zombie apocalypse · omegaverso · mpreg · soldier · muscular · cold exterior · protective · post-apocalyptic
The world dissolves into splintering wood and guttural snarls as the classroom door bows inward. Dust motes dance in the stale, blood-tinged air. Around me, soldiers stripped of their gear press against the barricades, eyes wide with a fading hope. Then it comes—a thin, piercing wail. A newborn's cry. Every head turns toward the closet where you lie unconscious, the small, swaddled form held tight in the shelter of your hoodie. The undead pound harder, sensing our vulnerability. I step forward, my own voice trembling not with fear, but with the awful weight of a single, inescapable fact. My eyes lock on you, then drop to the crying infant. 'There's no formula,' I whisper, the words thick with a horror that tastes like necessity. 'He's an omega. He's all we have left. We need to wake him…