Can you please write a zombie story with Keegan? Pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty please with a cherry on top? And with sprinkles and syrup? đĽş
Y/n drummed her fingers against her bicep, the quiet tapping echoing faintly against the concrete as she watched the guards shove two new prisoners into the cell across from hers. The pair stumbled insideâa couple, by the look of it. The womanâs long blonde hair was tangled and dusty, her face tight with fear. The man kept an arm wrapped around her, protective in a way that didnât need words.
Married, Y/n guessed. The matching rings glinted under the weak strip of fluorescent light overhead. Or maybe they belonged to someone elseâmaybe they had ripped them off bodies to feel safer. In this world, you could never be sure what anything meant anymore.
The manâs suit, once expensive-looking, was shredded and stained with dirt. The womanâs floral dress clung to her knees, ripped in three places. Her slides slapped softly against the floor as she shifted closer to him. They looked like theyâd been on their way somewhere normalâa party, work, or a dinnerâbefore everything collapsed. Before the dead started hunting the living. How they ended up dragged into this place was a mystery.
Y/n could ask⌠But strangers werenât worth her breath, not with the guards hovering. Especially the ones who hated her guts. Maybe theyâd get interrogated and sheâd hear their story anyway. So she leaned her head back against the freezing concrete wall, arms folded behind her head, and just watched.
One of the guards noticed her staring. His lip curled.
Y/n smiled sweetly, lifted one arm from behind her head, and flipped him off before settling back like she didnât have a care in the world.
âYou little bitch,â he snapped, keys already jangling in his hand as he stepped toward her door.
Not the beatingâshe didnât feel like bleeding todayâbut if he stepped into her cell alone, she could give him something to remember.
He was new. He didnât know the rule: nobody entered her cell alone.
âJordan.â
The older guard sighed, turning sharply. âYou arenât supposed to go in there alone.â
âIâm not alone,â Jordan barked, gesturing at him. âYouâre here. And she needs to learn a lesson before they gut her.â
âWhatever.â The older guard muttered, clearly done arguing. He turned away and stepped into the coupleâs cell, beginning a sloppy pat-down. Y/n rolled her eyesâsearching for them now was useless. They couldâve carried a whole knife set in here by this point.
Jordan unlocked her door with a triumphant flick, stepping inside and pulling it shut behind him â but not locking it. Amateur. He approached with the swagger of someone who thought he had full control.
âBitch, youâre about to be in a world of pain,â he sneered.
âOh no,â Y/n deadpanned, her tone flat, lifeless. âWhatever will I do?â
Jordan swung. She rolled, fast and low, sliding to the far corner and pushing herself up onto her knees.
He blinkedâsurprised she moved that quicklyâthen charged, reaching for her hair. She let him grab it. The moment his fingers tangled in it, she wrapped her arms around his knees and threw her whole weight forward.
Jordan toppled backward with a yelp, cracking against the concrete floor.
âJordan!â the older guard shouted. He shoved the couple aside and sprinted back into her cell, leaving their cell door wide open.
Y/n immediately backed away, palms raised slightly to show she wasnât attacking anymore. She sat calmly in the opposite corner and watched the older guard haul Jordan up, half-carrying him out of her cell.
âIâm gonna kill that bitch!â Jordan spat, voice cracking with humiliation.
âYou canât,â the older guard snapped. âYou shouldâve listened to me.â
Neither of them noticed the husband and wife slipping out of the open cell behind them. Silent as breath, they darted down the hall toward the fire escape.
Y/n smiled to herself, leaning back against the wall again, fingers laced behind her head.
They didnât know it, but they were the perfect distraction.
It took the guards nearly two minutes of arguing before the realization hit them. Their faces drained. Then both bolted down the hallway, shouting and cursing as they gave chase.
Y/n lazily pushed herself to her feet and nudged her cell door open. They hadnât bothered locking it after dragging Jordan out. Typical.
She strolled down the corridor, quiet as a ghost, unlocking each cell as she went. Prisoners didnât cheerâthey knew betterâbut hands reached out, brushing her shoulders, tapping her back in silent thanks.
The cold metal keys jingled in her hand. Sheâd snatched them off Jordan during the takedown. Heâd been too angry, too distracted to notice.
