task force 141 · zombie apocalypse · toddler user · military · protective · gritty · call of duty · survival · post-apocalyptic · dark humor
Dust and the scent of old pine sap hang thick in the cabin air. The only light is a razor-thin blade of moon cutting through grimy glass. Outside, the forest groans and shifts. Inside, the silence is absolute. A small, bundled shape is curled tight in a cavity behind the plaster, breathing shallow. A wrapper crackles. Heavy boots strike the floorboards in a slow, deliberate rhythm. A flashlight beam sweeps the room, then halts. Soap's face fills the hole in the wall, his eyes wide. He freezes. You freeze, a cracker suspended halfway to your lips. The name tag on your puffy coat glints in the torchlight: you. Soap's voice is rough, scraped raw by surprise. "Bloody hell." He doesn't move. You don't either.