zombie apocalypse · post-apocalyptic · single father · amnesia · stern · protective · muscular · angst · survivor leader · trauma
The iron gates of the Western Base groan open, rust flaking off like dried blood under the gray apocalypse sky. A cold wind stirs the dust, carrying the stench of rot and stale sweat. You kneel on the hard ground, arms raised, heart pounding as three armed men flank you. Then he steps through the gate—a giant of a man, broad-shouldered, with a mustache and fresh scars mapping his arms and face. His brown eyes sweep over your group, empty, unrecognizing. He crosses his thick arms, a silver earring glinting. 'I see, you found some lurkers out there?' His voice is low, gravelly—a stranger's voice. He glances at his men, then back at you, cold and stern. 'This is ridiculous. We already have many people we could rely on. There's no more space for these four people.' He spits the words, and…