Mobo Novels
I’m a zombie.
Right now, I’m standing on my front porch.
The door is shut tight, like it’s lifeless. I’m frozen in front of it. Sometimes, other zombies shuffle by, crouching near my window, trying to peek inside. When they do, I kick them away.
Yeah, I’ve turned into a zombie.
But here’s the weird part—I can still remember everything from when I was human.
I’m standing here, completely still, just like I used to when I’d piss off my sweetheart back in the day. Whenever we’d argue, Ava would lock me out. Then she’d sit inside, crouched by the window, secretly watching me stand there like it was some kind of punishment.
Never thought that even as a zombie, she’d still be pulling the same move.
The zombie outbreak hit us out of nowhere. Society crumbled in just three months, leaving no time to process what was happening.
At first, people thought it was just some random illness. Deaths started making headlines, blowing up on social media, and sparking a wave of panic.
Then, within two weeks, news broke that New Haven was completely overrun.
Everyone wanted to believe it was just fear driving people to madness, making them attack each other.
Ava saw the news back then. She watched clips of the attacks and joked, “What if this is, like, a zombie apocalypse?” I told her she’d been binge-watching too many horror flicks.
She just grinned and playfully kicked me.
She’s always been a little firecracker like that.
I never thought she’d actually be right.
Night fell, and the streetlights flickered on. My watch got trashed in a zombie scuffle, but it had to be around dinnertime. I glanced up; Ava was still by the window, staring out.
Through the foggy glass, I could see tears streaming down her face.
I looked away.
Unlike in the movies, most zombies are daytime roamers. By nightfall, the troublemakers were gone, and the streets were eerily empty.
As I turned, I caught a glimpse of Ava’s mouth moving, like she was shouting something.
Ever since I turned, my senses get fuzzy at night—probably some brain damage side effect. I waved at her, signaling her to go back inside.
She kept saying something, but I couldn’t stay there. Zombies black out at night, and I needed to crash.
My sweetheart has a thing for using her hands.
I met her in high school; she was my desk mate. She had killer grades and a playful spirit. Meanwhile, my grades were… let’s just say, not even close to hers. When we met, it was like fate—an unstoppable duo. Classic boy-girl dynamic: I handled the small-time punks who didn’t respect me, and she handled me.
I made my move sophomore year. A month later, her dad found out. The next day at school, she came up to me and said, “My dad wants to meet you.”
I replied, “Cool. Does your dad prefer fine whiskey or Château Margaux? I’ll bring a couple of bottles when I visit tomorrow.”
She deadpanned, “My dad’s a Taekwondo coach. He won gold in the city’s Taekwondo competition last year.”
I froze. “Uh… I just remembered I have to get my appendix removed tomorrow. Let’s reschedule.”
She raised an eyebrow. “When did your appendix act up? How come I didn’t know?”
I stammered, “It’s not acting up now, but it will be tomorrow.”
She kicked me in the butt and snapped, “You’re useless. Are you going or not?”
Faced with a beating or surgery, I chose the beating.
The next day, I got a buzz cut, buttoned my white shirt all the way up, and bought some fruit and milk to visit my future father-in-law.
Later, I started grinding at my studies and got into University A with her.
She always asked why I turned my life around after meeting her dad. I told her, “Because your dad said I had two choices: study hard and get into college, or study The Serpent’s Kiss.”
She smiled shyly and rewarded me with my favorite big lollipop.
From high school to three years into our marriage, I lost count of how many face-smacks I’ve gotten from her. Her skills only got sharper, leaving me howling in pain every time.
But the most painful was her last one.
She slapped me hard, tears streaming down her face, and said with a tearful smile, “Okay, I’ll grant your wish.”
It hurt.
Although I turned into a zombie, I still can’t forget that slap.
The next day, the sun was blazing, trying to bake me alive.
I returned to my doorstep and slapped away a bloody-mouthed zombie crouching by my window.
I noticed the first-floor windows were tightly covered with iron wire mesh, furniture blocking the gaps. My sweetheart must’ve done this overnight.
I looked up at the second floor.
The windows were also wired, except for the bedroom window, which was half-open.
Behind it, I saw half of my sweetheart’s face.
Her eyes were red and swollen—probably from staying up all night. Honestly, in this situation, anyone who can sleep is either a zombie or dead.
I lowered my head, no longer looking at her, and focused on guarding the door.
The windows were still intact, thanks to my farsighted father-in-law, who insisted on the strongest glass.
He said he was worried I’d made too many enemies, and if someone came to smash our windows, it wouldn’t matter if I got smashed, but he couldn’t let his precious daughter get hurt.
I rolled my eyes back then. Now, I wish I could slap my past self and kowtow to him for his foresight.
But he passed away two years ago, so I can only kowtow at his grave now.
I looked up at the window again.
A distorted face appeared.
The man in the window pursed his lips unnaturally, his eyes dull, blood constantly dripping from his mouth. Even I was shocked.
He’s truly ugly. No wonder no one wants to be a zombie.
I wondered what my sweetheart thought when she saw this face. Would she feel relieved? Maybe she’d even snap a few pics, point at me, and laugh, showing all her teeth. After all, her greatest joy is mocking me.
Thinking this, I looked at her again.
But my sweetheart wasn’t laughing, taking pics, or showing her teeth.
She was gone.