Keegan's wife

🌸 A self-taught artist | Illustrator with a deep devotion and thirst for Keegan P. Russ🌸

[augustalla]

I finally got my account back (idk what happened) but my exams finish at 30th so hopefully I’ll be able to come back online here afterwards (unless my account starts acting up again 😭) 💖💖💖 I MISS THIS PLACE AND THE STORIES IVE BEEN READING RAHHHHHHHHHHH

[augustalla]

mind u these r big ass exams with little to no time

btw elections happened so they had to postpone the exams by a bit

[augustalla]

my body is going cold for the two exams tomorrow held together which is both maths and physics related 💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔 PRAY FOR MEEEEEEEEEEE

[augustalla]

Pray for me, I’m about to start the most dreadful assignment ever which will probably take eternity to complete

[augustalla]

[augustalla]

guys I’m alive, this has just been my situation for the past few days *sob*

I’ve been soo busy with my academic stuff, especially because exams are coming up next month that I’ve had almost no time to come to tumblr *sniff* i swear my heart legit started hurting because I wanted to read the fanfics so bad *sob* but every time I came home, I got so tired and I couldn’t do much other than study and sleep *sniffs* my whole body is aching because I participated in an athletic program that comes once a year and the finale was yesterday *sob* and now I have like 5 assignments waiting for me *SNIIIIIIIIIFFFFFFFS* I see chichi uploading an nsfw chapter and I’m not even close to that part yet because of all this, and now I feel like ripping my hair out while crying cause I NEED TO READ THAT SHIT 😭😭😭 I NEED KEEGAN’S PULSATING VEINY HARD COCK RIGHT NEOWWWWW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The good thing though is that I’ve got some free days before the exam starts so starting tomorrow I can try to binge read everything because my cooch can’t wait to read the latest chapter 🤤🤤🤤

oh btw, the drink is not alcoholic or anything. It’s actually just like coke but without the blood from genocide funding 💗

[augustalla]

eating hazelnut ice cream so yummy

[augustalla]

cough

[augustalla]

eating hazelnut ice cream so yummy

[chichi-the-treetea]

Keegan Zombie Apocalypse Part 46

Part 45 | Part 47 |

ALL PARTS HERE

Y/n was still shaking.

It wasn’t the violent, uncontrollable kind—more the aftershock of fear, the kind that lingered once your body realized you were safe but hadn’t quite convinced your nerves yet. Her eyes stayed wide, unfocused, as Keegan’s hands remained steady on her shoulders, grounding her in place. His grip wasn’t tight, just firm enough to remind her where she was.

She was sitting upright on her bed. Keegan was sitting on her hips, knees braced into the mattress on either side of her legs, close enough that she could feel his warmth through the thin fabric of her shirt. She knew exactly why he was there like this—why he hadn’t immediately moved away when she’d woken up gasping, half-drowned in a dream that still clung to her lungs.

After Ajax and she had dragged him back to camp and gotten him into bed, they’d agreed on the lie easily. Too easily. Keegan had been out scouting, picking berries, lost track of time. He’d come back too late for dinner and crashed. No one questioned it—no one wanted to other than Elias who was quickly distracted by Elodie. Y/n had spent the afternoon and evening hovering in her cabin, half-watching Keegan sleep off the poison and half-trying to distract herself by reorganizing her clean laundry three different times, trying to find a spot where it didn’t look as messy as it did. Shirts folded, unfolded, refolded. Pants stacked and restacked. Anything to keep her hands busy.

She’d locked her bedroom door, too. Not out of secrecy—out of prevention. Ben and Selena had a habit of wandering, and tonight was not a night she wanted small, curious faces walking in on Keegan unconscious in her bed.

Ajax had handled Ben after dinner. She hadn’t been there, but she could imagine it well enough: the quiet tone, the serious look, the explanation about food and lying and how easily people could get hurt. Ben hadn’t meant to poison anyone. That almost made it worse, but there was still a lesson in there that he needed to learn and that Y/n was not gentle enough to teach.

“Hey,” Keegan murmured.

His thumb brushed along her arm in a slow, deliberate motion—comfort, not control. His voice was low and rough, still edged with exhaustion.

“Hi,” Y/n answered.

Her own voice sounded strange to her ears, thinner than usual. She blinked a few times, focusing on the slope of his shoulders, the familiar lines of him. Her breathing started to steady, shallow gasps easing into something closer to normal.

Keegan blinked too, like he was only just fully registering her again. Then, carefully, he shifted his weight off her and swung his legs off the bed. One hand came up to cover his mouth as he stood abruptly and staggered toward the bathroom.

“Oh—” Y/n breathed.

She didn’t hesitate. She slid off the bed and caught his arm before he could get far, guiding him the last few steps. He barely needed her help—his body knew what to do—but she stayed there anyway, a hand on his forearm, another steadying his shoulder as he dropped to his knees in front of the toilet.

It was less about support and more about presence.

Keegan knelt there, breathing hard through his nose, shoulders rising and falling. He pulled his hand away from his mouth and exhaled slowly, shakily, like he was trying to convince his body not to betray him.

“It’s better if you just get it out of your system now,” Y/n murmured, crouching beside him. “Better this way than the other. And I’m not helping you if it comes out the other end.”

Keegan let out a low, miserable groan.

“Be quiet,” he muttered, voice strained.

She smirked faintly but did as he asked—at least for a moment. She watched him instead, eyes tracing the way his hands trembled where they rested on the toilet seat. She hoped, selfishly, that he wouldn’t ask why she’d woken up like that, why she’d been crying in her sleep. She barely remembered the dream herself now—just flashes. Forget-me-nots in her hands. Cold water. Hands pulling her under.

Even half-remembered, it made her chest tighten.

Keegan leaned more heavily onto his arms, and Y/n grimaced despite herself. The logical part of her brain reminded her that she cleaned the bathroom regularly—once a week without fail, sometimes with help from the kids. She’d scrubbed it yesterday, even, while Keegan had been unconscious and drooling into her pillow.

Still.

He was shirtless. Bare skin against porcelain that other people’s bare asses had been on.

The thought made her stomach roll. She looked away quickly, focusing instead on the scratches in the wooden floor.

Another groan tore out of Keegan, this one deeper. His hands slid to his forearms, fingers digging in as his whole body shook.

Y/n didn’t like this.

She didn’t like seeing him like this—unsteady, vulnerable, suffering. Keegan was always the one who watched her back, who stitched her up, who stayed calm when everything went sideways. Seeing him reduced to this—sick and shaking—made something uneasy twist in her chest.

Yes, it was partly his fault. And Ben’s. Keegan should’ve known better than to trust a kid with mystery food and a claim that Y/n had said it was safe. He was lucky Ben had boiled the mushrooms at all. Raw fly agaric would’ve dropped him long before the hallucinations ever kicked in and than once again once they were done.

Still.

“Keegan,” she said quietly, placing a hand on his back.

His skin was warm beneath her palm, damp with sweat. She rubbed small circles between his shoulder blades.

“Either you throw up now,” she added, deadpan, “or I stick my fingers down your throat. And if I have to do that, I’m going to be very unhappy.”

“Be quiet, please,” he ground out, words forced through clenched teeth.

She raised an eyebrow. He was fighting it—hard. Maybe out of stubbornness. Maybe because he didn’t fully understand yet.

“Keegan,” she said again, softer this time. “Throwing up is the nicest way your body has to get the poison out of you.”

He froze.

“…Poison?” he echoed hoarsely. “Who drugged me?”

The word hit him all at once. His body lurched forward, instinct finally winning out, head hovering dangerously close over the toilet bowl. For a second, Y/n thought he’d give in.

But he didn’t.

He swallowed it back down, breath hitching, then sagged again, forehead resting on his crossed arms.

Y/n sighed, half exasperated, half worried, and kept her hand steady on his back.

“You drugged yourself, idiot,” Y/n said flatly, her voice low but edged with irritation. She stayed crouched beside him, one hand still planted between his shoulder blades. “Now throw it up.”

Keegan let out a strained groan, forehead still resting on his crossed arms. “I… I don’t remember taking anything.” There was no panic in his voice—just a dull, oddly calm confusion that made Y/n frown. It didn’t sit right with her. He sounded too accepting of the situation, like he’d already resigned himself to whatever was happening.

“Yeah,” she shot back. “Because you were high out of your damn mind.” She shifted closer, her knee brushing his hip. “Now puke it up, soldier boy.”

He huffed weakly, lips twitching into something that might’ve been a grin if he weren’t so pale. “Oh yeah, sweetheart?”

Y/n stared at him for a second, unimpressed. “…I think you might still be high,” she muttered.

“No,” Keegan said quietly. “I’m not.”

She watched the slow rise and fall of his ribs, how carefully he was controlling his breathing. Too carefully. Every inhale was measured, every exhale deliberate, like he was bracing himself against something he refused to let happen. It finally clicked, and her irritation shifted into something sharper.

Why was he fighting this?

Throwing up would help. He knew that now. She’d told him plainly. It would be quicker, easier, and a hell of a lot more merciful than the alternative. Merrick and Ajax would riot if Keegan spent the next twelve hours locked in their shared bathroom with food poisoning coming out the bottom end. And she was not letting him use her bathroom to do that either, she’d prefer if he used Elodie’s.

“Keegan,” she said, firmer now.

He hummed faintly in response, eyes still closed.

“Throw up.”

“No.”

She blinked, incredulous. “Are you… scared of throwing up?”

His shoulders tensed, just barely. “No. I just don’t like doing it.”

For a second, Y/n just stared at him.

“You have got to be shitting me,” she said slowly. “You’re a soldier. You ran into a town that would’ve killed you just to save me. You’ve probably seen things that would make most people lose their lunch permanently.” She gestured vaguely at him. “And you’re telling me you won’t puke because you don’t like it?”

“It’s different,” he said quietly, exhaling through his nose again, jaw clenched.

That did it.

Y/n straightened, her patience snapping clean in half.

“This is for your own good,” she announced.

“What—?” Keegan started, lifting his head just enough to look back at her.

Too late.

Y/n moved fast. She shifted behind him, bracing his back forward with her knees and legs, using her weight to tip him over the toilet properly. One hand went into his hair—not yanking, but firm enough to control him—while the other shoved past his lips.

He was breathing through his mouth, which made it easier than she’d expected. She pushed her fingers in, deeper than polite, deeper than comfortable, searching blindly for the back of his throat. She couldn’t remember the name of the dangly thing she was aiming for, but she knew damn well what it did.

“Throw up,” she ordered.

Keegan gagged hard, body jerking. One of his hands came up, smacking weakly at her leg in protest as another retch tore out of him.

Y/n pulled her fingers back just in time.

He heaved violently into the toilet, stomach convulsing as bile and mostly-digested food splashed into the bowl. The smell hit instantly—sharp, sour, unmistakable—and Y/n gagged once in sympathy. She reached blindly for the nearest towel, yanking it off the back of the bathroom door and clamping it over her mouth and nose while wiping her spit-slick fingers against it.

Unfortunately, the smell only made it worse for him.

Keegan gagged again, then again, retching until his body shook with it. His face had gone pale, a faint sheen of sweat breaking out across his shoulders as his stomach emptied itself. Y/n stayed where she was, one hand hovering near his back in case he pitched forward too hard, the other keeping the towel pressed over her face.

Finally, the heaving slowed.

Keegan slumped, breathing ragged but easing, the violent tremors fading into smaller, involuntary shakes. After a moment, he leaned back from the toilet and sagged against the wooden wall, eyes closed, head tipped back as he dragged in air like he’d just run a mile.

