The bat sang through the air again.
This time the swing landed square on the bridge of the zombie's nose. The cartilage caved inward with a wet snap. Black fluid sprayed across Shane's hoodie in a fine mist. The thing's head snapped back, but its body kept coming, momentum and hunger overriding physics.
Shane didn't think. He planted one sneaker on the creature's chest, shoved hard, and brought the bat down in a two-handed overhead chop like he was splitting firewood.
The aluminum connected with the crown of its skull.
There was a sound like a melon hitting concrete.
Gray-pink brain matter oozed out through the split. The zombie's remaining eye rolled up white. Its body jerked once, twice, then collapsed in a boneless heap at Shane's feet, twitching faintly as the last motor signals fizzled out.
He stood there panting, bat dripping, chest heaving.
"Holy shit," he muttered, staring down at the crater where the head used to be. "I just killed a zombie. With a baseball bat. In real life. This is officially the best isekai ever written. Somebody get me a contract and a harem tag, I'm ready to speedrun this genre."
He kicked the body once for good measure. The leg flopped sideways. No reaction.
"Okay, universe," he said aloud, still grinning like a maniac. "Tutorial complete. Achievement unlocked: First Kill. Where's my loot box? Where's the shiny new skill tree? Come on, don't blue-ball me now. I've read enough of these stories to know there's supposed to be a ding or a floating blue panel or at least a sexy voice saying 'Congratulations, Host.' Don't leave me hanging."
He was still talking to himself, because apparently dying and waking up in a zombie apocalypse hadn't cured his habit, when the pain hit.
It wasn't gradual.
It was a railroad spike driven straight through his left temple, all the way out the other side. White-hot and blinding. His knees buckled and the bat clattered to the floor. He clutched his head with both hands and dropped to all fours, bile burning the back of his throat.
"Fuuuuck—!" he gasped, voice cracking into a strangled whine. "What the hell is this? Did I just get hit with a system install? Is this the part where I get the cheat code or do I just die again? Universe, if this is your idea of onboarding, your UX designer needs to be fired!"
Images flashed behind his eyelids, it was rapid, and disjointed, like someone had fast-forwarded through a corrupted video file.
Teeth tearing flesh, screams cut short and the smell of rot so thick it coated his tongue. Then a heartbeat, not his, but slow, uneven, and unnecessary. Hunger, endless and bottomless. But beneath it all… there was something else. A thread. Thin. Silver. Waiting.
The pain peaked then popped like a burst balloon.
Shane gasped, sucking air. His vision swam back into focus. The living room looked the same, except now everything felt louder and sharper. The hum of the fridge was a bassline. The flies against the boards were tiny percussionists. And underneath it all—
A presence.
Not in the room.
Inside his skull.
He looked down at the dead zombie.
No, not dead.
Not fully.
Its fingers twitched. Once. Twice. Like a sleeper waking up.
Shane's heart tried to climb out of his throat.
He didn't move. Didn't breathe.
The corpse's head lolled sideways. The split skull gaped like a second mouth. Then, slowly, the milky eye rolled back down and fixed on him.
Not with hunger.
With recognition.
Shane's mouth went dry.
"What the hell are you looking at?" he asked, voice cracking halfway through the sentence. "Seriously, dude, if this is the part where you start talking in my head like a sassy AI companion, I'm gonna need hazard pay."
The zombie didn't answer. Of course it didn't. But it listened. He could feel it, like a dog waiting for a command. Mute, patient and empty.
He swallowed hard.
"Okay, let's test this. Stand up."
The body jerked.
Muscles that shouldn't work anymore spasmed. Arms flailed. Legs kicked twice then it rolled onto its stomach, planted both palms on the carpet, and pushed itself upright in a grotesque parody of a push-up.
It stood.
Swaying. Leaking. One arm hanging at a wrong angle.
Shane stared for a full three seconds, mouth open.
"No way," he breathed. "No fucking way. I can control zombies? I can literally puppeteer the undead? This is broken. This is god-tier. This is the kind of cheat skill that gets patched in the first update because it ruins the entire economy of the story. Holy shit, I'm the final boss now. I'm the goddamn Lich King of suburbia."
He paced in a tight circle, mind racing at light speed.
"Okay, okay, parameters. Gotta know the limits before I start LARPing as a necromancer harem king. Because let's be real, that's the endgame here. I'm not dying a virgin in the zombie apocalypse. I'm building a squad, a base, and a very ethically questionable polycule."
He focused on the connection, that thin silver thread in his head.
It felt like holding a kite string in a storm. Taut, and alive, but fragile.
He pushed a little harder.
The zombie twitched violently. Its jaw clacked open and shut. A low moan bubbled out.
Shane winced. The thread burned.
"Okay—too much. Dialing it back. Jesus, this is like trying to play an instrument with one string and no sheet music. One at a time, then. At least for now. We're on beginner mode, apparently."
He eased off. The moaning stopped.
He glanced toward the broken window. Outside, the neighborhood was quiet. Too quiet. No screams. No gunshots. Just wind moving through dead leaves and the occasional distant shuffle.
"How many can I handle?" he muttered, still talking out loud because silence felt wrong now. "One's cute. Ten would be a party. A hundred would be… problematic. Like, inventory management nightmare problematic. Do I get a skill tree for this? Do I level up by raising more? Is there a cooldown? A mana bar? Come on, universe, give me the HUD. I'm begging."
He looked back at his new pet.
It stood perfectly still. Waiting.
Shane tilted his head.
"Follow me."
He walked toward the kitchen. The zombie lurched after him, slow, but obedient. It stepped over the shattered board like it was crossing a stream. Left a trail of black footprints.
Shane stopped in front of the fridge. Opened it.
Inside: half a carton of milk (curdled), three beers, a Tupperware of something furry, and miracle of miracles, a single unopened bottle of Gatorade.
He cracked it open, took a long pull, then turned to the zombie.
"Thirsty?" he asked, holding the bottle out like an offering. "No? Yeah, didn't think so. You're more of a 'brains on tap' kind of guy. Respect."
He leaned against the counter, studying the monster.
Twenty-something male, probably. College hoodie much like his own. Bite mark on the left forearm, deep, and arterial. That's what turned him. The face was still recognizably human under the rot. Almost pitiful.
Shane felt a strange twist in his gut.
Not guilt. Not quite.
Curiosity.
Power.
And something darker, quieter, curling at the edges of his thoughts.
He could make this thing do anything.
Walk into fire.
Rip its own throat out.
Stand guard while he—
He cut the thought off before it finished forming.
"One step at a time, freakshow," he muttered to himself. "Don't go full villain arc on day one. Save that for chapter fifty when the plot needs drama."
He finished the Gatorade, tossed the bottle in the sink.
"Alright, buddy. New orders. Go stand by the front door. If anything, else tries to come in, tackle it. No biting me. Got it? We're building trust here. Slow-burn friendship. Maybe we'll get matching friendship bracelets later."
The zombie turned stiff, mechanical and shuffled back toward the living room.
Shane watched it go.
Then he looked at his hands.
They were shaking.
Not from fear.
From want.
He grinned again this time sharp, feral, and a little unhinged.
"This is gonna be fun," he said to the empty kitchen. "Like, world-conquering, harem-building, zombie-pet-collecting levels of fun. Buckle up, universe. I'm about to break your game."
Outside, something heavy scraped against the side of the house.
Another board creaked.
Shane's smile faltered for half a second.
Then he picked up the baseball bat.
"Let's see how many pets I can collect before breakfast," he said cheerfully. "Spoiler alert: the answer is more than zero. And if any of them are hot zombie girls, I'm not judging. I'm progressive like that."
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