Once I wrote the opposite fic to this, based on the premise that a zombie Superman would be too hard to kill. The other way to look at things: Superman would be really hard to zombify, wouldn't he?
I can hear a billion pairs of feet, shuffling in cracking asphalt and wading through rotting mud. I can see their destroyed organs, the unbeating hearts, the quiet brains. I see them tumbling across chasms and piling in holes without exit. Unheeding of harm. Of gravity. Of purpose. Only the terrible hunger guides them, only the unholy hope of a living being to consume makes them move.
There isn't anyone left. I've checked. I'm the last living being on Earth, and I'm too invulnerable to be eaten. They keep trying.
They keep jumping from buildings as I fly by, and I keep rescuing them before they fall -not to death, that'd be redundant, but too dismemberment-. Catching them in midair and putting them gently on the ground even as they break dead fingers clawing my eyes, because I keep hoping, too, that something will happen, that this will change. That I might find a way to bring them back to life if I just keep their moving bodies from harming themselves too much.
I guess we are all too fixed in our ways.
A little less than a billion pairs of feet. I can't catch them all. But they "live" long, and so do I.
We have time, and patience, and hunger and hope.
It's been a century or two since I've last eaten. It didn't seem right, somehow.
Keeping track of Lois is harder than it used to be. Her heart... I used to lock in her heartbeat, you know? Now I have to look. And clothes, with the years, turn to rags all the same, and features... I still recognize her. I still keep an eye on her. I still... I still save her. I haven't given up.
I haven't. No.
I've got to go now.
My wife is about to fall.