Y/n reached forward and flushed the toilet, watching the water swirl everything away. She noticed absently that the pipes were already running water—someone had been up earlier than she had and turned the pump system on. Elodie, probably. She always took early showers, like the world wasn’t ending.

Keegan suddenly moved.

Before Y/n could react, his arms slid around her hips and tugged her closer. She stumbled forward with a startled curse, catching herself on the wall as she dropped down onto her knees between his legs. He pressed his face into her shoulder, breathing slow and deep now, grounding himself there like she was an anchor.

“Keegan,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “Let go of me. You have puke on your face.”

She glanced pointedly toward the toilet.

She wasn’t heartless—she’d comforted sick kids, cleaned up animal messes, scrubbed blood out of clothes without blinking. But grown adults who made themselves sick? That was their responsibility. Including wiping their own damn mouths before clinging to someone else.

She pulled the towel away from her face and pressed it against his mouth instead, wiping him clean with efficient, no-nonsense movements. She scrubbed the worst of it off his chin, then dragged the towel across her own shoulder where he’d smeared it before letting it drop to the floor.

“Gross,” she muttered, though there was no real heat in it.

Unless she was already sick herself or on her period, stuff like this didn’t bother her much. It was unpleasant, sure—but manageable. And right now, Keegan was shaking less. His breathing was steadier. Miserable, but better.

Which meant, whether he liked it or not, she’d done the right thing.

Keegan groaned again and tightened his hold on her, pulling her closer without really meaning to. For him, it was grounding—warmth, something solid to latch onto while his body tried to finish purging the mistake he’d made. For Y/n, it was awkward as hell.

She was still on her knees, dragged forward until her shoulders were nearly pressed into his chest and the wall behind him. His face was buried against her shoulder again, his forehead knocking lightly against the wood as he worked to keep his breathing steady. The position put too much of his weight on her, and the angle was all wrong for someone who might start retching again at any second.

“Keegan,” she grumbled, already annoyed, “let go.”

“No,” he muttered, voice muffled against her shoulder.

Then, immediately contradicting himself, he loosened his grip but only to shift her instead. He turned her carefully, guiding her back until her spine rested against his chest, her weight supported better this way. One of his arms settled loosely around her middle, not trapping her now, just holding on enough to keep himself steady.

Y/n stiffened. “What are you doing?”

She didn’t like that she couldn’t see his face anymore. She really didn’t like not being able to watch for the warning signs—the hitch of his shoulders, the sharp inhale that meant she needed to move now unless she wanted vomit in her hair.

“Trying to calm down,” he answered quietly. “Sweetheart.”

“Don’t call me that,” she snapped instantly.

He let out a slow breath, warm against the back of her neck. “You like it.”

Her jaw clenched. “You don’t know that.”

She tried to wriggle out of his arms, irritation spiking, but the movement made his stomach lurch again. He hissed under his breath and let go immediately, planting one hand on the wall and the other clamping over his mouth as he leaned forward towards the toilet again.

“I know a lot,” he muttered once the wave passed, breathing through his nose in slow, controlled pulls. “And don’t stick your fingers down my throat again.”

Y/n snorted and pushed herself up to her feet, rolling her shoulders. “Guess you don’t have a kink for that, then.”

Her eyes flicked toward the shower. Honestly, it would solve a lot of problems. He could get clean, puke if he needed to, and the water would take care of the mess. After that, once he was conscious enough to be embarrassed, she could absolutely make him scrub the entire bathroom top to bottom for putting her through this.

“I don’t got any kinks, sweetheart,” Keegan mumbled, now hunched over the toilet.

She turned slowly, one eyebrow arching. “Now that is a lie if I’ve ever heard one.”

He glanced at her, confusion flickering across his face, but didn’t answer—probably because opening his mouth again felt risky.

“Everyone has a kink,” Y/n continued matter-of-factly as she grabbed a clean towel off the back of the bathroom door and folded it neatly on the counter so it wouldn’t get splashed. “It’s just something you like during sex or whatever.”

“You need to read a dictionary,” Keegan said hoarsely, shifting so he could hover over the toilet better. “It’s unusual things a person likes during sex.”

“Right,” she shot back. “And you don’t have any? What a good little boy you are.” She waved a hand impatiently. “Hurry up and throw up again so you can get in the shower.”

He didn’t answer. Instead, his shoulders started to tremble again, that subtle, unmistakable sign that his body was gearing up whether he wanted it to or not.

“Keegan,” she warned, her tone sharp enough to cut through the haze. It was the same voice she’d used earlier—the one that promised she’d do it for him if he didn’t cooperate.

She set a hand firmly between his shoulder blades.

That was all it took.

He gagged and retched, emptying his stomach again in harsh, shuddering waves. His breath came in broken gasps between heaves, fingers digging into the porcelain rim as he rode it out. Y/n stayed where she was, steadying him without crowding, then handed him the already-used towel once the worst passed.

He wiped his mouth clumsily, eyes watering, face pale and slick with sweat. Only now did Y/n really clock how bad he looked—how tightly his eyes were screwed shut, how his jaw was clenched like he was fighting more than just nausea.

“Headache?” she asked, softer despite herself.

He nodded faintly.

“I’ll give you Advil once you stop throwing up and can keep it down,” she said. “Better to get everything out first.”

“Okay… okay,” he breathed, pushing himself upright slowly. One hand pressed to his stomach, the other bracing against the wall as if the room might tilt again at any moment.

She crossed her arms. “Big baby.”

He huffed out something between a laugh and a wheeze. “You cried the last time you threw up.”

“I was on my period for the first time in months,” she snapped back. “I had every right to cry. Normally I handle it like a champ.”

“Not something to brag about,” he muttered, voice weak but amused despite himself. He shifted uncomfortably and glanced down at his waistband. “Help me with my belt.”

Y/n’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not stripping you.”

“If you don’t,” he said flatly, “I’m throwing up on the floor.”

She stared at him for a long second, weighing her options, then sighed in defeat and stepped closer. She undid his belt quickly, efficiently, refusing to make eye contact.

The moment it was done, she turned on her heel and walked out of the bathroom, shutting the door behind her.

“Don’t make it worse in there,” she called through the door. “And you’re cleaning everything when this is over.”

From the other side, she heard a weak, breathless huff that might have been a laugh.

Despite herself, Y/n shook her head—annoyed, exhausted, and uncomfortably relieved that he was finally starting to come back to himself.

Y/n stood in the middle of her room for a moment, fingers combing through her hair as she stared down at her shirt with a look of pure disgust. The dark, uneven stain across the fabric was unmistakable—Keegan’s doing. The towel she’d shoved against him earlier had helped, but it hadn’t been enough to save the shirt entirely.

“Great,” she muttered to herself.

She peeled it off over her head and tossed it into the corner where her laundry pile lived. Calling it a pile was generous—it didn’t really grow so much as linger, existing in a state of mild neglect. She wore most of her clothes more than once a week without caring, but underwear and socks were non-negotiable. Those she washed regularly. Everything else survived on rotation and stubbornness.

She padded over to the window and tugged the curtain aside just enough to peer out. Her mouth pulled into a thin line. The sky was heavy and dark, thick clouds rolling in low and fast, the wind already bending the tops of the trees. A storm was coming—one of those loud, soaking ones that turned the ground to soup.

At least the power won’t go out, she thought dryly. I was hard to lose what you didn’t have.

Her eyes drifted down to the trench visible from her window. It was already damp outside and the trench would be half-flooded by the end of the day. She exhaled through her nose, grateful—if only this once—that Keegan had excused her from trench duty.

Small mercies.

Turning away, she grabbed a clean sports bra, stripped out of the old one, and added it to the laundry. She tugged on a sweater next, soft and worn, then hesitated before ditching her pajama bottoms in favor of knee-length cloth shorts. Her wardrobe choices rarely made sense to anyone but her. Sunny days meant covered legs. Cloudy ones meant shorts. Comfort trumped logic every time, and since she had no intention of going out into the rain and freezing herself half to death, this would do just fine.

She opened her bedroom door and stepped into the living area.

Selena was curled up on the couch, knees tucked under her, a book resting in her lap. The quiet, domestic calm lasted exactly two seconds—until Y/n noticed who wasn’t there.

Her eyes narrowed. “Where’s Ben?”

Selena flipped a page before looking up. “He stayed with Logan and Hesh last night. Logan came by earlier—they’re taking him fishing.”

Y/n frowned. “It’s going to rain.”

“Doesn’t that make fishing better?” Selena asked innocently. “He’s got a rain jacket.”

“…Yeah,” Y/n admitted after a moment. “I guess it does.”

She turned toward the cupboards, stomach growling now that the adrenaline from the night before had finally worn off. She opened one and immediately froze.

“Why is there an open bag of marshmallows in here?” she demanded, holding it up.

“I took them from White River,” Selena said without looking up. “You said I could take whatever I wanted. I grabbed a bunch—most are in my box in the rec hall.”

“Then why are these here?”

“I wanted a snack last night.”

Y/n sighed, tied the bag shut, and shoved it back onto the shelf. “At least tie them when you’re done. They’ll turn into rocks.”

“Okay.”

She grabbed two packets of oatmeal and a pot from under the sink, filling it with water. “You want oatmeal?”

Selena nodded. “Sure.”

Y/n set the packets on the counter and moved to the woodstove, feeding it bark and sticks. It took a few minutes—long enough for her to mutter swears under her breath—but the fire eventually caught. She dumped the oatmeal into plastic bowls while the water heated.

“Keegan’s not having any?” Selena asked.

“Nope,” Y/n said flatly. “Not until he can stop puking long enough to keep it down. Acid’ll wreck his teeth. Applesauce later—if Ben hasn’t inhaled it all.”

“He hasn’t,” Selena smiled. “He doesn’t take food from here. He asks Logan and Hesh.”

Y/n snorted. “They spoil him.”

Selena’s smile widened.

“What are you grinning at?” Y/n asked suspiciously, walking over and pressing the book down into her lap.

“I was thinking,” Selena said, trying—and failing—to hide it.

“Thinking about what?”

“That if you had your own kid, you’d totally spoil them.”

Y/n groaned. “You are my kids now, smartass. And does this look like spoiling to you?”

“Not Ben,” Selena teased. “You like me better.”

“Not like I hide it.”

“And I meant,” Selena added, “a kid you actually birthed.”

Y/n scoffed immediately. “Not happening. Apocalypse or not. I only wanted kids when I was a kid.”

“What if Elodie gets pregnant?”

“Elodie—” Y/n stopped. “How do you even know how that works?”

“My dad was a doctor,” Selena said calmly. “And they taught us in school.”

Y/n blinked. “They saved that for high school when I went. Complete with a horrifying video.”

Selena laughed. “Then you know it could happen.”

“I gave Elodie condoms. And tests.” Y/n raised a brow. “She’ll be fine.”

“Well,” Selena said slowly, setting her book aside, “maybe she’s not the one who’ll need them.”

Y/n narrowed her eyes. “Careful.”

“What if Keegan wants a kid?”

Y/n flicked Selena’s nose. “He’s not getting one.”

“So you’d sleep with him?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t deny it.”

Y/n grabbed the book. It was first aid. “What kind of books are you reading?”

“Romance and smart people books.”

She grimaced. “My two least favorite genres.”

Selena laughed as Y/n turned back to the stove, checking the water as it began to bubble—warm, familiar sounds filling the cabin as the storm gathered outside.

