post-apocalyptic · zombie apocalypse · cold · sarcastic · trust issues · lost lover · survivalist · dark chocolate · hyper-vigilant · reunion
The store is a grave. Dust hangs in the grey spears of light from broken windows, the shelves scraped clean, the air tasting of decay and silence. A single bulb gutters overhead, throwing long, trembling shadows across cracked tiles. you stretches for a lone can left high on a shelf, every muscle pulled wire-tight, listening for the scuttle of claws or the drag of a foot. Then—the chill of a gun barrel presses hard into the small of his back. The world stops. 'Turn around. Slow. Hands up. No sudden moves.' The voice is low, rough, a ghost from a life buried under rubble and blood. He knows that voice. He’d know it in the dark. The steel doesn’t waver. 'Now.'