Echos of Hunger

Echoes of Hunger

It starts with a flicker—a memory that doesn’t quite belong to me anymore. A name, a face, a laugh. They’re blurry now, like words shouted across a chasm. The gaps are widening every day, filled instead by the hunger. It’s all-consuming, gnawing at my insides, leaving no room for anything else.

I am no longer who I was. Not entirely.

The world outside is quiet, but I can sense them. The living. Their heartbeats drum through the air like distant thunder, pulling me, pushing me. I’m crouched in the ruins of what used to be a diner, the smell of burnt grease and rot thick in the air. A broken jukebox leans against the wall, its lights long dead. There’s a skeleton in the corner, slumped in a booth, its jaw frozen in a scream. I wonder if it knew what was coming.

I didn’t.

I was one of them once. Human. Warm-blooded. Alive. I think I had a name, but it’s gone now. Some days, I almost reach it, like the word is on the tip of a tongue I no longer have.

I was bitten three months ago. At least, I think it’s been three months. Time is a slippery thing now. I remember pain, sharp and fiery, radiating from my shoulder as teeth sank into my flesh. Then fever, confusion, and the moment my heart stopped beating.

They left me for dead, my group. I guess they were half right.

The hunger is the worst part. It’s not just physical—though it is that, too, an ache that starts deep in my stomach and claws its way through my entire being. No, it’s more than that. It’s a need, an obsession. The scent of the living is intoxicating, overwhelming. It drives out everything else. Most of the others, the ones like me, give in completely. They become beasts, mindless and wild.

But not me. Not yet.

There’s something still here, buried under the hunger. A spark, a fragment. I don’t know if it’s hope or cruelty that keeps it alive. I remember things sometimes—flashes of what it felt like to laugh, to hold someone’s hand, to feel the sun on my face. They’re faint, but they’re enough to remind me of what I’ve lost. Enough to remind me that I’m different.

I think. I question. I know what I am, and that makes it worse. Because I still feel human, even though I know I’m not.

The diner isn’t safe for long. They’re coming—survivors. I can hear them now, their cautious footsteps crunching over broken glass, their whispers cutting through the stillness. They think they’re being quiet, but I can hear the fear in their breathing, the tension in their voices.

I should run. Hide. But the hunger roots me in place. It’s stronger than reason, stronger than the fragile shred of humanity I’m clinging to. My body shifts, muscles tightening as the scent of them floods my senses.

“Careful,” one of them says, a man’s voice. “Could be crawlers in here.”

Another voice, a woman’s, replies. “We’ll clear it and move on. Stick together.”

They’re close now. Too close. I press myself against the wall, trying to blend into the shadows. My skin is gray and mottled, my movements slower than they used to be, but I’m still quieter than they expect. They never look up.

The first one steps into the room. He’s young, maybe mid-twenties, with a machete gripped tightly in his hands. His eyes dart around the diner, scanning for threats. The others follow—two women, one with a bow slung across her back, the other clutching a crowbar.

The hunger claws at me, screaming for release. I can feel my control slipping. My vision sharpens, narrowing on their throats, their pulse points. The scent of their sweat is maddening.

I try to remember who I was. A name, a face, a reason to hold on. But it’s slipping, fading, drowned out by the hunger.

The man with the machete takes another step. He’s too close now. I lunge.

It’s over in seconds.

The machete swings, but I’m faster. My hands clamp onto his shoulders, pulling him down. He screams—a raw, panicked sound—but it’s drowned out by the blood pounding in my ears. The others react quickly, too quickly. The woman with the bow draws an arrow, aiming for my head.

“Wait!” the other woman shouts.

For a moment, I think she’s sparing me, but then I realize she’s staring at my face. There’s recognition there, a flicker of something that stops her cold.

“It’s her,” she whispers.

The words cut through the haze of hunger, freezing me in place. Her. Was I someone to her? A friend? A sister? I can’t remember, but she does. And in that moment, so do I.

Lila.

That was my name. Lila.

The memory hits like a lightning bolt. I was part of their group. I knew these people. The man I’ve pinned to the ground—his name is Kevin. The woman with the crowbar is Sam. And the one with the bow…

“Claire,” I rasp. My voice is raw, broken, but it’s enough.

Claire’s eyes widen, her hands trembling on the bowstring. “Oh my God,” she breathes. “Lila?”

Kevin takes the opportunity to shove me off, scrambling backward. “What the hell are you doing? Shoot it!”

“No!” Claire shouts, lowering the bow. “She’s… she’s still in there.”

“She’s not,” Kevin snaps. “She’s gone, Claire. That thing isn’t Lila anymore.”

I stagger to my feet, swaying unsteadily. The hunger is still there, but it’s muted now, pushed aside by the flood of memories. I remember Claire’s laugh, Kevin’s terrible cooking, the way Sam always hummed when she was nervous. I remember late nights around a campfire, talking about what we’d do if the world ever went back to normal.

I remember dying.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. The words feel foreign on my tongue, but they’re the only ones that matter. “I didn’t mean—”

Kevin doesn’t hesitate this time. He raises the machete, aiming for my neck. Claire steps between us, her arms outstretched.

“Stop!” she shouts. “We can’t just kill her!”

“She’s not her,” Kevin snarls. “She’s a monster.”

“Then why isn’t she attacking us?” Claire counters. “She spoke, Kevin. She remembers us.”

Sam is silent, her eyes darting between me and Kevin. “What if she’s right?” she asks hesitantly. “What if Lila’s… still in there?”

Kevin’s grip on the machete tightens. “She attacked me. What more proof do you need?”

“I’m sorry,” I say again, louder this time. “It’s the hunger. I can’t control it.”

The room falls silent. Claire steps closer, her expression softening. “Lila,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “Is it really you?”

I nod. Tears well in her eyes, and for a moment, I think she’s going to hug me. But then she stops, remembering what I am. The distance between us feels insurmountable.

They don’t kill me. Not yet.

Claire insists on taking me with them, despite Kevin’s protests. They tie my hands with rope, keeping me at a distance, but it’s better than being left behind. The hunger makes every step agonizing, but I fight it, clinging to the fragments of myself that remain.

As we walk, I learn bits and pieces about what happened after I turned. They thought I was dead. They buried me. When the infection spread through our camp, they assumed I was one of the casualties.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Sam asks one night, her voice heavy with guilt.

“I didn’t know how,” I admit. “I didn’t know if I could.”

The infection is changing me, and not just physically. I can feel my mind slipping, the line between human and monster blurring. Every day, it gets harder to hold on.

Claire refuses to give up on me. She talks to me, asks me questions about our past, tries to remind me of who I was. It helps, sometimes. But it also hurts.

Because I know how this ends.

One night, we’re ambushed. A pack of ferals descends on us, their howls echoing through the darkness. Kevin fights valiantly, his machete swinging in deadly arcs. Sam uses her crowbar to fend off the attackers, and Claire’s arrows fly true.

But there are too many.

Claire is knocked to the ground, a feral’s jaws snapping inches from her face. I don’t think. I don’t hesitate. I lunge, grabbing the feral by the neck and throwing it aside. The others hesitate, startled by my aggression, and it’s enough for Kevin to finish them off.

When the dust settles, Claire looks at me with something that might be gratitude—or fear.

“You saved me,” she says, her voice trembling.

“I couldn’t let you die,” I reply