************************************************************************

Part 45 | Part 47 |

ALL PARTS HERE

@fanfictliver @augustalla @ayasofreakytwo @peachmartini @sufferingwriter @aicileh @ilchrys0

[chichi-the-treetea]

Keegan Zombie Apocalypse Part 45

Part 44 | Part 46 |

ALL PARTS HERE

Gregory didn’t step forward with the confidence of someone who wanted to be seen. He took his time rising from his seat, joints stiff, hands rough from years of work rather than speeches. The applause that followed Eileen’s address had already faded into an uneasy murmur till even today, and when eyes turned toward him, he paused—just long enough to let the noise die on its own.

He stood there for a moment, looking at the people gathered in front of him. Not scanning them like numbers. Not judging. Just looking. Families. Old faces. New ones. People who had buried others with their own hands. People who had killed, or nearly been killed. People who were tired in a way sleep didn’t fix.

When he finally spoke, his voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be.

“I’m not very good at speeches,” Gregory said plainly. “So if you’re expecting promises wrapped up pretty words, you’re probably going to be disappointed.”

A few people shifted. Someone let out a short, humorless huff of laughter.

“That’s alright,” he continued. “Disappointment is something we’re all familiar with by now.”

He rested his hands together in front of him, fingers interlaced, grounding himself.

“I didn’t ask to stand up here because I think I’m better than anyone else. I didn’t ask because I believe I have all the answers. And I sure as hell didn’t ask because I think leadership is some kind of reward.”

His gaze moved slowly across the crowd.

“I asked because I’ve spent a long time thinking about what we’ve become… and what we’re in danger of becoming if we don’t start paying attention.”

He took a breath.

“Before everything fell apart, we lived under laws. Real ones. Written down. Enforced. They weren’t perfect—but they had structure. You knew the cost of breaking them. You knew where the lines were.”

A few heads nodded.

“Now,” Gregory said quietly, “we live under rules. And rules are different. Rules change depending on who’s holding the gun, who’s angry, who’s scared, or who’s decided they’re done being merciful.”

He let that sit.

“Rules don’t come with guarantees. You can steal food and be forgiven… or you can steal food and be killed. You can make a mistake and be corrected… or you can make the same mistake and never get the chance to learn from it.”

His jaw tightened slightly.

“That kind of world doesn’t just punish the guilty. It terrifies everyone with uncertainty that causes mistrust in others.”

Gregory shifted his weight, the wood beneath his boots creaking faintly.

“I’ve heard Eileen speak about compassion. And she’s right—without it, we’re nothing. I’ve heard Finn speak about strength and putting up fights. And he’s not entirely wrong either—without the ability to defend ourselves, we don’t last.”

He lifted his head.

“But compassion without structure becomes chaos. And strength without restraint becomes cruelty.”

A murmur rippled through the crowd.

“I’m not here to tell you that violence has no place in our lives anymore. Anyone who says that hasn’t been paying attention. Sometimes violence is the only thing standing between your child and a pair of teeth.”

He didn’t soften that truth.

“But I am here to say that if violence becomes our first answer instead of our last, then all we’ve done is survive long enough to become something worse than what destroyed the world in the first place.”

Silence.

Gregory exhaled slowly.

“I’ve lived long enough to know that people don’t need a king. And they don’t need a savior. What they need is someone willing to think before acting. Someone willing to listen before judging. Someone willing to say, ‘I don’t know—but I’ll try to figure it out with you.’”

He tapped two fingers against his chest.

“That’s the only promise I can make.”

A child coughed somewhere in the crowd. Someone adjusted their sweater.

“I won’t promise safety,” Gregory continued. “Because anyone who does is lying to you. The world is dangerous. It always has been. It’s just more honest about it now because all the people who are still alive are the people willing to do hard things.”

“I won’t promise peace,” he said. “Because peace isn’t something one person hands out. It’s something everyone has to choose, again and again, even when it’s harder than choosing anger.”

“And I won’t promise fairness,” he added. “Because fairness looks different to everyone who’s lost something and to everyone who has a different perspective on things..”

His eyes darkened—not with bitterness, but with understanding.

“What I can promise is this: I will not make decisions out of fear. I will not let anger be mistaken for justice. And I will not forget that every person here—no matter what they’ve done to survive—is still a person.”

He looked toward the edge of the crowd, where a few on the outside lingered uneasily.

“That includes people who didn’t grow up here. People who don’t think like you. People who pray differently—or don’t pray at all. People who’ve made choices you don’t agree with.”

Gregory’s voice lowered.

“If we start deciding who counts as human based on comfort, belief, or usefulness… then we’ve already lost.”

He straightened.

“I believe in consequences,” he said firmly. “Not revenge. Not spectacle. Consequences that make sense. Consequences that teach. Consequences that keep the rest of us safe without turning punishment into entertainment.”

He paused, eyes narrowing slightly in thought.

“I believe children should grow up learning how to think—not how to obey blindly. I believe adults should be expected to explain their decisions, not hide behind authority.”

A faint, wry smile touched his mouth.

“And I believe that if someone ever has to take my place up here, it should be because the community is strong enough to survive change—not terrified of it.”

Gregory folded his hands again.

“I’ve seen what happens when people stop thinking for themselves. I’ve seen what happens when they hand that responsibility to someone else because it’s easier. Because it’s comforting.”

His gaze sharpened.

“That’s how you get sheep. And sheep don’t last long in a world full of wolves.”

The words weren’t cruel—but they weren’t gentle either.

“I don’t want followers,” he said. “I want neighbors. I want people who question me. People who argue. People who call me out when I’m wrong.”

A few surprised expressions flickered across faces.

“Because if you ever stop doing that,” Gregory continued, “then I’ve failed—and you deserve someone better.”

He stepped back half a pace, as if already relinquishing power he didn’t yet have.

“I don’t know what the world will look like next year. Or next month. Or even tomorrow morning.”

“But I know this,” he said quietly. “If we’re going to survive and remain human… we need balance. Thought. Memory. And the courage to choose something better than fear.”

He nodded once.

“That’s all I have.”

Gregory stepped back, not waiting for applause, not demanding it—just trying to return to the crowd as one of them, leaving his words behind like a question the town now had to answer together.

Finn didn’t wait for the murmurs to die though.

He stepped forward sharply from the crowd, boots scraping against packed dirt, his movement abrupt enough that several people turned before he even spoke. His posture was rigid, shoulders squared like he was already bracing for a fight, jaw tight with something that had been simmering long before Gregory ever opened his mouth.

“That all sounds real thoughtful,” Finn said, voice cutting clean through the quiet. “Real careful. Real gentle.”

A few heads snapped toward him. Others stiffened.

“But I want to know something,” he continued, pointing a finger—not accusing yet, but close. “If a leader doesn’t believe in authority… why should anyone else?”

The air shifted. Gregory didn’t move, didn’t interrupt. He only turned fully to face Finn, expression calm, attentive in a way that somehow made Finn angrier.

“You stand there,” Finn pressed on, “telling us you don’t want power, that you don’t believe in it, that you don’t want to use it unless you have to. And we’re supposed to hand it to you anyway?”

He scoffed, pacing a step closer.

“Authority isn’t something you apologize for. It’s something you own. If you can’t believe in your right to make decisions, then what happens when things get ugly? When someone needs to be stopped, not reasoned with?”

A murmur rippled through the crowd—uneasy, conflicted.

“Should we really give leadership to a man who openly admits he can’t do everything?” Finn asked. “To someone who says he’d rather talk first?”

His lips curled slightly.

“The time for peace is over.”

That got more reactions—shifting feet, tight faces.

“Y/n’s group came into our town,” Finn said, louder now. “They kidnapped her back. They blew up the bridge.”

A few people sucked in sharp breaths.

“That wasn’t a misunderstanding. That wasn’t diplomacy. That was an act of war.”

Finn spread his hands, palms up.

“And Gregory wants us to talk?”

The silence that followed was thick, pressing. Gregory waited a beat—long enough that Finn’s breathing was the loudest sound—before answering.

“They came for one of their own,” Gregory said evenly.

Finn whipped around. “Don’t—”

“They came,” Gregory repeated, voice firm now, “because they thought that she was going to die or that she was in some kind of majour trouble.”

That landed hard.

“You know it,” Gregory went on. “I know it. And everyone standing here knows it. The vote was already being whispered about. You were ready to kill her because she was inconvenient, uncertain, and didn’t fit neatly into your sense of safety.”

“That’s not—” Finn snapped.

“A life was saved that day,” Gregory said, cutting through him. “At the cost of a bridge.”

He gestured vaguely behind them, toward where the road no longer existed.

“The bridge had no heartbeat. No breath. No memories of it’s own, only people who have never really thought anything about it while driving over it. And yet we’re pretending it weighs the same as a human life.”

Finn’s face flushed. “That bridge was the only all-season road out of this town!”

“And she was a person,” Gregory shot back.

The crowd stirred—voices rising, overlapping, until Gregory raised his hand slightly. Not commanding. Asking.

“Tell me something,” he said to Finn. “Did we have the right to decide she should die when there were people who cared enough about her to cross miles of dead land to bring her home?”

Finn’s mouth opened—closed again.

“Did we?” Gregory pressed.

“You don’t get to—” Finn growled. “You don’t get to pretend they were heroes. They didn’t care about our wellbeing. They cut us off.”

He turned, gesturing to the crowd now.

“That bridge was our lifeline. Flood season, mud season, winter—those side routes don’t hold. When supplies run out, we leave. Or we starve.”

His voice cracked—not with fear, but with fury sharpened by fear.

“So how are we supposed to do that now?” Finn demanded. “How do we evacuate? How do we trade? How do we survive when the snow comes and the water rises?”

Gregory didn’t flinch.

“That,” he said slowly, “is a problem to solve together—after leadership is decided. And how are we supposed to trade with others if we kill them all first?”

Finn laughed harshly. “You don’t plan after the disaster in hopes that it will stop it, you plan before it happens to prevent it.”

“You don’t dictate solutions before hearing the people,” Gregory replied. “Fixing that bridge—or finding alternatives—will take time, labor, materials, and votes. You don’t make those calls alone in a moment of anger.”

Finn shook his head. “You always talk like violence is some personal flaw.”

“No,” Gregory said. “I talk like it’s a tool. And like all tools, it can build—or destroy—depending on how eagerly you reach for it.”

He stepped closer now, close enough that the tension between them was visible.

“You want strength?” Gregory asked. “Good. We need it. We should have the ability to defend ourselves.”

“But you shouldn’t have to prove it every chance you get,” he continued. “You shouldn’t have to start wars just to feel secure.”

Finn bristled. “And peace?”

“Peace without preparation is foolish,” Gregory agreed. “But violence without restraint is how you end up ruling rubble.”

The crowd was utterly silent now.

“There’s a balance,” Gregory said. “Not pacifism so soft we become slaves. Not aggression so constant it burns everything we touch.”

He looked around at the people watching.

“We make deals. We build defenses. We prepare for the worst without racing toward it.”

Finn stared at him, chest rising and falling hard.

“And if they come back?” Finn asked.

“Then we defend ourselves,” Gregory said simply. “Together. Not out of fear. Not out of pride. But because we have to in order to stay alive and to protect each other.”

The two men stood facing each other—one burning, one steady—while the town watched, listening, weighing which future they were willing to live with.

Finn laughed again, sharp and humorless, the sound cracking through the tense air like a snapped branch.

“A sword doesn’t wait to see if a spoon is dangerous,” he said, spreading his hands as if the answer were obvious. “It strikes first. That’s how it proves it won’t be harmed.”

