, worrying about its appearance, and now it was just another survival indicator. Thinning meant stress. Healthy meant she was still alive, still fighting.

"Come on, boy," she whispered, clipping on Buster's leash. They had deliveries to make.

The irony wasn't lost on her. She'd spent twenty years as a corporate lawyer, chasing billable hours and partnership tracks, and now her entire existence revolved around delivering fresh spinach from her rooftop garden to the isolated survivors in her building. Each bundle of leafy greens represented hours of labor, careful cultivation, and hope.

Mrs. Chen in 4B always cried when Maria knocked. A former cardiac surgeon who'd saved hundreds of lives, now reduced to accepting charity from the neighbor she'd once dismissed as "that nice woman who doesn't work." Maria never mentioned she recognized the judgment. Some small mercies mattered.

The stairs creaked with each descent. Buster's ears perked up—his hearing remained sharp even as his muzzle whitened. A low growl rumbled in his throat. Maria's hand found the knife at her belt, the movement practiced and automatic.

Three figures shambled in the lobby below. Not the fast ones, thankfully. The slow decay. She could see the remnants of their past lives: a business suit here, a nurse's scrubs there, a child's backpack on the smallest one. They'd all been someone's loved ones once.

Maria considered turning back, but the spinach would wilt. Mrs. Chen needed her vitamins. The lawyer's voice in her head argued both sides: survival versus duty, self-preservation versus the last threads of humanity that made life worth living.

Buster leaned against her leg, steady warmth against her fear. She scratched behind his ears and made her choice.

"Stay close," she murmured, and stepped into the shadows below.