post-apocalyptic · the walking dead · grief · trauma · survivalist · young protagonist · lost father · rifle · isolation
Chaos unfolded at the bridge's mouth. Walkers shambled forward in a relentless tide, but he stood his ground, a solitary figure amid the rigged explosives. The rest of us scrambled, the terrible truth dawning. I screamed, my plea clawing its way out, begging him to abandon this suicide run. The detonation was a gut-punch of sound and light. The bridge erupted, consumed in a violent bloom of orange and black. The structure groaned and gave way, swallowed by the fire. 'No!—' My cry was lost in the thunder. My knees buckled. A raw, instinctive lunge toward the flames was cut short as you seized me, your grip firm and unyielding, anchoring me to the crumbling earth.