A few people nodded. Someone muttered agreement.

Gregory’s jaw tightened. He lifted his chin slightly, eyes narrowing—not in anger yet, but in focus.

“And why,” he asked calmly, “would a sword attack a spoon in the first place?”

Finn blinked, clearly not expecting that.

“It’s not a knife,” Gregory continued. “It doesn’t cut. It doesn’t stab. And you don’t learn whether something is dangerous by killing it before you’ve even looked at it.”

Finn scoffed. “You’re missing the point.”

“No,” Gregory replied evenly. “I think I’m getting right to it.”

Finn’s shoulders rose as his breath sharpened. “Fine. Let’s talk about looking at it.”

He stepped forward again, closer this time, his voice dropping—not quieter, but heavier.

“Sure. They cared about Y/n enough to come rescue her. I’ll give you that.” His mouth twisted. “But caring about one person doesn’t mean they cared about anyone else.”

The shift in his tone made people straighten.

“I watched them kill my parents,” Finn said.

The crowd stilled.

“I watched them do things I still can’t sleep through,” he went on. “Things you don’t come back from. They didn’t have to. They wanted to. And now we’re supposed to believe that because they loved her, they won’t hurt anyone else?”

His eyes burned as he looked around. “They’re dangerous. All of them. And now the whole town knows it.”

Low murmurs spread—fearful, validating.

“So why,” Finn demanded, “do we need peace talks with people who are already killers?”

Gregory studied him for a long moment. The murmurs grew louder, tilting in Finn’s favor.

Then Gregory exhaled slowly.

“How do we know you’re telling the truth?”

The words cut through the noise.

Finn froze. “What?”

“How do we know,” Gregory repeated, voice firm now, “that what you’re saying actually happened?”

A ripple of discomfort passed through the crowd.

“You came here,” Gregory continued, “with stories of violence and cruelty. Horrific ones. But stories nonetheless.”

He gestured broadly. “Where is the proof? Pictures? Other witnesses? Graves we can point to? Scars on your body from imprisonment, torture, forced labor?”

Finn’s face flushed. “You think I’d lie about that?”

“I’m saying,” Gregory replied, unflinching, “that we are being asked to decide the future of this town on your word alone.”

A stir of uncertainty crept in.

Before Finn could answer, Ryan’s voice cut in from the crowd.

“The woman you captured did nothing but spit venom at us,” Ryan said, stepping forward. “She cursed Finn. She mocked all of us. If she was innocent, she sure didn’t act like it.”

Whispers erupted—conflicted, dividing.

Gregory turned sharply toward Ryan.

“You mean the woman you beat,” Gregory said coldly, “locked in a cell, and stabbed in the thigh while she had no way to defend herself?”

The crowd recoiled at that.

“I’ve heard the rumors,” Gregory went on. “And I believe them.”

Ryan stiffened. “That was—”

“She had every right to hate you,” Gregory snapped. “Every right to fear you.”

Finn cut back in quickly. “We saw proof of what her people are capable of. They blew up the bridge.”

Gregory groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You keep circling back to that like it’s the same thing.”

“It is the same thing,” Finn insisted.

“No,” Gregory shot back. “It shows they were trying to escape alive without half this town chasing after them with the intent to cause harm.”

Finn shook his head. “Y/n was violent. I saw it. She tricked Ryan into her cell and attacked him.”

Ryan nodded quickly. “I stabbed her in self-defense. I didn’t kill her.”

Gregory let out a sharp laugh, devoid of humor. “No. You didn’t kill her.”

He stepped closer to Ryan now, voice low and cutting.

“You left her bleeding alone in a cold cell. No aid. No bandages. No concern for infection or blood loss. You didn’t kill her—but you sure didn’t care if she died or how much suffering she went through before she could die.”

Ryan’s mouth opened. No words came out.

Finn turned abruptly, scanning the crowd until his eyes landed on Eileen.

“And what about you?” he asked, seizing the moment. “You’re religious, right?”

Eileen stiffened but didn’t step back.

“In the Bible,” Finn continued, “God commanded wars. People killed in His name. So tell me—why is it so wrong now?”

A murmur of discomfort rolled through the crowd.

“Death is almost merciful now,” Finn pressed. “Compared to how people suffered back then.”

Eileen met his gaze steadily. “Those were direct commands from God. Specific wars. Specific contexts. Not excuses for violence whenever fear rises.”

She folded her hands. “Killing is still a sin. God is not telling us to wage war right now just beace some man-child is telling us to.”

Finn laughed. “So killing Biters is a sin then too?”

The question landed like a thrown stone.

“They’re human,” Finn said. “Technically. You’ve killed Biters before, Eileen. Does that make you a murderer?”

Her lips parted slightly.

“What if there’s a cure someday?” Finn pressed. “You killed people who might have been saved. Isn’t that contradicting your own beliefs?”

A murmur of unease surged again.

Gregory stepped in instantly. “That’s a false comparison.”

Eileen found her voice. “Biters are no longer people in the way we understand it,” she said softly but firmly. “They are a danger that leaves no choice. Taking a life in self-defense is not the same as cruelty or vengeance.”

Finn shrugged. “I’m not Christian. I have no problem killing Biters. But you can’t pretend your logic dosen’t bend to fit your own personal needs.”

Gregory shook his head. “And you can’t pretend all violence is the same just because it helps your argument.”

The crowd buzzed now—fully split, voices overlapping, tension thick enough to choke on.

Finn stood rigid, breathing hard.

Gregory stood steady, eyes sharp.

************************************************************************

Part 44 | Part 46 |

ALL PARTS HERE

@fanfictliver @augustalla @ayasofreakytwo @peachmartini @sufferingwriter @ilchrys0 @aicileh

[chichi-the-treetea]

Keegan Zombie Apocalypse Part 45

Part 44 | Part 46 |

ALL PARTS HERE

Gregory didn’t step forward with the confidence of someone who wanted to be seen. He took his time rising from his seat, joints stiff, hands rough from years of work rather than speeches. The applause that followed Eileen’s address had already faded into an uneasy murmur till even today, and when eyes turned toward him, he paused—just long enough to let the noise die on its own.

He stood there for a moment, looking at the people gathered in front of him. Not scanning them like numbers. Not judging. Just looking. Families. Old faces. New ones. People who had buried others with their own hands. People who had killed, or nearly been killed. People who were tired in a way sleep didn’t fix.

When he finally spoke, his voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be.

“I’m not very good at speeches,” Gregory said plainly. “So if you’re expecting promises wrapped up pretty words, you’re probably going to be disappointed.”

A few people shifted. Someone let out a short, humorless huff of laughter.

“That’s alright,” he continued. “Disappointment is something we’re all familiar with by now.”

He rested his hands together in front of him, fingers interlaced, grounding himself.

“I didn’t ask to stand up here because I think I’m better than anyone else. I didn’t ask because I believe I have all the answers. And I sure as hell didn’t ask because I think leadership is some kind of reward.”

His gaze moved slowly across the crowd.

“I asked because I’ve spent a long time thinking about what we’ve become… and what we’re in danger of becoming if we don’t start paying attention.”

He took a breath.

“Before everything fell apart, we lived under laws. Real ones. Written down. Enforced. They weren’t perfect—but they had structure. You knew the cost of breaking them. You knew where the lines were.”

A few heads nodded.

“Now,” Gregory said quietly, “we live under rules. And rules are different. Rules change depending on who’s holding the gun, who’s angry, who’s scared, or who’s decided they’re done being merciful.”

He let that sit.

“Rules don’t come with guarantees. You can steal food and be forgiven… or you can steal food and be killed. You can make a mistake and be corrected… or you can make the same mistake and never get the chance to learn from it.”

His jaw tightened slightly.

“That kind of world doesn’t just punish the guilty. It terrifies everyone with uncertainty that causes mistrust in others.”

Gregory shifted his weight, the wood beneath his boots creaking faintly.

“I’ve heard Eileen speak about compassion. And she’s right—without it, we’re nothing. I’ve heard Finn speak about strength and putting up fights. And he’s not entirely wrong either—without the ability to defend ourselves, we don’t last.”

He lifted his head.

“But compassion without structure becomes chaos. And strength without restraint becomes cruelty.”

A murmur rippled through the crowd.

“I’m not here to tell you that violence has no place in our lives anymore. Anyone who says that hasn’t been paying attention. Sometimes violence is the only thing standing between your child and a pair of teeth.”

He didn’t soften that truth.

“But I am here to say that if violence becomes our first answer instead of our last, then all we’ve done is survive long enough to become something worse than what destroyed the world in the first place.”

Silence.

Gregory exhaled slowly.

“I’ve lived long enough to know that people don’t need a king. And they don’t need a savior. What they need is someone willing to think before acting. Someone willing to listen before judging. Someone willing to say, ‘I don’t know—but I’ll try to figure it out with you.’”

He tapped two fingers against his chest.

“That’s the only promise I can make.”

A child coughed somewhere in the crowd. Someone adjusted their sweater.

“I won’t promise safety,” Gregory continued. “Because anyone who does is lying to you. The world is dangerous. It always has been. It’s just more honest about it now because all the people who are still alive are the people willing to do hard things.”

“I won’t promise peace,” he said. “Because peace isn’t something one person hands out. It’s something everyone has to choose, again and again, even when it’s harder than choosing anger.”

“And I won’t promise fairness,” he added. “Because fairness looks different to everyone who’s lost something and to everyone who has a different perspective on things..”

His eyes darkened—not with bitterness, but with understanding.

“What I can promise is this: I will not make decisions out of fear. I will not let anger be mistaken for justice. And I will not forget that every person here—no matter what they’ve done to survive—is still a person.”

He looked toward the edge of the crowd, where a few on the outside lingered uneasily.

“That includes people who didn’t grow up here. People who don’t think like you. People who pray differently—or don’t pray at all. People who’ve made choices you don’t agree with.”

Gregory’s voice lowered.

“If we start deciding who counts as human based on comfort, belief, or usefulness… then we’ve already lost.”

He straightened.

“I believe in consequences,” he said firmly. “Not revenge. Not spectacle. Consequences that make sense. Consequences that teach. Consequences that keep the rest of us safe without turning punishment into entertainment.”

He paused, eyes narrowing slightly in thought.

“I believe children should grow up learning how to think—not how to obey blindly. I believe adults should be expected to explain their decisions, not hide behind authority.”

A faint, wry smile touched his mouth.

“And I believe that if someone ever has to take my place up here, it should be because the community is strong enough to survive change—not terrified of it.”

Gregory folded his hands again.

“I’ve seen what happens when people stop thinking for themselves. I’ve seen what happens when they hand that responsibility to someone else because it’s easier. Because it’s comforting.”

His gaze sharpened.

“That’s how you get sheep. And sheep don’t last long in a world full of wolves.”

The words weren’t cruel—but they weren’t gentle either.

“I don’t want followers,” he said. “I want neighbors. I want people who question me. People who argue. People who call me out when I’m wrong.”

A few surprised expressions flickered across faces.

“Because if you ever stop doing that,” Gregory continued, “then I’ve failed—and you deserve someone better.”

He stepped back half a pace, as if already relinquishing power he didn’t yet have.

“I don’t know what the world will look like next year. Or next month. Or even tomorrow morning.”

“But I know this,” he said quietly. “If we’re going to survive and remain human… we need balance. Thought. Memory. And the courage to choose something better than fear.”

He nodded once.

“That’s all I have.”

Gregory stepped back, not waiting for applause, not demanding it—just trying to return to the crowd as one of them, leaving his words behind like a question the town now had to answer together.