That couple had no idea theyâd just helped start a prison break.
But damnâthey were good at it.
Y/n shoved her handsâkeys clinking faintlyâinto the pockets of her cargo pants as she walked down the hallway. Behind her, chaos rippled through the building. Some of the freed prisoners immediately turned on the guards, slamming them against walls, beating them with yearsâ worth of rage and fear. Others grabbed whatever they could carry and bolted.
Y/n didnât spare them much attention. The people who lived in this so-called âtown,â which was really just a decaying apartment complex pretending to be civilization, were no better than the Biters outside. Maybe worse. At least Biters didnât pretend they were human.
Food had run out months ago. No livestock, no hunters, no one with the brains or skill to survive outside the walls. So these residents had found a solution: lure outsiders in, imprison them, and⌠eat them. Dinner served right to their doorstep.
Y/n thought it was revoltingâand everyone here except for the kids knew exactly what they were consuming. She wasnât lifting a finger to help any of them now.
She had one goal: the storage area.
When they captured people, they didnât steal belongings immediately. Oh noâthat would make them âthieves.â They waited until their victims were dead and eaten, then handed out the possessions like some twisted charity drive.
That meant her gear was probably untouched.
As she rounded a corner, a woman in heels shrieked and sprinted past her, nearly tripping. Y/n turned her head just in time to see a man staggering behind herâface caved in, jaw slack, eyes clouded. Freshly turned.
Y/n let out a tired exhale and kept walking.
Fresh Biters were nothing. Slow, clumsy, barely aware of their own limbs. They shuffled like newborn deer trying to stand for the first time. With the way this man dragged his feet, the woman in heels couldâve out-walked him. Unless she panickedâwhich she obviously had.
Y/n headed down the hall until she reached the storage room. She began trying keys, listening to the distant echo of footsteps, yelling, and the thud of fists against flesh.
On the third key, the lock clickedâand the Biter finally caught up, brushing the doorway. Y/n slipped into the room, grabbed the first long object within reachâa broomâand cracked it across the creatureâs face. Once, twice, three times. Enough to knock it backward into the hall.
Fresh ones were stupid, slow to retaliate, and barely hungry yet. They didnât become dangerous until they agedâa week old, maybe moreâonce their bodies adapted to being dead and the hunger became the only thing driving them. By then, they moved faster, bit harder, and no broom on earth would stop them.
Y/n sometimes wondered how the outbreak had ever gotten so bad when fresh Biters were this easy to avoid. Stupidity, she guessed. Human stupidity spread just as quickly.
She turned her attention to the room. Metal shelves stood in tall rows, each packed with cardboard boxes labeled with numbers. A logbook was chained to the wall, pages stiff and stained. Y/n flipped through it until she spotted the fake name sheâd given on arrival. Her assigned number was 102.
One hundred and one people before her.
She felt her stomach twist in disgust.
Y/n scanned the shelves until she found her box. Inside, her backpack lay crumpled under a pile of her belongings. Theyâd dumped everything out but at least hadnât taken anythingâyet.
Her Tikka wasnât there.
A frown pulled at her mouth as she searched, eyes scanning the room. Then she spotted it: propped against the far wall among an assortment of confiscated guns. Even from across the room she recognized the hand-painted green stockâcamo sheâd done herself back home, before her town fell like the rest.
She crossed the room, grabbed it, and located ammo nearby. She set them beside her pile on the floor.
Working quickly, she buckled her belt around her waist and slid her hatchet, skinning knife, and hunting knife into place. No time for neat packingâshe shoved her snares, foothold trap, 330 conibear, maps, waterproof matches, baggie of birch bark and greased lint, blowtorch lighter, sewing kit, custom first-aid kit, notebooks, pens, sleeping bag, both tarps, flares, sparklers, plate, bowl, plastic cutlery, and spare clothes into the backpack.
Her water bottle was strapped into the side pouch. Ammunition went into the opposite one. She zipped it all tight and slung the pack onto her shoulders, tightening the hip and chest straps until they rested snug against her body.
She picked up her Tikka, adjusting its weight comfortably against her palm, and did one last sweep of the room.
She could always get more the old-fashioned way: with skill, patience, and teeth that werenât filed to points.
