Pregnant During An Apocalypse [BL]

Chapter 233: Chapter 233 - Mother’s love

The woman held the small, cold body in her arms, rocking gently as her back slid down the wall of the supply closet. The dim light above flickered, casting shadows that danced across her face. Blood poured steadily from her neck, soaking her tattered clothes and pooling beneath her.

But she didn’t flinch.

She didn’t scream.

She only held him closer—his tiny, zombified mouth latched to her skin, teeth sinking deeper, tearing her open.

The pain blurred her vision. The world dimmed.

They say when you’re about to die, your life flashes before your eyes.

And it did.

But it wasn’t filled with joy or laughter or warmth.

It was cold. Dull. Forgotten.

She saw herself—an infant born from an affair, discarded like trash. Her mother had died shortly after giving birth, and her father never came. She was thrown into an orphanage before she could even form a memory.

She grew up invisible. Unwanted.

Beaten. Mocked. Broken.

At school, her peers tormented her. Spit in her food. Cut her hair. Called her names until they no longer stung—because nothing could hurt more than the silence of having no one.

But as she grew older, she began to hope.

She got a job. She worked hard. And then she met him.

He told her she was beautiful.

He touched her like she mattered.

He whispered promises in the dark and made her believe, just for a moment, that someone could choose her.

But he didn’t.

He left her—without warning, without a word—for a wealthier woman with a pristine smile.

She had cried for days.

Until she found out she was pregnant.

That’s when her life changed.

Her baby boy—her treasure.

He didn’t come into a perfect world, but he brought light with him. A blinding, overwhelming light that burned away all the darkness she had lived in.

When she first held him, tiny and warm in her arms, his little fingers grasping hers—she had cried harder than she ever had. But not out of sorrow.

Out of joy.

He became her everything. Her mornings, her nights, her reason to get out of bed. She got better. Found a better job. Saved every penny. Even hired a nanny to care for him while she worked.

She’d wake before the sun and come back late, exhausted—but the moment she saw his smile, she felt alive again. She loved him more fiercely than anything. Her son. Her only light in a world that had only ever rejected her.

Then it all shattered.

That night—the night her company was overrun with the infected.

She ran. She ran so hard her lungs nearly collapsed, her feet bleeding by the time she reached home.

But it was too late.

She opened the door to her apartment and the first thing she saw was blood. Then the nanny—her face twisted, skin graying, black veins spreading like vines. The woman lunged at her.

The duffel bag dropped from her shoulder.

Her scream never came.

She fought with every ounce of her soul, grabbing anything she could to push the nanny out the window. Glass shattered. The creature tumbled out.

But then she turned.

And saw the nursery door ajar.

Her heart stopped.

She ran inside—saw him. Her baby, his tiny foot bleeding, crying his lungs out.

She fell to her knees. Held him. Rocked him. Whispered, ”It’s okay. Mommy’s here. Mommy’s here.”

That night, he burned with fever. She prayed. Begged. Pleaded to a god she didn’t even believe in.

And sometime in the night, he died.

She didn’t even know. She had fallen asleep with his little body in her arms, thinking maybe it was just the fever breaking.

But when she woke up—

He wasn’t breathing.

Until he was.

She had screamed when she saw his milky eyes, the sharp, needle-like teeth where baby teeth used to be.

But she didn’t throw him away.

She couldn’t.

She placed him gently in the duffel bag. Zipped it halfway so his little arms could peek out. She whispered lullabies as they escaped the city, dodging fires and screams and monsters.

She still had hope.

Surely the scientists would fix this. Someone would help. Someone had to.

And every day since, she’d fed him.

Stolen scraps of meat. The occasional rat. Her own blood, when desperate.

But now...

Now there was nothing left.

Her body was broken.

Her hope was gone.

Her baby—her sweet baby—wasn’t alive. Not truly. And she was too tired to pretend.

So she cradled him close, even as he gnawed into her neck, blood soaking the bag that had become his home.

She chuckled through tears, stroking his cheek with a shaking hand. ”You were everything to me... everything...”

His teeth sunk deeper.

She winced, but didn’t move.

”Let’s be together again, baby,” she whispered, eyes half-lidded now. ”Let Mommy become like you... Let us become one...”

Her body grew colder.

The pain dulled.

And the last thing she did before the world turned black was press a trembling kiss to her son’s forehead and whisper:

”I’ll never leave you again...”

The woman’s breath hitched, shallow and wet. Blood seeped through the fabric of her shirt, warm and sticky. Her vision blurred, her grip loosening as her son—her not-quite-son anymore—murmured soft growls into her neck, still gnawing, still feeding.

She no longer felt the pain.

Only the cold.

Her arms, once trembling with sorrow and strength, now hung limp. Her head tilted back against the wall, eyes glassy, lips parted in a faint smile.

Her last breath slipped from her mouth in a shudder.

And then—stillness.

Silence.

The child pulled away from her neck, his face smeared with blood. He looked up, blinking those eerie, milk-white eyes as if waiting.

Minutes passed.

Then her fingers twitched.

Just once.

Then again.

Her chest, unmoving moments before, rose with a sharp, hollow inhale.

And slowly, her head rolled forward.

Her eyes opened—clouded, gray, lifeless.

The woman was gone.

The creature that now sat in her place blinked slowly. Its head jerked to the side, unsteady, as if rediscovering movement. Blood dripped from the gaping wound on her neck, staining the floor beneath her. Her jaw clenched unnaturally, twitching once. Twice.

Then, the child let out a soft, croaking whimper.

The newly turned woman—mother, monster—lifted her head.

And for a moment, the room was still again.

Then she reached out.

Not with gentleness, but with instinct.

Her bony fingers curled around the small child’s back, dragging him against her chest in a crooked embrace. Her head bowed down toward his shoulder, and he leaned into her as if he recognized something—familiarity, scent, something ancient and buried deep.

Two broken things, side by side.

Two corpses, held together by something that was once love.

A soft, wet sound echoed as her mouth opened, jaw distending slightly—then closed again, slack. The zombies didn’t speak. They didn’t love.

But the way she cradled him... it was almost like memory. Like something deeper than mind and body. Like instinct shaped by sorrow.

Together, they sat in that dark corner of the world, the supply closet heavy with the stench of death.

A mother and her son.

Both gone.

Both still holding on.

And outside, the world burned.