Finn didn’t wait for the murmurs to die though.

He stepped forward sharply from the crowd, boots scraping against packed dirt, his movement abrupt enough that several people turned before he even spoke. His posture was rigid, shoulders squared like he was already bracing for a fight, jaw tight with something that had been simmering long before Gregory ever opened his mouth.

“That all sounds real thoughtful,” Finn said, voice cutting clean through the quiet. “Real careful. Real gentle.”

A few heads snapped toward him. Others stiffened.

“But I want to know something,” he continued, pointing a finger—not accusing yet, but close. “If a leader doesn’t believe in authority… why should anyone else?”

The air shifted. Gregory didn’t move, didn’t interrupt. He only turned fully to face Finn, expression calm, attentive in a way that somehow made Finn angrier.

“You stand there,” Finn pressed on, “telling us you don’t want power, that you don’t believe in it, that you don’t want to use it unless you have to. And we’re supposed to hand it to you anyway?”

He scoffed, pacing a step closer.

“Authority isn’t something you apologize for. It’s something you own. If you can’t believe in your right to make decisions, then what happens when things get ugly? When someone needs to be stopped, not reasoned with?”

A murmur rippled through the crowd—uneasy, conflicted.

“Should we really give leadership to a man who openly admits he can’t do everything?” Finn asked. “To someone who says he’d rather talk first?”

His lips curled slightly.

“The time for peace is over.”

That got more reactions—shifting feet, tight faces.

“Y/n’s group came into our town,” Finn said, louder now. “They kidnapped her back. They blew up the bridge.”

A few people sucked in sharp breaths.

“That wasn’t a misunderstanding. That wasn’t diplomacy. That was an act of war.”

Finn spread his hands, palms up.

“And Gregory wants us to talk?”

The silence that followed was thick, pressing. Gregory waited a beat—long enough that Finn’s breathing was the loudest sound—before answering.

“They came for one of their own,” Gregory said evenly.

Finn whipped around. “Don’t—”

“They came,” Gregory repeated, voice firm now, “because they thought that she was going to die or that she was in some kind of majour trouble.”

That landed hard.

“You know it,” Gregory went on. “I know it. And everyone standing here knows it. The vote was already being whispered about. You were ready to kill her because she was inconvenient, uncertain, and didn’t fit neatly into your sense of safety.”

“That’s not—” Finn snapped.

“A life was saved that day,” Gregory said, cutting through him. “At the cost of a bridge.”

He gestured vaguely behind them, toward where the road no longer existed.

“The bridge had no heartbeat. No breath. No memories of it’s own, only people who have never really thought anything about it while driving over it. And yet we’re pretending it weighs the same as a human life.”

Finn’s face flushed. “That bridge was the only all-season road out of this town!”

“And she was a person,” Gregory shot back.

The crowd stirred—voices rising, overlapping, until Gregory raised his hand slightly. Not commanding. Asking.

“Tell me something,” he said to Finn. “Did we have the right to decide she should die when there were people who cared enough about her to cross miles of dead land to bring her home?”

Finn’s mouth opened—closed again.

“Did we?” Gregory pressed.

“You don’t get to—” Finn growled. “You don’t get to pretend they were heroes. They didn’t care about our wellbeing. They cut us off.”

He turned, gesturing to the crowd now.

“That bridge was our lifeline. Flood season, mud season, winter—those side routes don’t hold. When supplies run out, we leave. Or we starve.”

His voice cracked—not with fear, but with fury sharpened by fear.

“So how are we supposed to do that now?” Finn demanded. “How do we evacuate? How do we trade? How do we survive when the snow comes and the water rises?”

Gregory didn’t flinch.

“That,” he said slowly, “is a problem to solve together—after leadership is decided. And how are we supposed to trade with others if we kill them all first?”

Finn laughed harshly. “You don’t plan after the disaster in hopes that it will stop it, you plan before it happens to prevent it.”

“You don’t dictate solutions before hearing the people,” Gregory replied. “Fixing that bridge—or finding alternatives—will take time, labor, materials, and votes. You don’t make those calls alone in a moment of anger.”

Finn shook his head. “You always talk like violence is some personal flaw.”

“No,” Gregory said. “I talk like it’s a tool. And like all tools, it can build—or destroy—depending on how eagerly you reach for it.”

He stepped closer now, close enough that the tension between them was visible.

“You want strength?” Gregory asked. “Good. We need it. We should have the ability to defend ourselves.”

“But you shouldn’t have to prove it every chance you get,” he continued. “You shouldn’t have to start wars just to feel secure.”

Finn bristled. “And peace?”

“Peace without preparation is foolish,” Gregory agreed. “But violence without restraint is how you end up ruling rubble.”

The crowd was utterly silent now.

“There’s a balance,” Gregory said. “Not pacifism so soft we become slaves. Not aggression so constant it burns everything we touch.”

He looked around at the people watching.

“We make deals. We build defenses. We prepare for the worst without racing toward it.”

Finn stared at him, chest rising and falling hard.

“And if they come back?” Finn asked.

“Then we defend ourselves,” Gregory said simply. “Together. Not out of fear. Not out of pride. But because we have to in order to stay alive and to protect each other.”

The two men stood facing each other—one burning, one steady—while the town watched, listening, weighing which future they were willing to live with.

Finn laughed again, sharp and humorless, the sound cracking through the tense air like a snapped branch.

“A sword doesn’t wait to see if a spoon is dangerous,” he said, spreading his hands as if the answer were obvious. “It strikes first. That’s how it proves it won’t be harmed.”

A few people nodded. Someone muttered agreement.

Gregory’s jaw tightened. He lifted his chin slightly, eyes narrowing—not in anger yet, but in focus.

“And why,” he asked calmly, “would a sword attack a spoon in the first place?”

Finn blinked, clearly not expecting that.

“It’s not a knife,” Gregory continued. “It doesn’t cut. It doesn’t stab. And you don’t learn whether something is dangerous by killing it before you’ve even looked at it.”

Finn scoffed. “You’re missing the point.”

“No,” Gregory replied evenly. “I think I’m getting right to it.”

Finn’s shoulders rose as his breath sharpened. “Fine. Let’s talk about looking at it.”

He stepped forward again, closer this time, his voice dropping—not quieter, but heavier.

“Sure. They cared about Y/n enough to come rescue her. I’ll give you that.” His mouth twisted. “But caring about one person doesn’t mean they cared about anyone else.”

The shift in his tone made people straighten.

“I watched them kill my parents,” Finn said.

The crowd stilled.

“I watched them do things I still can’t sleep through,” he went on. “Things you don’t come back from. They didn’t have to. They wanted to. And now we’re supposed to believe that because they loved her, they won’t hurt anyone else?”

His eyes burned as he looked around. “They’re dangerous. All of them. And now the whole town knows it.”

Low murmurs spread—fearful, validating.

“So why,” Finn demanded, “do we need peace talks with people who are already killers?”

Gregory studied him for a long moment. The murmurs grew louder, tilting in Finn’s favor.

Then Gregory exhaled slowly.

“How do we know you’re telling the truth?”

The words cut through the noise.

Finn froze. “What?”

“How do we know,” Gregory repeated, voice firm now, “that what you’re saying actually happened?”

A ripple of discomfort passed through the crowd.

“You came here,” Gregory continued, “with stories of violence and cruelty. Horrific ones. But stories nonetheless.”

He gestured broadly. “Where is the proof? Pictures? Other witnesses? Graves we can point to? Scars on your body from imprisonment, torture, forced labor?”

Finn’s face flushed. “You think I’d lie about that?”

“I’m saying,” Gregory replied, unflinching, “that we are being asked to decide the future of this town on your word alone.”

A stir of uncertainty crept in.

Before Finn could answer, Ryan’s voice cut in from the crowd.

“The woman you captured did nothing but spit venom at us,” Ryan said, stepping forward. “She cursed Finn. She mocked all of us. If she was innocent, she sure didn’t act like it.”

Whispers erupted—conflicted, dividing.

Gregory turned sharply toward Ryan.

“You mean the woman you beat,” Gregory said coldly, “locked in a cell, and stabbed in the thigh while she had no way to defend herself?”

The crowd recoiled at that.

“I’ve heard the rumors,” Gregory went on. “And I believe them.”

Ryan stiffened. “That was—”

“She had every right to hate you,” Gregory snapped. “Every right to fear you.”

Finn cut back in quickly. “We saw proof of what her people are capable of. They blew up the bridge.”

Gregory groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You keep circling back to that like it’s the same thing.”

“It is the same thing,” Finn insisted.

“No,” Gregory shot back. “It shows they were trying to escape alive without half this town chasing after them with the intent to cause harm.”

Finn shook his head. “Y/n was violent. I saw it. She tricked Ryan into her cell and attacked him.”

Ryan nodded quickly. “I stabbed her in self-defense. I didn’t kill her.”

Gregory let out a sharp laugh, devoid of humor. “No. You didn’t kill her.”

He stepped closer to Ryan now, voice low and cutting.

“You left her bleeding alone in a cold cell. No aid. No bandages. No concern for infection or blood loss. You didn’t kill her—but you sure didn’t care if she died or how much suffering she went through before she could die.”

Ryan’s mouth opened. No words came out.

Finn turned abruptly, scanning the crowd until his eyes landed on Eileen.

“And what about you?” he asked, seizing the moment. “You’re religious, right?”

Eileen stiffened but didn’t step back.

“In the Bible,” Finn continued, “God commanded wars. People killed in His name. So tell me—why is it so wrong now?”

A murmur of discomfort rolled through the crowd.

“Death is almost merciful now,” Finn pressed. “Compared to how people suffered back then.”

Eileen met his gaze steadily. “Those were direct commands from God. Specific wars. Specific contexts. Not excuses for violence whenever fear rises.”

She folded her hands. “Killing is still a sin. God is not telling us to wage war right now just beace some man-child is telling us to.”

Finn laughed. “So killing Biters is a sin then too?”

The question landed like a thrown stone.

“They’re human,” Finn said. “Technically. You’ve killed Biters before, Eileen. Does that make you a murderer?”

Her lips parted slightly.

“What if there’s a cure someday?” Finn pressed. “You killed people who might have been saved. Isn’t that contradicting your own beliefs?”

A murmur of unease surged again.

Gregory stepped in instantly. “That’s a false comparison.”

Eileen found her voice. “Biters are no longer people in the way we understand it,” she said softly but firmly. “They are a danger that leaves no choice. Taking a life in self-defense is not the same as cruelty or vengeance.”

Finn shrugged. “I’m not Christian. I have no problem killing Biters. But you can’t pretend your logic dosen’t bend to fit your own personal needs.”

Gregory shook his head. “And you can’t pretend all violence is the same just because it helps your argument.”

The crowd buzzed now—fully split, voices overlapping, tension thick enough to choke on.

Finn stood rigid, breathing hard.

Gregory stood steady, eyes sharp.

************************************************************************

Part 44 | Part 46 |

ALL PARTS HERE

@fanfictliver @augustalla @ayasofreakytwo @peachmartini @sufferingwriter @ilchrys0 @aicileh

[augustalla]

I should get on with my wips instead of drawing on Roblox all day

Game : starving artists 2 on Roblox

Song : Real man by beabadoobee (acapella)

[chichi-the-treetea]

Keegan Zombie Apocalypse Part 44

Part 43 | Part 45 |

ALL PARTS HERE

Y/n slipped out of her bedroom as quietly as she could, though quiet was a hard thing to manage when the nightgown she wore was far too big for her.