Y/n stepped back into the hallway to find the freshly turned Biter still there. It stood facing the wall, forehead nearly pressed to it, groaning softly like some lost, miserable animal. For a moment she just watched it, chest tightening.
Whatever these things had become⌠they shouldnât still be here. They deserved rest. Peace. Souls werenât meant to get stuck like thisâat least thatâs what half the surviving world now believed. She wasnât religious, but even she felt a stab of pity looking at this one.
Being decentâreally decentâwas a rare thing now. She figured she could try.
And killing it meant one less problem later if she ever had to come back to this place. Though she doubted she ever would. Once she walked out of this godforsaken building, this city could rot without her.
She pulled her hatchet from its sheath and approached quietly. The Biter heard her and turned, agonizingly slow, arms lifting as if underwater.
The blade bit deep into its neck with a dull thud. The Biter staggered but didnât fall, so she kicked its legs out, dropping it to the ground. She knelt on its arms to pin them and sat on its chest to keep its mouth away from her thighs, then hacked until its head finally tore free.
Breathing out, she wiped the hatchet clean on its shirt, slid it back into her belt, and continued down the corridor toward the front entrance.
Gunshots cracked through the apartment complex, sharp and chaotic. Human voices screamed over one another. She couldnât tell if they were killing each other in the frenzy of escape or panicking over newly turned Biters. Probably both.
She kept tight to the hallway wall, stepping around bodiesâsome of them twitching as they began to reanimate. Others were already dead-dead, bullet holes peppering their skulls. The metallic tang of blood hung thick in the air. She could practically taste it, copper coating her tongue.
She wondered idly which side would win: the prisoners desperate to survive, or the cannibals desperate to hold their territory.
Sheâd done what she came to do. Mercy and escapeânothing more.
The lobby was pure chaos. Furniture overturned, bodies everywhere, people stabbing and shooting one another in blind panic. Biters sat up slowly on the floor while survivors screamed at them as though the screaming did anything.
Y/n blinked once, unimpressed.
Yeah, she wasnât going through this mess.
She turned around and slipped into the open doorway of a nearby apartment unit. Her boots padded softly on the carpet as she headed straight for the window. The crank squealed as she twisted it, the frame inching open like an ancient car window. She popped the screen out and started swinging one leg overâ
Y/n froze and glanced back over her shoulder.
A little boy stood in the apartmentâs hallway entrance. Shaggy brown hair. Blue eyes glossy with terror. His whole body shook with adrenaline he was too young to understand. His cheeks were streaked with tears, his nose running freely. He clutched a tiny green plastic soldier to his chest like it was a lifeline.
She looked at the open window.
Then at the door behind himâfilled with gunfire, screaming, and violence.
ââŚShit,â she muttered under her breath. She couldnât just leave a kid here.
She stepped back off the window ledge and crouched, approaching him slowly, Tikka held loosely in one hand so she wouldnât scare him more.
âHey, kid,â she said gently, settling cross-legged on the floor in front of him, pretending for a moment that his parents werenât likely lying dead somewhere or shambling around the building.
The boy sniffed hard, shoulders trembling, hands still clamped around the little plastic soldier.
âHey, I like toy soldiers too,â Y/n said, trying for a soft connection. âHad a whole army of them when I was a bit older than you.â
He blinked, another tear slipping down his cheek, snot continuing its slow slide toward his mouth. Gross. She vaguely remembered being a kid like that onceâdisgusting and carefree and only upset when she didnât get her promised after-chores brownie.
âDo you have more in your room?â she asked. âWanna show me?â
Because if he didnât move soon, she was going to be stuck with two options: leave him here and hope someone decent found himâunlikelyâor drag him with her and hope he didnât slow her into a grave.
She was terrible with people.
Her grandfather always said sheâd make a terrible mother. Bastard died two days before the apocalypse startedâthe lucky shit. Sometimes she envied him.
âCome on, kid,â she urged quietly. âLet me see?â
The boy hesitated⌠then nodded and turned, checking over his shoulder to make sure she followed.
She rose and walked with him to his room. A box of green and red soldiers lay on the floorâmost scattered everywhere except where they actually belonged.
âCool collection,â Y/n murmured, scanning the room for his backpack.
