Horrific Shorts: Zombie Edition Chapter 1377: Story 1377: When He Couldn’t Speak

Chapter 1377: Story 1377: When He Couldn’t Speak

It happened after the bite.

Not infection. Sothing else.

The bullet tore through his throat—clean, fast, rciful.

But it took his voice.

And left alone with his silence.

Drew had always been the loud one.

The guy who told jokes too loudly, laughed in danger, sang stupid songs while we scavenged.

When the world burned, his voice was my anchor.

Then one day, we walked into a trap.

A stray bullet ant for a crawler ricocheted off a rusted beam.

I saw it before he did.

Tried to scream.

Too late.

Blood poured from his neck as he dropped to his knees.

Not from the infection.

But from the silence that followed.

He survived. Barely.

I stitched him up with trembling fingers and half a dkit.

We stopped the bleeding.

But the damage was done.

No more words.

Just breath, pain, and glances.

At first, I thought we’d drift apart.

But Drew had other plans.

He found ways to speak without sound.

He tapped rhythms on my arm.

Wrote in the dirt.

Pointed at stars when we couldn’t sleep.

And those blue eyes—God, they scread louder than any voice.

We grew better at it.

The quiet.

He touched his heart, then mine.

That ant: Still here. Still us.

He squeezed my hand twice for I love you.

Three tis for Don’t give up.

One ti, during a crawler ambush, he held my face in his shaking hands and mouthed a word.

I didn’t need to hear it.

I knew it was Always.

It wasn’t perfect.

I missed his voice.

His laugh.

The way he used to hum when sharpening his machete.

Now he just breathed.

And sotis whimpered in sleep.

But he was still Drew.

And I was still .

And sohow, that was enough.

Then ca the bunker.

A man with a radio. A promise of safety.

But only one could enter.

“Only one seat,” the man said. “No exceptions.”

He looked at Drew’s scarred throat and shook his head.

“Liability.”

I begged. Scread.

Drew just stood there. Calm. Silent.

He pressed the last flare into my hand.

Wrote one word on my wrist with a charcoal nub:

“Go.”

I didn’t.

I couldn’t.

So we walked away from salvation.

Together.

Into the dark. Into the cold.

Hand in hand.

Now, every night, I read to him from an old, torn book.

He closes his eyes.

Listens.

Smiles sotis.

I don’t know if he hears the words or just the mory of sound.

But I read anyway.

Because when he couldn’t speak…

I learned how to.