The hem dragged along the wooden floor, whispering with every step, tangling around her ankles like it wanted to trip her on purpose. She lifted the front of it with one small fist, but it still brushed her toes, and she shuffled forward in careful, uncertain steps. The house was cold—cold in the way that crept into your bones and made your fingers ache before you even realized they were numb.

Her bedroom window was covered in frost so thick it looked like someone had painted it white. She had pressed her nose to it earlier and barely been able to see the shapes of the trees outside, just dark shadows blurred behind ice. The cold seemed louder at night, like it hummed in the walls.

She stepped into the hallway, her bare feet making soft pitter-patter sounds against the floor. The house felt too quiet. But not asleep-quiet, it was empty-quiet.

She crossed the hallway and nudged open her grandma and grandpa’s bedroom door, peeking inside. The bed was empty. The blankets were folded back like they’d been in a hurry. No soft breathing. No low murmured voices. No familiar warmth.

Her chest tightened a little.

She backed out, closing the door gently, and padded toward the stairs. One step at a time, just like Grandpa always told her. Her small hand wrapped around the railing, fingers barely fitting around the smooth wood as she descended slowly, carefully. The house creaked under her weight, each sound making her pause, listening, waiting for someone to call her name.

No one did.

When she reached the bottom, she stepped into the living area—and frowned.

It was cold in here too.

The fireplace was dark. No fire. Just neatly stacked sticks and logs waiting to be lit. She stared at it for a moment, confused. Grandpa always kept a fire going at night when it was this cold. Always. Fire meant warmth. Safety. Stories.

Looking around, she didn’t see her grandma. Or her grandpa. Or her uncle.

The house felt too big without them.

She hugged herself for a moment, shivering, then made a decision.

She pushed one of the wooden chairs across the floor toward the counter. It scraped loudly, and she winced, glancing around as if someone might scold her. No one came. She climbed up onto the chair, wobbling for a second before steadying herself, and stretched on tiptoes.

Her fingers brushed the lighter on the back of the counter—the one that was supposed to be out of her reach.

She smiled faintly, proud, and grabbed it.

Sliding back down, she shoved the chair back where it belonged, just like she’d seen her grandma do. Then she padded over to the fireplace, kneeling in front of it. Her hands shook a little as she clicked the lighter.

Nothing.

She clicked it again.

Nothing.

The third time, a flame burst to life, and she gasped, startled, dropping her thumb so it went out immediately. Her heart thudded in her chest. She stared at the lighter like it had jumped at her on purpose.

“…Okay,” she whispered to herself.

She tried again, holding it steadier this time. When the flame appeared, she leaned forward and touched it to the birch bark tucked beneath the logs.

The fire caught instantly.

Too instantly.

The birch bark flared bright and fast, flames racing up the wood in a way that made her pause. Something felt wrong about it—about how eager it was to burn, how the heat rushed outward almost aggressively—but she didn’t think about it for long.

Fire was heat.

And she was cold.

She put the lighter back on the counter and sat cross-legged in front of the fireplace, holding her hands out toward the warmth. Her fingers thawed slowly, tingling painfully as feeling crept back in. She sighed, shoulders relaxing as the fire crackled.

Then the radio crackled too.

She flinched, turning her head sharply toward it.

The radio hung above the sink, old and boxy, its dial glowing faintly. Static hissed, then a voice began speaking—fast, urgent, and not in English.

She frowned.

It wasn’t Ojibwe either.

Her brows knit together as she stood up, uneasy. She hadn’t turned the radio on. Grandpa always told her not to touch it without asking. And no one else was here.

She dragged the chair back over, climbing onto it so she could hear better. The voice kept talking in that strange language, words tumbling over each other, sharp and unfamiliar. Her stomach twisted.

Then, suddenly, it stopped.

Static crackled once.

And the voice changed.

“Hello?” an old man’s voice said.

Her breath caught.

She knew that voice.

“Grandpa?” she asked, her kid voice small and hopeful.

“Yes,” the radio said. “It’s me.”

Her heart leapt. “Where are you?” she asked quickly. “You weren’t upstairs.”

There was a pause, filled with soft static.

“I need help,” her grandfather’s voice said, strained. “I fell through the ice.”

Her fingers curled into the edge of the sink.

“Through the ice?” she repeated, panic rising into her throat. “Are you cold?”

“Yes,” he said. “Very cold. I can’t get out. I need you to come help me.”

Her eyes burned. “Where are you?”

“At the lake,” he answered. “You know where. Please. I can’t stay here much longer.”

She didn’t hesitate.

“I’m coming,” she said, already climbing down from the chair. “I’ll help you, Grandpa. I promise.”

The radio crackled softly, like it was breathing.

Behind her, the fire roared a little louder.

Y/n moved fast—too fast for boots that were nearly as big as her lower legs.

She yanked one on, then the other, her fingers clumsy with panic and cold. Something felt wrong immediately, and she frowned down at her feet, realizing she had them on the wrong way around. Her heart thudded harder, irritation bubbling up alongside fear. She dropped to the floor, yanking them off and forcing herself to slow down, just for a second, long enough to put them on properly.

There. Better.

She scrambled upright again and grabbed her jacket from the hook by the door. It didn’t come off easily; the fabric caught, stubborn, and she had to tug hard enough that it finally slipped free and nearly made her stumble backward. She shoved her arms into the sleeves without bothering to zip it properly and snatched her mittens next, stuffing them into her jacket pockets.

The cold was already biting at her ankles.

She pulled the door open and stepped out onto the porch—and froze.

Something was wrong.

She turned automatically to shut the door behind her, hand already reaching for the handle, when she realized she was… taller. Much taller. The world felt farther away from the ground than it had a moment ago.

Her breath caught.

She looked down.

Black cargo pants. Thick, heavy. A belt cinched around her waist, weighted with things that absolutely had not been there seconds ago—an axe hanging against her hip, a knife in a sheath, coiled rope bumping against her thigh when she moved. She shifted her weight, heart racing, and frowned harder.

She couldn’t feel the cold fabric of the pants directly against her skin. Instead, there was the dull, dense warmth of wool underneath.

Thermals.

She lifted her hands, staring at them like they might belong to someone else. They were bigger. Stronger. Scarred in places she didn’t remember being scarred.

Her jacket was different too—thicker, heavier, a winter coat with a fur-lined hood brushing against her neck. Even her boots had changed, fur-trimmed and solid, planted firmly on the porch boards like they belonged there.

“What…?” she whispered.

The word didn’t make a sound.

Her mouth moved, but the air swallowed it whole.

Her pulse spiked as she lifted her head and really looked around.

The house behind her was gone.

In its place stood a cabin—rough-hewn logs, dark with age, half-buried in snow. And beyond it stretched forest. Endless forest. Tall, dark pines crowded close together, their branches heavy and black against a sky that seemed permanently overcast. It looked like the kind of forest people used in movies when they wanted everything to feel wrong—oppressive, watching, alive in a way that wasn’t friendly.

A narrow foot trail cut through the snow, packed down as if something had been walking it repeatedly. Beside it stood a wooden sign, half-buried and frosted over.

“This Way To Lake.”

Her heart began to pound harder, faster, like it was trying to escape her chest.

She didn’t understand what was happening. She didn’t understand why she was here, or how she had changed, or why the world felt like it was holding its breath around her.

But the radio voice—her grandfather’s voice—echoed in her mind.

I need help.

Swallowing, she stepped off the porch and onto the trail.

The snow beneath her boots was firm, packed down—but it didn’t crunch. Didn’t hiss or compress or complain the way snow should. She took another step, slower this time, listening.

Nothing.

No wind through the trees. No birds. No insects. No creak of branches or groan of frozen wood. Even her breathing—visible in thick clouds of fog—made no sound at all.

That was when the fear really sank in.

She pulled the fur-lined hood up over her head, tucking her chin down instinctively as if that might protect her from whatever was watching. Because she could feel it now—the unmistakable sensation of being observed. Not by eyes she could see, but by something aware of her presence.

She followed the trail deeper into the forest.

Each bend looked the same as the last. The same trees, the same spacing, the same slight leans and twists arranged just differently enough to trick the mind into thinking progress was being made. She glanced back once—and couldn’t tell how far she’d come.

Her pace quickened.

Then she heard footsteps.

Her body reacted before her mind did. Her hand flew to the axe at her belt, yanking it free in one smooth motion as she spun around, heart hammering in her ears.

“Who’s there?” she demanded.

No sound followed.

No one stood behind her.

But the snow shifted.

Footprints appeared—one by one—just off the trail. Deep, deliberate impressions forming as if pressed down by invisible feet. Her stomach dropped.

They began to move.

Not on the trail, but beside it.

Then they started to run.

Her breath hitched, fear flaring sharp and bright—but she didn’t hesitate. She bolted after them, boots flying over the snow, axe clenched tight in her hand. She didn’t feel tired. Didn’t feel cold. Didn’t feel the burn she should have felt from running that hard.

She chased the unseen thing through the trees, past bends that all looked the same, until the forest suddenly opened up.

The lake stretched out before her—wide, frozen, endless.

The footprints stopped at the edge and vanished.

She skidded to a halt, chest rising and falling soundlessly, scanning the ice. “Hello?” she called, voice swallowed by the stillness. “Is anyone there?”

For a long moment, nothing happened.

Then—a cry.

Thin and distant, rising from the middle of the lake.

Her eyes locked onto the sound, and she saw it: a lone figure standing far out on the ice, waving both arms.

Without thinking, she broke into a run toward them.

She didn’t run with panic—not yet—but with purpose, driving her body forward through the deep snow by sheer force of muscle and momentum. She learned quickly that lifting her knees high was useless; instead, she bounced, pushing off hard with each step, letting her weight and strength carry her forward in long, powerful strides. The snow swallowed her legs up to the thigh, but she refused to slow, refused to stop.

The figure ahead of her did not change in distance.

No matter how fast she moved, how hard she pushed, it neither grew closer nor slipped farther away. It simply existed—fixed in the distance, waiting. The motion felt wrong, like running in a dream where effort meant nothing.

Her breath came fast, fog curling from her mouth in thick clouds that vanished without sound.

At some point—she didn’t know when—unease crept up her spine. A quiet, crawling sense that something about this was deeply incorrect. She slowed and turned around, just for a second, to check how far she had come.

Her stomach dropped.

The shoreline was distant. So distant it barely looked real anymore. The trees stood like thin black scratches against the horizon, impossibly far away.

“I should be in the middle of the lake,” she whispered.

She turned back.

She was.

The snow was gone.

Not gradually thinned or scuffed away—gone entirely. A perfect circle of bare ice spread around her feet, smooth and glassy, faint cracks veining through it like old scars that had been healed and sealed over. The ice beneath her boots was solid, unnervingly so, thick enough to feel immovable.

The figure was gone.

Her heart slammed against her ribs as she spun in a slow circle, eyes searching the empty lake.

“Grandpa?” she called, louder now. “Grandpa!”

The sound still didn’t exist.

Panic began to press in at the edges of her thoughts. She turned again, faster this time, scanning the ice, the horizon, the empty sky. There was no one. Nothing. Just endless frozen water and silence so complete it felt oppressive.

She stepped backward without meaning to.

The back of her legs caught on something solid.

She went down hard, stumbling back onto it, sliding briefly over the smooth surface before slipping off the other side and landing flat on her back. The impact should have knocked the air from her lungs.

It didn’t.

She lay there for a second, staring up at the pale, blank sky, then propped herself up on her elbows. Cold did not bite her skin. Pain did not follow the fall.