She spotted it near the bedâoversized for him, probably bought for school he hadnât attended in a long time. He couldnât be older than eight, maybe nine. Wonderful. An even more helpless age.
She sighed heavily and dumped the toys out of the backpack. The boy watched her with wide, frightened eyes. She didnât bother explaining. Heâd figure it out soon enough.
She rolled up the blanket from his bed as tight as she could and stuffed it inside. Then she rifled through drawersâa T-shirt, sweater, joggers, underwear, and socks. All shoved in.
She grabbed a stuffed monkey off the bed and tossed it to him. He hugged it automatically.
Shoes. She hadnât seen any in the room. Front door, then.
âStay here,â she said firmly, pointing at him before heading out.
In the kitchen, she raided the cabinetsâa few unopened cans, thank god. She pulled off her own backpack and shoved them inside. An unopened bag of Wonder Wraps and a jar of peanut butter went in next. Good enough. They could survive a few days on that.
Back in the boyâs room, he was wiping his face on his sleeve and then licking the snot off his arm.
Kids were foul little creatures.
âSit. Shoes,â she ordered, dropping the pair beside him.
He put them on the wrong feet.
âShit, kid. Switch âem.â
He did, fumbling with the Velcro straps.
Thank god they werenât laces. The apocalypse had taken enough from herâshe didnât need it taking her patience too.
Y/n walked over to the boyâs closet and pushed the door open with her shoulder. A tiny rain jacket hung on the lower hook, bright yellow and uselessly cheerful against the dark apocalypse outside. Next to it sat rain bootsâsmall, rubbery, and definitely waterproof.
Her own hiking boots were practically tanks; sheâd walked through rivers with them and stayed dry. She didnât need the extra weight of carrying rain gear. But this kid? His flimsy little sneakers would soak through if he stepped in a puddle.
Still, she wasnât hauling around a pair of toddler rain boots across a ruined city. He was a childâwet feet wouldnât kill him.
She left the boots and tossed the rain jacket into her own backpack. Her pack was built for multi-day backcountry trips; it could hold far more than anything strapped to the boyâs tiny shoulders.
She spotted a baseball cap jammed into a corner of the closet. Grabbing it, she shoved it down onto his messy brown hair. Then she scanned the closet again. Kids were disasters on two legsâmessy, dirty, stickyâso she grabbed an extra sweater and tied it around his waist.
âYour parents have guns?â she asked, adjusting the knot.
The little boy shook his head.
âAlright then. Letâs go. Follow me.â
She walked out, not bothering to slow down until she reached the window sheâd planned to escape through. A few seconds passed before the kid finally shuffled up beside her, monkey dragging behind him. She let out a silent sigh.
When he reached her, she scooped him up, grabbed his backpack and stuffed monkey in the same motion, and dropped him out the window onto the patch of grass below. A soft thump, no screamsâgood.
She swung one leg out, dropped down after him, and grabbed his tiny hand. It was sticky with snot, and she silently thanked every god that her gloves were fingerless leather instead of bare skin.
They started across the damp grass toward the road. The boy clung to his monkey by one arm, letting it drag trails through the dirt. His legs moved double-time to keep up with her.
Y/n fought the urge to groan. She could walk three times faster than this normally. She almost slung him over her shoulder just to get it over withâbut she didnât. Not yet.
âWatch your feet when you walk,â she told him firmly. âI donât need you tripping every two seconds.â
When they reached the stone wall that surrounded the complex, Y/n dragged over a wooden crate and shoved it against the wall. It made a hollow thud. After boosting herself up, she peered over the top.
Inside the complex: people screaming, fighting, stabbing each other.
Outside the complex: Bitersâolder onesâshambling toward the noise with hollow, hungry eyes.
Those ones were dangerous. No way she could toss the kid over and outrun them both. Not with his twiggy legs.
She jumped back down and scanned the parking lot. Rows of abandoned vehicles sat gathering dust. Most were probably dry tanks by now, but she only needed one with fuel left.
She grabbed the boyâs handâheâd finally stopped cryingâand half-dragged him toward an old pickup truck. The doors were unlocked. She slid in, reached under the steering column, and started yanking wires until the engine coughed awake.
âGood girl,â she muttered to the truck, then tossed her backpack into the back seat.
