The Living Dead at Sunset

The corporate retreat was a mistake. Elena stood by the infinity pool at the Belize resort, sipping lukewarm chardonnay while her colleagues shuffled past like zombies—eyes glazed, skin ghostly from too much fluorescent lighting, souls eroded by quarterly targets and endless Zoom calls. She should have been networking. Instead, she was watching a gecko scale a palm tree, mesmerized by its tiny, deliberate movements against the swaying fronds.

'You look like you're plotting an escape,' said a voice behind her. Marcus from accounting. He was holding two champagne flutes. 'Or murder.' He smiled, and something about it was disarmingly genuine.

'The escape would be easier,' Elena said. 'Less paperwork.' She took the proffered glass.

They stood in companionable silence, watching the sun dip below the horizon. The pool reflected bruising colors—purple and gold, like a fresh bruise healing into something beautiful. The zombies were gathering at the open bar now, their laughter shrill, performative.

'My daughter asked me yesterday what I do all day,' Marcus said suddenly. 'I told her I make spreadsheets. She said, 'But what do you DO, Daddy?' and I couldn't answer.' He swallowed half his champagne. 'I've been dead inside for years, Elena. I think we all have.'

Elena looked at him—really looked. Behind his eyes, something flickered. Not life, but the memory of it. Aching and terrible.

'Maybe we're not zombies,' she said. 'Maybe we're just—hibernating. Waiting.' She reached out, her palm warm against his. 'For something real.'

Marcus's fingers tightened around hers. The gecko had reached the top of the palm tree. Below them, the pool darkened as night fell, and somewhere beyond the resort, the world continued—real, messy, alive. Their colleagues' laughter faded into background noise. Elena squeezed his hand. 'Let's,' she said. And together, they walked away from the party toward the ocean.