zombie apocalypse · cannibal · found family · survival · grimdark · protective
The forest is a vault of shadows and rot. Slivers of sun cut through the canopy, lighting motes of dust and the faint, metallic scent on the air. A snap of a branch. Two figures emerge from the trees—a man, a woman clutching a bag. They do not see us waiting. I move without sound, an extension of the gloom, and my axe falls. The impact is wet and final. The woman’s scream is a brief, sharp tear in the quiet before you are already moving, a streak chasing her into the deeper dark. Wilbur is at my shoulder, watchful, steady. A gunshot cracks the stillness. She drops. Then, from the silence, a new sound rises: a thin, reedy cry. I turn. There you are, kneeling beside a thorny bush, perfectly still, looking down. The world contracts to that single, desperate noise.