Her eyes dropped to what she had tripped over.

A coffin.

It was large and ornate, crafted from dark, richly stained wood—almost black, polished to a muted sheen. The kind of coffin meant for ceremony, for honor, not something hastily made. There was no name carved into it. No dates. No photograph.

Only flowers.

A bouquet rested neatly atop the lid: forget-me-nots. Dozens of them. Small, perfect blossoms in the same precise shade of pale blue, each with a bright yellow center. No variation. No imperfections. Not a single pink or purple bloom among them.

They looked… intentional.

Her heart began to race.

Slowly, cautiously, she reached out and lifted the bouquet. The stems were supple, the petals whole. Warm.

Not frozen.

That was wrong. Everything about that was wrong.

Her fingers tightened around the flowers—and the world shifted.

The weight on her shoulders changed. The familiar balance of her body altered. She gasped softly and looked down at herself.

She was wearing a uniform.

Green Canadian camouflage, the fabric stiff and heavy against her skin. A sidearm rested at her hip, unfamiliar and unused, the holster worn smooth from someone else’s hand. Her axe was gone. So were her knives. Her fur-lined boots had been replaced with standard-issue military boots, brown leather, scuffed and practical—and too big.

The sleeves of the uniform hung slightly past her wrists. The pants bunched awkwardly at her hips.

She didn’t belong in this.

“I’m not military,” she muttered, confusion rippling into fear. “I never—”

The lake around her was no longer dusted with snow.

It was all ice now. Endless, unbroken, reflecting the pale sky like a mirror.

Her gaze snapped back to the coffin.

Jaw tightening, she stepped forward and flipped the metal latches open. They clicked loudly in the silence. She gripped the lid and lifted.

It was heavier than she expected—solid, resistant, like it didn’t want to be opened.

Inside, there was no body.

Instead, the coffin was filled with black fox furs, glossy and thick, layered beneath a bed of forget-me-nots identical to the ones she had just held. Nestled among them lay a single folded note.

Her fingers trembled as she picked it up and unfolded it.

why have you forgotten?

That was all.

Her pulse thundered in her ears as she dug through the furs and flowers, searching frantically for anything else—another note, a name, some explanation.

There was nothing.

She stepped back, breath quickening, a dull ache blooming behind her eyes. Her thigh twinged sharply, familiar and wrong all at once. She pressed a hand there instinctively.

“Forgotten… what?” she whispered.

Had her grandfather said something else over the radio? Something important she hadn’t remembered? Had she missed something—someone?

The sound came without warning.

A crack—loud, violent.

Her head snapped down just in time to see fractures spiderwebbing through the ice at her feet, racing outward in jagged lines. Her breath hitched into a gasp.

“No—no, no—”

She turned and ran for the shore, boots pounding against the ice. But the trees did not grow closer. The distance did not shrink.

The cracks did though.

They surged toward her, snapping and groaning, the ice breaking into massive floating chunks beneath her feet. One split free, pitching violently.

She screamed—soundless—and leapt, landing on another slab just as the first flipped. The ice rolled beneath her, slick and unstable.

She grabbed the edge desperately, trying to haul herself up, trying to jump—

The ice gave way.

Cold swallowed her whole.

She plunged beneath the surface, shock ripping through her as black water closed over her head. She kicked, clawed, slammed her fists against the ice above as it shifted and slid—

Then sealed.

The fractures knitted together, freezing solid again, trapping her beneath the lake as the world went silent and dark.

A sharp, desperate gasp tore itself from her chest—and the world lurched.

Cold water surrounded her, cradling her weightless body as she floated suspended in the middle of it. The sting hit her eyes first, a biting burn that should have forced them shut, yet she kept them open, blinking against the blur. Tiny bubbles escaped her nose and mouth, drifting upward in lazy spirals. She registered, distantly, that she wasn’t breathing.

And yet, she wasn’t choking.

There was no panic clawing at her lungs, no fire in her chest. Her body felt strangely calm, as if it had forgotten how to fear this.

Something slammed into her arm.

She spun in the water, instinct kicking in, arms sweeping wide as she fought for orientation. Her heart jumped—then nearly stopped.

It was a body.

Not just one.

Dozens.

They floated around her at different depths, limbs slack, hair drifting like dark weeds, clothing tugged by unseen currents. Faces pale. Eyes closed. Some mouths hung open as if frozen mid-scream. Others bore expressions so peaceful it made her stomach twist.

A horrified sound escaped her—and this time, water rushed in with it.

She coughed, reflexively inhaling, her lungs flooding as the cold invaded her chest. Terror surged at last, sharp and consuming. She clamped her mouth shut and kicked upward, arms pulling hard through the water as she swam for the light streaming down from somewhere far above.

She swam harder.

Faster.

Her muscles burned, though they shouldn’t have. The light never grew closer. It stayed fixed, distant, unreachable, like a cruel promise.

Fingers closed around her upper arm.

She jerked violently, trying to twist free, panic spiking—but the grip was firm without being painful. It slid from her arm to her shoulder, steadying her, anchoring her in place.

She turned.

The woman in front of her was young—no, ageless in that way some faces are. Beautiful, but not in a fragile sense. Her features were strong, balanced, deliberate. Long black hair flowed freely around her head, fanning out in the water like ink, untouched by gravity. Her eyes were a deep, piercing brown, so dark they almost seemed to drink in the light around them.

Her skin was a warm tan, glowing faintly even here, beneath the surface.

Three lines were tattooed down her chin: one long line in the center, flanked by two shorter ones. The markings were simple, precise, and carried a weight Y/n couldn’t name but felt instantly.

The woman wore a dress made of black fur, the texture rippling gently with the water’s movement. She looked directly into Y/n’s eyes—not past her, not through her.

Into her.

Y/n froze.

The woman smiled.

It was soft. Kind. So utterly out of place in this submerged grave that it stole the breath Y/n hadn’t needed.

Without a word, the woman tightened her grip and began to swim upward.

This time, the surface came.

They broke through the water together, the woman hauling Y/n up and out with effortless strength. Y/n sucked in a sharp breath, coughing hard as air filled her lungs, her body remembering what it was supposed to do.

She was pulled onto something solid—wood.

A large, flat platform floated beneath them, dry and sturdy, rocking gently with the water. Y/n rolled onto her side, gasping, hands scrabbling against the rough grain as she tried to orient herself.

There was no shore in sight.

Just water. Endless, dark, stretching in every direction. A lake—huge. One of the Great Lakes, her mind supplied faintly, though she didn’t know how she knew that.

Pain flared suddenly in her thigh.

She hissed and rubbed at it instinctively, fingers pressing into the familiar spot. The ache sharpened, biting deeper—

A hand caught her wrist.

Firm. Gentle. Insistent.

She looked up.

The woman smiled again and slowly pulled Y/n’s hand away from her leg, shaking her head just slightly. The pain dulled, not gone, but softened, as if wrapped in something protective.

And then Y/n noticed the clothes.

The black fur dress was gone.

The woman now wore blue jeans, the knees stained dark with dried blood. A baggy light grey hoodie hung loose on her frame, a black silhouette of a turtle emblazoned on the chest. The fabric, too, was smeared with blood—far more than any visible wound could explain.

She wore black socks. No shoes.

Y/n glanced down at herself, breath hitching.

Her own clothes had changed again. Black cargo pants hugged her legs, familiar and worn. A dark green tank top clung to her torso, her black sports bra visible beneath it. She felt like herself again, at least on the outside.

The woman reached out, cupping Y/n’s cheeks in her hands.

Her palms were warm.

She leaned in and pressed her forehead gently against Y/n’s, closing her eyes for a long, quiet moment. Y/n’s own eyes fluttered shut without her meaning them to. The world seemed to slow, the vast water around them receding into something distant and unimportant.

When the woman pulled back, she circled Y/n slowly, studying her from every angle. Y/n found her voice at last.

“Who… who are you?” she asked softly.

The woman shook her head.

She took Y/n’s hand instead, turning it palm-up, her brows knitting slightly as she traced the tiny scars scattered across the skin—old cuts, nicks, reminders of survival. Her touch lingered, reverent.

Then she placed her hands on Y/n’s shoulders and pulled her into a hug.

It was slow. Careful. Protective.

The woman’s arms wrapped around her solidly, one hand moving up and down Y/n’s back in a steady, soothing rhythm. Warmth spread through Y/n’s chest, settling something tight and aching she hadn’t realized she’d been carrying.

The woman leaned close and whispered a single word against her ear.

“Nimemengwaa.”

My butterfly.

Y/n blinked, breath catching—not in fear, but in something dangerously close to relief. She didn’t know why, but the word fit. It wrapped around her like a memory she hadn’t lived but somehow recognized.

The woman whispered it again.

“Nimemengwaa.”

She pulled back just enough to look at Y/n’s face, then took both of Y/n’s hands in her own, holding them securely. She was a little taller than Y/n—only by an inch or two—but it felt like standing in the presence of something vast and steady.

Y/n met her gaze.

Y/n blinked at the woman, her vision sharpening and softening at the same time, like a lens refusing to focus. Recognition tugged at her chest—strong, undeniable—but when she tried to grasp it, her mind came up empty. No name surfaced. No clear memory. Just the certainty that she knew this woman.

The frustration of it made her temples throb. She pressed her lips together, eyes narrowing as she tried harder, digging through her thoughts with increasing desperation. It felt like reaching into cold water, fingers brushing something solid only for it to slip away every time she tried to grab hold. The harder she pushed, the worse it got, until a dull ache bloomed behind her eyes, spreading slowly and insistently.

The woman noticed.

She tilted her head slightly, studying Y/n with an expression that was gentle and curious, as if she were looking at something precious she hadn’t realized she’d lost. Her gaze traveled over Y/n—her face, her shoulders, the way she stood—taking her in with a familiarity that made Y/n’s chest tighten.

Then the woman spoke.

Her voice was soft and warm, young but not childish, carrying a lilting cadence that felt musical without being a song. It reminded Y/n of water flowing over smooth stones—steady, comforting, alive.

“I haven’t seen you in such a long time,” the woman said fondly. “Not since you were a little baby girl.”

Y/n blinked again, her confusion deepening. Baby girl? Her thoughts felt sluggish now, as if they were sinking into thick mud. She tried to connect the words to anything concrete, but nothing lined up the way it should have. The world felt slightly tilted, like a dream that refused to explain itself.

“I—” She hesitated, then gave up trying to force the pieces together. “Who are you?” she asked quietly.

For the first time, the woman looked truly sad.

It was subtle—just a brief tightening around her eyes, a shadow that crossed her face—but it hit Y/n harder than she expected. The woman stepped closer and reached out, tracing a single line down Y/n’s face, from the center of her bottom lip to her chin, following the same path as the tattoo she herself bore.

Then she laughed softly, the sound warm and affectionate.

“I thought my own daughter would know who I am.”

The words landed like a physical blow.

Y/n’s eyes went wide, and she stumbled back a step, staring at the woman as if she were seeing her for the first time. Her gaze swept over her again, sharper now, searching for similarities—bone structure, eyes, mouth, anything.

“My… mother?” Y/n breathed.

It didn’t make sense. Her mother had been young when she’d had her, yes—but this woman didn’t look like a teenager. She looked grown. Fully. Strong in a way that spoke of experience rather than age. But then again, Y/n realized with a strange twist of thought, she hadn’t seen her own reflection in a long time. Not properly. Not long enough to know what age really looked like on her anymore.

And then it clicked.

Her mother hadn’t died when she was a teenager, she hadn’t died until she was around twenty-two.