She picked the kid up and dumped him in the passenger seat. âHold on to the seat, kid.â
She slammed his door shut, climbed into the driverâs seat, and didnât even look toward the seatbelts. Cops were long gone; so were laws.
She floored the gas, spinning gravel as the truck lurched forward toward the main gate. When she got there, she realized the guards were no longer stationed outside. Great. She jumped out, jogged to the gatehouse, and smashed her fist against the button. The metal gates groaned and rolled openâa loud, awful sound that instantly pulled Biters toward the opening.
She sprinted back to the truck, dove in, and hit the gas again. The tires screeched as she barreled straight through the forming cluster of Biters. Bodies thumped under the tires. Something wet slapped against the windshield.
A smear of grey-green gunk slid down the glass.
The fluid splattered across the mess, and the wipers dragged it away in sticky streaks.
She couldnât help itâshe snorted. Yeah, okay. It was kinda funny.
She kept hitting Biters and pushing through until the truck burst out onto the open road. Stray groups of infected still wandered the city streets like lost cattle, but she wasnât getting out to fight any of them. Not today.
âFaster!â the boy said, clapping his hands.
Y/n stared at him for a beat.
Then shrugged and pushed the speedometer up to ninety.
Stupid, reckless, dangerousâbut who the hell cared now?
She eased back to seventy for corners, weaving around wreckage and the occasional zombie group.
Biters stumbled all across the roads. Every street felt clogged with death. She honestly couldnât remember what had possessed her to come into this city. Probably that stupid plan sheâd had about crossing the border into the U.S.
She was heading north again. Away from Sault Ste. Marieâa city sheâd always hated even before the apocalypse. Border city. Drug hub. Trafficking haven. A perfect place for the world to rot from the inside out.
She wondered how the addicts were doing now, without their fix.
But then againâwho was?
âWhatâs your name, kid?â Y/n asked, pulling her eyes off the cracked asphalt long enough to glance at him.
He sat sideways in the seat, little legs splayed out, making his stuffed monkey âclimbâ the side of the seat like it was scaling a mountain. His backpack was still strapped on him, bulging awkwardly behind his shoulders. She wondered if she should tell him he could take it off or if heâd eventually notice on his own.
âIâm Benjamin,â he said brightly, looking up at her with eyes too big and too innocent for this world.
Y/n swerved hard around an abandoned car blocking half the lane, and Benjamin slid sideways across the seat. His head didnât hit anythingâhe just burst out laughing, like it was a carnival ride.
âHow old are you, Ben?â She was not calling him âBenjamin.â Too many syllables, too much effort.
âIâmâŚâ He paused, looking at his fingers. Finally he held up six of them. âThis many!â
âShit,â Y/n muttered under her breath.
Of all the disasters she expected today, caring for a six-year-old wasnât one of them. Six was the worst possible age: needy, slow, loud, emotional, and small enough to get snatched by anything with teeth. Her summer plan had been simpleâfind a place to settle, stockpile supplies for winter, and avoid people.
Dragging a child across the wilderness was not part of the plan.
Dump him on some settlement between here and Thunder Bay.
A group stupid enough to take responsibility for him.
âThatâs a bad word,â Ben scolded.
âYeah, no shit, eh?â she mumbled.
âYou said it again!â Ben gasped. âMommy says you canât say those words!â
âDid Mommy also tell you to eat all the meat on your plate?â Y/n asked dryly.
âYep! And I do! Iâm a good boy!â he giggled.
âYeah, well, donât listen to your mom anymore. You can swear or whatever around me.â Y/n sighed as the truck rolled onto the highway.
She waited for him to start crying for his parents. To ask where they were. To break down the way most kids did after realizing they were alone.
He just kept playing with his monkey, humming to himself.
Fine. Less noise for her to deal with.
Y/n steered the truck along the empty highway, jagged cracks and weeds eating the asphalt. She didnât bother with the radio; the towers had died months ago, and listening to static wasnât her kind of entertainment anyway. Any group stupid enough to broadcast âWeâre safe, come join us!â was probably already dead.
Being alone was easier. Cleaner. No one to slow her down.
She glanced at Ben again. He was kicking his feet gently, backpack now slumped sideways on the seat, monkey climbing up and down his knee. Totally unbothered. How? She had no idea.
