The first zombie I killed was my mother-in-law.
In my defense, she was already dead.
And honestly?
It felt like justice.
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My name is Kripa Shankar Sharma.
Age: thirty-two. Soon to be thirty-three if the world doesn't end first.
Occupation: Senior Clerk at the District Collectorate in Jamshedpur.
Special skills include filing RTI replies, surviving endless tea breaks, and tolerating my wife's daily lectures on how every problem in the universe is somehow my fault.
Yesterday morning started like every other cursed Monday.
The alarm rang at 5:45.
I hit snooze.
It rang again at 6:00.
I cursed under my breath and dragged myself out of bed.
Brush teeth.
Quick shave.
Comb the little hair left on my head.
I even used that awful herbal toothpaste my wife insists on buying because apparently normal toothpaste is "chemical poison."
Routine.
Predictable.
Miserable.
Then I smelled something burning.
Not the usual "milk boiling over" burning.
This was different.
Thicker.
Meatier.
Like someone had decided to barbecue a goat inside our tiny 2BHK flat.
I walked toward the kitchen expecting to see my wife, Sunita, yelling at the gas cylinder again or blaming me for the weak flame even though I hadn't touched the stove in three days.
But she wasn't there.
The pressure cooker hissed like an angry cobra.
Parathas had turned black on the tawa.
And on the dining table—our cheap plastic one with the cigarette burn from my cousin last Holi—lay half a human arm.
No.
Not half.
Three-quarters.
Red and green glass bangles still circled the wrist.
The same bangles Sunita wore every single day because "they were a gift from my mausi and you never buy me anything nice."
My stomach dropped somewhere near my knees.
Then I heard it.
A wet chewing sound.
Like someone eating a very juicy mango without manners.
Slowly… very slowly… I turned.
In the living room three figures crouched over something on the floor.
One wore a torn pink saree.
Sunita's "party wear" that only came out for weddings and funerals.
Another had a government-issue ID card hanging from his neck.
Pandey ji.
My colleague from the next cubicle.
The man who stole my lunch tiffin twice a week.
The third figure—
My mother-in-law.
Or what used to be her.
She still had that permanent scowl on her face.
Even though half her cheek was missing.
They were eating Sunita.
My wife.
The same woman who had screamed at me just last night for twenty-seven straight minutes because I laughed during her serial.
"You think that's funny, Kripa?" she had yelled, waving the rolling pin like a sword.
"You think men like that deserve sympathy? Men like YOU?"
I had nodded like a fool.
Always nod when she has the rolling pin.
Now that same rolling pin lay beside her body.
Covered in blood.
And what looked suspiciously like yesterday's aloo sabzi.
I stood there for ten seconds.
It felt like ten years.
Then Sunita's corpse twitched.
Her head slowly turned toward me.
One eye was gone.
The other had turned milky white.
Her mouth opened.
No words came out.
Only a long guttural moan.
The exact same noise she made whenever electricity went out during her favorite serial.
Then she lunged.
Not gracefully.
Not like in the movies.
She dragged herself across the floor with one remaining arm, saree pallu trailing behind her like a bloody bridal veil.
I screamed.
"Sunita! Arre Sunita ji! Yeh kya ho raha hai?!"
She didn't answer.
Instead she grabbed my ankle.
Her nails—still painted that horrible maroon she insisted was "classy"—dug into my skin.
I kicked.
Missed.
Kicked again.
This time my foot connected with her jaw.
Something cracked.
She flew back and slammed into the sofa.
For one glorious second I hoped this was a nightmare.
That I would wake up in bed with her yelling at me for snoring too loud.
Then she stood up again.
Faster this time.
And behind her the other three rose as well.
Mother-in-law first.
Always mother-in-law first whenever something goes wrong.
She shuffled toward me, jaws working like she still wanted to lecture me about my salary.
Pandey ji staggered behind her, office badge swinging.
The third zombie—a neighbor aunty whose name I never bothered learning—licked blood from her fingers like it was chutney.
I backed up.
Hit the wall.
No escape.
Sunita lunged again.
This time I grabbed the first thing my hand touched.
The rolling pin.
The same golden-handled one she used to threaten me with every time I came home late from "office overtime."
Which was actually Old Monk sessions with Pandey ji.
May his soul rest in pieces.
I swung.
Full force.
The rolling pin connected with the side of her skull.
CRACK.
She collapsed.
Didn't get up again.
Mother-in-law hissed.
I turned and brought the rolling pin down on her head.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Each hit made a wet thwack.
She dropped like a sack of rotten vegetables.
Pandey ji came next.
One clean swing to the temple.
He went down like a stack of government files.
The neighbor aunty tried to run.
I chased her into the kitchen.
Cornered her near the gas cylinder.
One final swing.
Silence.
The flat smelled like burnt paratha, iron, and regret.
Four bodies lay around the room.
One of them my wife.
I stared at Sunita's corpse.
Her saree pallu still trailed across the floor like a crumpled flag.
And for the first time in twelve years of marriage…
She wasn't blaming me for anything.
I laughed.
A short broken laugh.
Then I cried.
Then I laughed again.
Because what else do you do when your wife tries to eat you for breakfast?
I walked to the window.
Outside, Jamshedpur was burning.
Smoke rose above Bistupur Market.
Auto-rickshaws lay overturned in the street.
People ran screaming.
A man in a Tata Steel uniform gnawed on a street dog.
Another zombie in a school uniform dragged a bicycle across the road.
Sirens wailed somewhere far away.
But no police came.
No army.
Just chaos.
I looked back at the bodies.
My wife.
My mother-in-law.
My colleague.
Some random neighbor.
And me.
Still alive.
Still holding the rolling pin like it was my new best friend.
I wiped blood off my face.
Tasted copper.
Spit.
Then I said the only thing that made sense.
"Ab toh government holiday declare kar dena chahiye."
I laughed again.
Louder this time.
Because in the middle of the apocalypse…
…the funniest thing was that I might finally get a day off.
I stepped over Sunita's body.
Careful not to step on her pallu.
Old habits die hard.
In the kitchen I turned off the gas stove.
Because even at the end of the world…
Safety first.
Then I opened the fridge.
Took out the last bottle of Thums Up.
Cracked it open.
Took a long swig.
It was warm.
Still tasted like victory.
I raised the bottle toward the corpses.
"Cheers, Sunita ji."
"You always said I was useless."
"Looks like I finally proved you wrong."
Then something scratched against the front door.
Slow.
Hungry.
More of them.
I tightened my grip on the rolling pin.
And smiled.
"Alright then."
"Round two."
Because if the world was ending…
I was going to end it with style.
And this time—
I was definitely getting the last word.
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