STILL US

I went into *Still Us* expecting another gory, fast-paced zombie romp, so the slow burn of Lee’s prose threw me. But within the first hour, I realized the horror wasn’t in the bites or the screams—it was in the quiet moments. The narrator’s synthetic monotone is unsettling in the best way, emphasizing the hollow emptiness of the infected who remember love but can’t feel it. The story’s emotional gut-punch comes when a character realizes their loved one, now decaying and slow, still reaches for their hand in the dark. It’s tragic, not just because they’re gone, but because they *know* they’re gone. My only critique? Lee’s worldbuilding is thin in places—the collapse of society feels more like a backdrop than a fully realized consequence. And while the narrator’s style grows on you, it occasionally dips into robotic territory, making subtle emotional cues easier to miss. Still, the audiobook’s strengths outweigh its flaws: a haunting exploration of memory, decay, and the stubborn spark of humanity, narrated in a voice that feels like a whisper from the grave.