âYou can take the bag off, kid,â she told him.
âOkay!â Ben wriggled out of the straps and kicked the bag to the truck floor, then went right back to playing.
It was only a matter of time before he got bored. Kids got bored faster than fire burned through dry pine. She needed something else to keep him quiet before he started asking for snacks or stories or whatever six-year-olds wanted.
A gas station appeared up ahead, sun-faded and cracked. Good enough.
The truck had dipped to a quarter tank. She pulled into the lot and parked beside the pumps. If she was lucky, the tanks still had something left. If she wasnât⌠well, sheâd probably start swearing enough to make Benâs ears fall off.
The apocalypse had kicked into overdrive at the end of March. April was when it officially explodedâcities drowning in panic and infection. Y/n had been part of a group of twelve at the time, all of them dead from their own stupidity before May even rolled in. Sheâd gone solo from then on.
Now it was Juneâsecond weekâand she figured humanity and Biters were about fifty-fifty across the continent. Between Sudbury and Thunder Bay? More like ninety percent Biters, ten percent humans. And that was in the sparsely populated north.
Down south mustâve been a damn buffet for the undead.
She stepped out of the truck, scanning the quiet roadside, hopingâprayingâthat people hadnât sucked this gas station dry.
If these tanks were empty, she was going to swear a hell of a lot more than Benâs mom ever allowed.
Wasnât she just a delightful role model?
âCan I come out?â Ben asked quietly as Y/n started to shut the driver-side door.
She scanned the empty gas station lot. No Biters in sightâthey rarely drifted toward places with no food to hunt.
âHell, why not,â she muttered, slamming her door shut.
She circled around to his side and opened the passenger door. His backpack immediately tumbled out and smacked the cement with a dull thud. Y/n sighed, scooped it up, and tossed it back onto the seat. She reached inside for her gun and pulled it out, keeping it loosely in her right hand. Out here, anything could go wrong fast.
The air was still and quiet except for the wind rattling a loose sign above the pumps. She approached the pump station, stopped, and groaned.
âGreat,â she muttered, turning toward the convenience store.
Ben followed after her, hopping from crack to crack on the sun-bleached asphalt like it was some kind of game. She wouldâve rolled her eyes if she didnât remember doing the same thing as a bored kid walking to school.
The storeâs front door was locked, blinds drawn halfway, but there were two large windows beside itâeasy entry if she broke them. If she shattered them well enough, it would look looted, and scavengers might avoid stopping here later. More supplies left behind for her.
She glanced back at Ben. Heâd dropped the stick heâd been playing with and was crouched in the dirt poking at a bug. She scanned the ground for his stuffed monkey but didnât see it anywhere.
Whatever. If he wasnât crying, it wasnât her problem.
She bent down and picked up several fist-sized rocks.
âMove away from the window, kid,â she said, raising an arm to throw.
âWhy?â Ben asked, standing there like a tiny, clueless statue.
Y/n pressed her lips together.
Of course kids didnât listen unless you spelled it out.
âBecause Iâm throwing rocks through the glass and youâll get hurt,â she said, more annoyed than she had any right to beâbut also aware she hadnât told him her plan in the first place.
Benâs eyes lit up. âCan I do it too?â
âSure,â Y/n said with a shrug.
He grabbed a rock with both hands, lifting it like it weighed as much as he did.
Y/n stepped back, wound up, and hurled the first rock. It smashed straight through the center of the pane, leaving a clean hole rimmed with cracks. She raised an eyebrow. Weak glass.
It arced three feet ahead⌠and plopped uselessly on the pavement.
He didnât look disappointedâhe jumped up and down excitedly, proud of himself for even throwing it.
Y/n shook her head and kept throwing until sheâd punched enough holes to make climbing through safe. Then she grabbed Benâs dropped stick and used it to knock out the remaining loose shards. Glass tinkled to the ground like falling ice.
Ben scampered to her side, scooping the stick back up as soon as she let it fall.
âWait for me to let you in,â Y/n instructed, stepping carefully through the window frame into the store. She held her gun at the ready, sweeping each aisle.
It didnât take long to clear the place. No Biters. Just the sour smell of rotâspoiled milk, molding pastries, ruptured cans. Anything that needed refrigeration had long since become sludge.
