A Side Effect of Survival (Patreon)

I remember that day. Down to the smallest detail.

June 24, 2034. Saturday. A warm, completely unremarkable evening. I was sitting at home, enjoying my first vacation in a long time. Six years had already passed since our group had miraculously escaped from the coast of the Strait of Hormuz in 2028. And after everything I had been through, I was damn sure fate had finally left me alone.

Who could have imagined back then that a fucking zombie apocalypse would happen, that I would spend several years roaming the East Coast with a group of civilian survivors, clinging to each day as if it were our last, and that I would eventually end up in the body of a fragile Latina girl whose blood became the basis for the serum that saved my life, but... caused some unexpected consequences.

"Don’t take your eyes off her," Victor Harris said quietly, adjusting the rifle on his shoulder. "Doc Lewis said she’s stable for now. For now."

I merely grimaced, trying to cover myself and grinding my teeth so hard that my jaw immediately started to hurt, while my fucking tits shifted unpleasantly over my wrists, covering them with their soft, warm flesh.

"Relax, girl," Victor said more quietly after catching my gaze. "Nobody’s going to touch you."

"I’m not..." I began, but immediately shut up, realizing I didn’t want to explain to these guys that only a month ago I had worn body armor myself, commanded a squad, and could take down any one of them with one hand. Now those same men saw nothing but a skinny, dark skinned girl in a dirty tank top and shorts, sitting with her knees pressed tightly together and instinctively and futilely trying to cover her big breasts with her hands.

"Why are you babying her, Vic?" said Marco, whose favorite place was the newly established "brothel," if the place Barbara and Marie had organized could even be called that. Once, he found a girl in the woods who had not yet turned into a zombie and convinced her that his cum had healing properties, then spent several weeks telling anyone who would listen that it was only thanks to him that she had not become completely infected. Of course, there had never been any girl, but the idea that he had fucked a zombie didn’t seem all that unrealistic.

"I’m serious, Harris," Marco continued, casually leaning closer to me. "I think she needs a different approach, right, mamacita?"

I immediately felt his warm breath beside my ear and instinctively hunched my shoulders even tighter. The fucking tank top stretched, my heavy breasts swayed again from that awkward movement, and I clenched my teeth in irritation, catching the faint smile that flashed across Marco’s face out of the corner of my eye.

"I think you need to relax, and Uncle Marco can help you with that," he practically crooned, drawing out the words as he leaned even closer, his fingers already almost touching the edge of my dirty tank top.

I jerked away as sharply as the sagging couch allowed and pressed my back against its headrest. My breasts swayed heavily, the fabric stretched, and I clenched my teeth again, feeling the heat of shame and anger spreading across my neck.

If only he knew that the person sitting in front of him was his former commander, Frank Wallace, fifty two years old, weighing a hundred kilograms and standing a hundred and ninety centimeters tall. The same man who had beaten the stupidity out of him after he had led a dozen zombies to that old warehouse in Norfolk, thinking he could slip unnoticed past the infected along the shore, only to nearly get the entire squad killed.

If he knew, then... He would probably act exactly the same. Yes. Definitely exactly the same. But everything would be much worse. No, I would rather officially remain a lost girl who had survived the virus than become the former commander whose own men would start examining him like some perfectly timed joke, testing how much of the old Frank Wallace was left and just how much of a "girl" he had become. Let Frank remain a hero who died fighting zombies. It was better that way.

"Marco, leave Fiona alone," Victor said irritably without raising his voice. He didn’t even look up, continuing to check the rifle magazine, but his tone was enough to make Marco reluctantly straighten up. "Doctor Lewis was clear, no funny business. She’s more important right now than half our caravan."

"Yeah, I got it, I got it," Marco snorted, raising his hands. "I was just trying to lighten the mood. She’s sitting there like we’re taking her to an execution."

"Very funny," I muttered through my teeth, surprised by how quiet my voice sounded.

"Oh, she talks," he immediately began, turning toward Victor, "I told you she’s a normal girl, she just needs the right approach. I’m an expert at this stuff, chief."Victor and a couple of the other guys smirked, exchanging glances as though this were some scene from a TV show and at least some kind of entertainment after a long day on the road.

Only Dylan, sitting by the window and silently disassembling the bolt of his carbine, briefly shook his head and said quietly:

"One day, you’ll take that joke too far."

"Oh, come on," Marco said, waving them off as he settled back onto the overturned crate. He still glanced in my direction from time to time with that same smug grin that irritated me more than any words could. "Like I said, I’m just lightening the mood."

"Unload your magazine instead," Victor replied dryly, snapping it back into the rifle. "And check your ammo. We leave in three hours."

The room grew quieter again. The kerosene lamp crackled lazily, casting warm reflections across the boarded up windows. Weapons lay beside everyone, some men tightened the straps of their tactical vests, while others silently rearranged canned food and first aid kits inside their backpacks. Only Marco kept occasionally glancing at me as if hoping to catch me looking back.

I looked away first.

Damn it... In this fucking body, I had lost all my reflexes and skills, and despite how desperately I wanted to help, I understood that I would only be a burden. Even lifting a heavy backpack or trying to handle a weapon again now meant that everyone around me would start worrying not about whether the mission would succeed, but whether I would drop the rifle on my own feet.

The only way I could help the guys at all was by sitting quietly, not distracting them with unnecessary questions, not making them constantly glance in my direction to check whether I had gotten worse, and cooking the fucking food while everyone else handled the things I had still been considered the best at not so long ago.

That thought made me feel especially sick.

I automatically looked at my thin hands. Thin and fragile. Exactly like the hands of the woman whose sample had been used on me. Why had I become her? How did it work? Nobody in this fucking world knew. But the fact that this shit had saved my life and that I had not become a zombie was undeniable. Just like the fact that, apparently, I was stuck in this body for the rest of my life.