CHAPTER 43: RULES FOR SURVIVAL

The sun hadn’t fully risen when Sera stepped back into her dorm room, her shoulders stiff from the weight of the canvas bags looped over her back. The sky outside was gray and brittle, like it might crack into snow if the wind pushed hard enough, but January had already turned into February, and February was slowly turning into March.

Time was passing, and she didn’t know if she was making the best use of it or not.

One thing she had learned was to keep her mouth shut when it came to what happened next.

She shut the door quietly behind her and exhaled, closing her eyes.

The heater in the wall clanked like it always did—too loud, too old—and the dorm’s overhead light cast everything in a watery yellow.

She stood still for a moment, letting the quiet settle. The roomie was gone more often than she was there, but that worked for Sera.

Dropping the bags onto her bed, she began to unpack her latest purchases.

Cocking her head to the side, she hummed.

Technically, the more she hunted, the more raw meat she ate, the less she was able to stomach human food. That meant that she didn’t really NEED human food, but there was a sense of normalcy, of security, knowing that she had it.

She also didn’t need weapons. Given the fact that she was now at least half zombie, she was deadlier than any human had the right to be. Even without the shark teeth, the sharp talons, the ability to see in the dark, and the ability to survive in sub zero temperatures...

She was pretty much indestructible.

Still, at this point, getting supplies was almost second nature.

Not to mention, chocolate wasn’t going to be all that easy to find when the entire north is buried in snow.

Shaking her head, she turned her attention back to the task at hand.

The first few items that were packed were practical: two 10-pound bags of rice, canned beans, peanut butter, iodine tablets, and four types of cooking oil—grape seed, olive, sunflower, and canola. She lined them up in the under-bed storage bin with precision, rotating out the older supplies and checking expiration dates. The creature inside of her stirred faintly, watching but not interfering.

Human food didn’t impress her all that much.

Next came the vacuum-sealed thermal blankets, hand warmers, and a stack of wool socks. A portable propane stove. A water filtration kit. Nothing unusual. Nothing that would stand out if someone happened to look.

But after the practical items, her hands paused on something less defensible.

Fuzzy pillows. Three of them. One pale pink, one soft cream, one with tiny strawberries embroidered along the corners. She hadn’t meant to buy them. She’d gone to the home aisle looking for backup batteries and ended up crouched in front of a discount bin, fingers buried in soft faux-fur textures she’d never let herself consider before.

Now, she placed them carefully at the head of her bed, stacking them with deliberate gentleness. The creature inside of her went still, not because it was upset, but rather in quiet approval.

Then came a heated blanket. Then two sets of fleece pajamas in pastel shades she’d never wear outside the room. A set of slipper socks with rubber treads. She opened the drawer under her desk and tucked away three more bags of chocolate: milk, dark, and hazelnut. She’d already learned the creature liked the expensive kind—the ones with sea salt and chili flakes.

What could she say? The zombie had great taste.

She sat on the edge of the bed when it was done. A quiet hum filled the room—the heater, the distant sound of a shower down the hall, the world outside pretending to be safe.

Sera reached for her black notebook, the one she kept hidden inside her pillowcase. No one had seen it, and if she had any say in the matter, no one ever would.

She flipped to a blank page.

Rules for Survival

Rule 1: Don’t talk. People are good for nothing but food. Stay away from them and they’ll stay away from you. You don’t need friends who will stab you in the back. Keep your mouth shut and move on.

Rule 2: Don’t wait. If you have any questions, refer to rule number one. Don’t wait for anyone who doesn’t have some benefits for you. It sounds cruel, but being nice to your enemy is to be cruel to yourself.

Rule 3: Keep it clean. No, not the cleaning way. Don’t have loose ends, don’t leave blood behind for someone to follow, cut off any loose ends fast and hard. But cleaning supplies are good to. Don’t become a slob simply because the end of the world has come.

Rule 4: Kill fast. Duh.

Rule 5: No guilt. Only results. They wouldn’t care if you ended up dead, don’t care if they do. Protect yourself and those in your horde.

Rule 6: No hordes. Nope, not happening. Don’t do it.

She tapped the pen against the page.

Then added:

Rule 7: Don’t depend on anyone who wouldn’t share a blanket when the heat goes out.

Rule 9: Stock chocolate. The good kind. It calms the creature.

Rule 10: Trust is a luxury. So is softness. Keep both hidden. Morals are for people who can afford them, and in the apocalypse, they aren’t worth shit.

She let the pen roll off her knee and land on the blanket.

The pillows behind her were warm now. She leaned back slowly, head settling between the pale pink and the strawberry one. The sensation was... peaceful.

"I’m not weird," she muttered to herself as she pulled one of the blankets up and over her shoulders. "This is completely normal."

The creature shifted lazily in her chest like a satisfied cat curling into fleece.

Definitely normal. Everything was normal.

Right.

She stared at the ceiling for a long time, letting her body sink into the softness she’d built. It didn’t make sense. She didn’t need it. She was practical, precise, and most importantly, prepared.

But this—this pocket of warmth, this cocoon of comfort—it didn’t ask anything of her. It just was. And maybe, in the part of her brain she didn’t like to acknowledge, she needed something that wasn’t sharp or efficient.

Her phone buzzed once on the desk. A message from Lachlan:

"Everything good?"

She didn’t answer right away. Just stared at the screen, thumb hovering. Then typed:

"Fine. Long day."

She left it at that. Let him read between the lines if he wanted to.

Beside her bed, a stack of books waited—mostly psych textbooks, but one paperback novel she’d picked up on impulse. Romance. Warm colors. Something about fated mates.

She hadn’t cracked it open yet.

Instead, she picked up her notebook again and wrote one more line, beneath the others.

Rule 10: Don’t mistake safety for softness. You built this.

The creature hummed again.

And Seraphina—tucked between fleece, warmth, and chocolate—closed her eyes for a short, quiet nap.