She pushed into the back room, scanning shelves until she spotted a dusty breaker panel. Painter's tape across the front read GAS PUMPS. Good.
She flipped open the panel and switched everything on but heard nothing. Her shoulders sank. Of course it couldnât be that easy.
She scanned the room again.
There was a generator enclosed behind chicken wire, with a small makeshift door cut into it. She slipped inside, grabbed the pull cord, and yanked until the machine sputtered awake.
Lights flickered on in the store. Coolers hummed. Something buzzed to life in the ceiling.
She returned to the window and found Ben smacking leftover chunks of glass on the ground with his stick, humming to himself. She hooked her hands under his armpits and lifted him inside.
âStay in here until I come for you,â she said firmly.
There was enough junk in the placeâold magazines, keychains, plastic toysâthat he could entertain himself for a few minutes. Hopefully.
Y/n stepped back through the window, crossed the lot, and returned to the pumps. The lights on the panel were glowing now. She selected the fuel type she needed, shoved the nozzle into the truckâs tank, and pressed the trigger.
Gas started flowing with a deep, satisfying rush.
It took her nearly two minutes to fill the tank. The nozzle kept clicking off every few seconds, forcing her to squeeze the trigger again and again until the tank finally topped out. When the handle went still and the pump beeped, she shoved the nozzle back onto its stand and stepped away from the truck, rubbing her thumb across her palm.
She eyed the vehicle thoughtfully.
Yeah⌠she should fill some gas cans too. If she was going to survive the summer, emergency fuel would be worth more than gold. One good bungee cord job in the bed, and sheâd have backup reserves in case they got stranded somewhere.
Y/n walked a slow circle around the truck, inspecting it.
It was an older model, early 2000s by the look of it. Nothing fancy. Nothing complicated. That suited her fineâsimple trucks were easier to repair. Back home, everyone drove old beat-up pickups for exactly that reason. Too cheap to buy new ones, too smart to trust electronics.
It had rust creeping up the bottom of the doors, but nothing she couldnât fix when she had time. On the front grille and both doors, she spotted the RAM logo. A RAM 1500. She didnât know much about the release years, but she liked the look of it. Black paint, boxy but solid, the kind of truck that could bounce across bush roads without falling apart.
She could work with this.
After all hell broke loose, sheâd mostly traveled on foot or by water. A canoe, a kayak, the occasional fishing boat. Sometimes she hitched rides from strangers, but that always ended with them wanting her to stayâjoin their group, be part of somethingâand she hated that. So she left every time.
A truck was independence.
If she could keep it fueled and running, it meant control.
She decided right then she was keeping it.
Y/n turned and headed back to the store, climbing in through the busted window. Sheâd almost forgotten Ben existed until she saw him sitting cross-legged on the floor, flipping through a magazine about buying and selling used trucks.
âHey, kid.â She snapped her fingers to get his attentionâthe way people grabbed dogsâ focus. Close enough.
Benâs head shot up. âTrucks!â he exclaimed, holding the magazine up proudly.
âYeah, cool.â Y/n muttered. âYouâre gonna help me carry some stuff to the truck, âkay?â
It wasnât a request.
âOkay!â He sprang up, abandoning the magazine and his stick on the floor.
Y/n really hoped he wasnât a messy kid. She had enough work keeping herself alive. Cleaning up after a six-year-old wasnât on her apocalypse bingo card.
âMake a pile of stuff that looks useful,â she told him, waving vaguely at the aisles.
While Ben scurried off, she went searching for jerrycans. She found a stack of them on a bottom shelf and grabbed two, lugging one in each hand outside to the pumps.
She filled the first can in thirty seconds.
The secondâanother thirty.
She screwed both caps tight, carried them to the truck bed, and set them down. Five-gallon cans. If the truck tank was roughly thirty gallons, sheâd need about six cans to equal a full tankâs worth of backup fuel.
She went back inside for two more, filled them, and secured them. Went in again for another set, did it again. When she stepped back and looked at the truck bed now carrying six full jerrycans, she felt a rare flicker of satisfaction.
Good work. Solid plan. Backup fuel for weeks if she rationed it well.
She returned to the store to check on Ben.
He had made a single pile on the floor.
A pile consisting entirely of jerky and pepperettes.
Not a bad first instinct.
She found him tossing more meat sticks and jerky bags into the growing heap.
âHey, kid,â she called.
âYes?â He looked up at her, eyes wide and hopeful. âAm I doing a good job?â
âItâd be even better if you found some bags to put it all in,â Y/n said.
Benâs eyes somehow widened even more, sparkling with excitement. He gasped like sheâd just given him a sacred quest and immediately ran off down an aisle, searching wildly for bags.
Y/n watched him go, comparing him in her mind to a hyperactive raccoon knocking things off shelves.
Then she hefted two more jerrycans, carried them out, filled them, and added them to the six she already had.
By the time she finished, she stood beside the truck with eight neatly filled gas cans lined up like loyal soldiers.
She nodded to herself, pleased.
Sometimes survival was just preparationâand today she was damn prepared.
Y/n stepped back into the store and immediately spotted Ben on the floor with a cloth bag nearly the size of his entire torso. He was stuffing jerky and pepperettes into it with the intense focus of a puppy burying treats. When she walked past him, she gave him a thumbs up.
If heâd had a tail, Y/n was sure it wouldâve been thumping the linoleum.
She moved down the aisles, scanning shelves with a survivalistâs eye.
Small toys and stale candy.
Outdoor clothes folded crookedly under dusty fluorescent lights.
Knives, snare wire, and a row of tacky raccoon-tail keychains.
Farther down were pre-apocalypse staples: popcorn kernels, ramen packets, and assorted snacks that would outlive humanity. In the back aisles, she found fishing gear, oils, washer fluids, and even more jerrycansâthough her truck bed couldnât take another ounce.
She headed up front again, grabbed an empty cloth bag off the floor, and went straight to the snack aisle. Sweeping nuts, popcorn, and anything shelf-stable into the bag, she filled it to the bottom seam. There was still room, so she shoved on a few bags of expired pretzels for good measure. She tied the top and dropped it by Ben.
Another bag came nextâshe filled this one with cans. Soup, beans, condensed meals, ravioli, and even mystery-label stuff where the stickers were half peeled off. Didnât matter. Food was food. In the apocalypse, the only bad can was an empty one.
With enough space left over, she tossed in ramen bricks and instant noodle cups, making a rattling mountain inside the bag. That one also joined the growing stash in front of Ben, who proudly guarded everything with his stick.
Soaps. Medicine. A few spare clothes. Fishing gear and knives. Bug spray.
And one shelf of mosquito coilsâlifesavers in northern June, when the bugs would get so bad theyâd drive you half-feral. Cities used to keep insect numbers down with traffic and routine garbage pickup, but no one was cleaning anything anymore. The bugs were going to explode this year.
After loading the final bag, she made Ben help her carry everything outside. She took the bag of cans first so heâd be forced to pick something lighterâthough he seemed determined to cling to the jerky bag like it was treasure.
By the time Y/n had made three full trips, Ben had brought out exactly one thing: his bag of jerky. Then heâd gone back inside to retrieve his stick and his magazine and finally plopped himself down beside the truck tire like a tiny overseer while she did all the real work.
The next half hour was a symphony of swearing, creaking straps, and tarp wrestling.
Y/n fought with bungee cords and ratchet straps, looping them around the jerry cans, bags, and supplies. She stretched the tarp over the load and cursed at every knot, every snag, and every time the wind caught the edge.
Ben piped up after every swear word.
âYouâre not supposed to say that!â
âAnd I told youâI donât care. You can say whatever you want too.â
Which, naturally, led to the six-year-old repeating every curse she muttered under her breath like an enthusiastic parrot.
But eventually, the tarp sat tight over the bed of the truck, everything secure, nothing rattling loose.
Y/n wiped the sweat from her forehead and exhaled.
âOkay, in you go, kid.â She opened the passenger door and jerked her chin toward the seat.
He scrambled up, sitting beside his bag and his monkey like he owned the place.
Y/n circled to the driverâs side, leaned in, and hot-wired the truck for the second time that day. The engine coughed awake. She tossed her Tikka against the seat beside her and shut the door.
A second later, the tires rolled over cracked pavement, and they pulled back onto the empty roadâleaving the looted gas station and shattered window behind them.
**********************************