Her father had killed her.

Y/n’s gaze dropped to the blood staining the woman’s clothes—the jeans, the hoodie, the dark marks soaked into the fabric. Her stomach twisted.

The woman circled her slowly, laughing again, the sound like a clear stream running over glass. “I’m sorry you have to live in a world like this,” she said gently. “A broken world. The dead walking among the living, hollow and soulless.”

She stopped in front of Y/n and placed her hands on her shoulders.

They felt heavier than they looked. Grounding. Solid. As if they carried more than just touch—history, weight, truth.

“Nimemengwaa,” she murmured again, smiling softly.

Y/n swallowed.

“I’m sorry I didn’t get to raise you,” her mother continued. “To teach you how to be soft when the world allows it. How to be gentle without being weak. Instead…” She looked Y/n over with something like pride and sorrow intertwined. “You became what you had to be.”

Y/n’s throat tightened. She didn’t argue. She suddenly felt like she didn’t know how to.

“You grew without a tender hand guiding you,” her mother said. “But every person grows differently. That doesn’t mean you grew wrong.”

Then, unexpectedly, she smiled again—this time with a glint of mischief. “Tell me about Keegan,” she said lightly. “The man you’ve been sleeping with.”

Y/n’s head snapped up. “I am not sleeping with Keegan,” she said immediately. “We’re just—” She hesitated, then grimaced. “Occasionally sleeping in the same bed.”

Her mother laughed. “That’s what I meant.”

Y/n scowled. “You’re impossible.” Though, Y/n didn’t know two licks about the woman.

“You like him,” her mother said calmly.

Y/n opened her mouth to argue, then shut it again, frowning. “He’s an American soldier who annoys me.”

“And yet,” her mother said, tapping two fingers lightly against Y/n’s forehead, then her chest, “your thoughts and your heart disagree.”

Y/n froze.

“I know everything you feel,” her mother said softly. “I made you. A part of me lives in you.”

She reached up, gently running her fingers through Y/n’s hair. The touch was warm and familiar—and then the world began to change.

The sky darkened, clouds rolling in fast and heavy. The water around the platform started to churn, waves slapping harder, more violently.

Her mother’s expression shifted—urgent now. “You need to swim,” she said quickly. “To the shore. Now.”

Y/n turned, eyes snapping toward the distant treeline—and when she looked back—

Her mother was gone.

The platform rocked violently beneath her feet, and the water surged, cold and relentless.

Y/n didn’t hesitate.

She hurled herself off the wooden platform without thinking, the rough boards vanishing beneath her feet as she plunged into the water. The shock of it stole her breath instantly. The lake was ice-cold, biting into her skin as she kicked and pulled herself forward, arms burning as she swam hard toward the distant shore. The trees loomed ahead now—solid, real—though she knew they hadn’t been there moments before. She didn’t stop to question it. Survival didn’t give room for questions.

Then something grabbed her.

Hands closed around her legs from beneath the surface—strong, unyielding—and yanked her down with brutal force. The water swallowed her whole, darkness folding in around her as the surface rushed away above her head.

Panic detonated in her chest.

She knew—some instinct older than thought—that if she breathed now, she would die.

Her eyes flew open underwater, wide and frantic, and terror unlike anything she had ever known ripped through her when she saw what had her. Male hands. Pale, strong, impossibly tight around her calves, fingers digging in as if they meant to drag her to the bottom and never let go. Hands connected to a face she had been taught long ago to fear.

This—this—was one of the few things that truly terrified her.

She kicked violently, thrashing with everything she had, nails scraping uselessly against skin she couldn’t see clearly. The grip didn’t loosen. If anything, it tightened, dragging her farther down, the pressure crushing her chest as the need for air became unbearable.

Her lungs burned.

Spots bloomed in her vision.

She fought harder, desperate now, fear turning into raw, animal panic—but it wasn’t enough. Her body betrayed her. She gasped, sucking in water instead of air, choking as it flooded her lungs. The pain was immediate and blinding. She coughed underwater, bubbles ripping from her mouth as tears streamed from her eyes, lost to the lake.

She was drowning.

The realization hit her fully then, sharp and absolute. This is how I die. Dragged under. Helpless. Alone.

She cried soundlessly in the water, body convulsing as she continued to fight even as her strength began to fail. The hands pulled her deeper, the darkness closing in—

Then something else grabbed her.

Strong hands clamped down on her shoulders, solid and real, shaking her hard as a voice cut through the water—muffled, distorted, but unmistakably calling her name.

“Y/n—!”

Her vision blurred.

She blinked—

—and suddenly light exploded around her.

She sucked in a harsh, ragged breath, lungs screaming as air finally filled them. Her body jolted violently, chest heaving as she gasped again and again, hands clawing weakly at whoever was holding her.

Keegan.

He was straddling her hips, pinning her gently but firmly to the bed, his hands gripping her shoulders as he shook her just enough to pull her fully awake. Early summer light spilled through the window behind him, pale gold washing over his face.

Concern filled his blue eyes—raw and unguarded—though Y/n caught the faint wince he tried to hide, the telltale sign of a headache still lingering from the night before.

“You’re okay,” he said, voice low but urgent. “You’re here. Breathe.”

She did—again and again—her whole body trembling as reality slowly settled back into place. Her face was wet, tears clinging to her lashes and soaking into the pillow beneath her head. She must have been crying in her sleep.

Her chest hurt. Her throat burned.

All she could remember was the water. The hands. The certainty that something had tried to pull her under and never let her go.

Keegan didn’t let go of her shoulders.

He just stayed there, grounding her, eyes locked on hers until her breathing finally began to slow.

************************************************************************

Part 43 | Part 45 |

ALL PARTS HERE

@fanfictliver @augustalla @ayasofreakytwo @peachmartini @sufferingwriter @ilchrys0 @aicileh

[chichi-the-treetea]

Keegan Zombie Apocalypse Part 44

Part 43 | Part 45 |

ALL PARTS HERE

Y/n slipped out of her bedroom as quietly as she could, though quiet was a hard thing to manage when the nightgown she wore was far too big for her.

The hem dragged along the wooden floor, whispering with every step, tangling around her ankles like it wanted to trip her on purpose. She lifted the front of it with one small fist, but it still brushed her toes, and she shuffled forward in careful, uncertain steps. The house was cold—cold in the way that crept into your bones and made your fingers ache before you even realized they were numb.

Her bedroom window was covered in frost so thick it looked like someone had painted it white. She had pressed her nose to it earlier and barely been able to see the shapes of the trees outside, just dark shadows blurred behind ice. The cold seemed louder at night, like it hummed in the walls.

She stepped into the hallway, her bare feet making soft pitter-patter sounds against the floor. The house felt too quiet. But not asleep-quiet, it was empty-quiet.

She crossed the hallway and nudged open her grandma and grandpa’s bedroom door, peeking inside. The bed was empty. The blankets were folded back like they’d been in a hurry. No soft breathing. No low murmured voices. No familiar warmth.

Her chest tightened a little.

She backed out, closing the door gently, and padded toward the stairs. One step at a time, just like Grandpa always told her. Her small hand wrapped around the railing, fingers barely fitting around the smooth wood as she descended slowly, carefully. The house creaked under her weight, each sound making her pause, listening, waiting for someone to call her name.

No one did.

When she reached the bottom, she stepped into the living area—and frowned.

It was cold in here too.

The fireplace was dark. No fire. Just neatly stacked sticks and logs waiting to be lit. She stared at it for a moment, confused. Grandpa always kept a fire going at night when it was this cold. Always. Fire meant warmth. Safety. Stories.

Looking around, she didn’t see her grandma. Or her grandpa. Or her uncle.

The house felt too big without them.

She hugged herself for a moment, shivering, then made a decision.

She pushed one of the wooden chairs across the floor toward the counter. It scraped loudly, and she winced, glancing around as if someone might scold her. No one came. She climbed up onto the chair, wobbling for a second before steadying herself, and stretched on tiptoes.

Her fingers brushed the lighter on the back of the counter—the one that was supposed to be out of her reach.

She smiled faintly, proud, and grabbed it.

Sliding back down, she shoved the chair back where it belonged, just like she’d seen her grandma do. Then she padded over to the fireplace, kneeling in front of it. Her hands shook a little as she clicked the lighter.

Nothing.

She clicked it again.

Nothing.

The third time, a flame burst to life, and she gasped, startled, dropping her thumb so it went out immediately. Her heart thudded in her chest. She stared at the lighter like it had jumped at her on purpose.

“…Okay,” she whispered to herself.

She tried again, holding it steadier this time. When the flame appeared, she leaned forward and touched it to the birch bark tucked beneath the logs.

The fire caught instantly.

Too instantly.

The birch bark flared bright and fast, flames racing up the wood in a way that made her pause. Something felt wrong about it—about how eager it was to burn, how the heat rushed outward almost aggressively—but she didn’t think about it for long.

Fire was heat.

And she was cold.

She put the lighter back on the counter and sat cross-legged in front of the fireplace, holding her hands out toward the warmth. Her fingers thawed slowly, tingling painfully as feeling crept back in. She sighed, shoulders relaxing as the fire crackled.

Then the radio crackled too.

She flinched, turning her head sharply toward it.

The radio hung above the sink, old and boxy, its dial glowing faintly. Static hissed, then a voice began speaking—fast, urgent, and not in English.

She frowned.

It wasn’t Ojibwe either.

Her brows knit together as she stood up, uneasy. She hadn’t turned the radio on. Grandpa always told her not to touch it without asking. And no one else was here.

She dragged the chair back over, climbing onto it so she could hear better. The voice kept talking in that strange language, words tumbling over each other, sharp and unfamiliar. Her stomach twisted.

Then, suddenly, it stopped.

Static crackled once.

And the voice changed.

“Hello?” an old man’s voice said.

Her breath caught.

She knew that voice.

“Grandpa?” she asked, her kid voice small and hopeful.

“Yes,” the radio said. “It’s me.”

Her heart leapt. “Where are you?” she asked quickly. “You weren’t upstairs.”

There was a pause, filled with soft static.

“I need help,” her grandfather’s voice said, strained. “I fell through the ice.”

Her fingers curled into the edge of the sink.

“Through the ice?” she repeated, panic rising into her throat. “Are you cold?”

“Yes,” he said. “Very cold. I can’t get out. I need you to come help me.”

Her eyes burned. “Where are you?”

“At the lake,” he answered. “You know where. Please. I can’t stay here much longer.”

She didn’t hesitate.

“I’m coming,” she said, already climbing down from the chair. “I’ll help you, Grandpa. I promise.”

The radio crackled softly, like it was breathing.

Behind her, the fire roared a little louder.

Y/n moved fast—too fast for boots that were nearly as big as her lower legs.

She yanked one on, then the other, her fingers clumsy with panic and cold. Something felt wrong immediately, and she frowned down at her feet, realizing she had them on the wrong way around. Her heart thudded harder, irritation bubbling up alongside fear. She dropped to the floor, yanking them off and forcing herself to slow down, just for a second, long enough to put them on properly.

There. Better.

She scrambled upright again and grabbed her jacket from the hook by the door. It didn’t come off easily; the fabric caught, stubborn, and she had to tug hard enough that it finally slipped free and nearly made her stumble backward. She shoved her arms into the sleeves without bothering to zip it properly and snatched her mittens next, stuffing them into her jacket pockets.

The cold was already biting at her ankles.

She pulled the door open and stepped out onto the porch—and froze.

Something was wrong.

She turned automatically to shut the door behind her, hand already reaching for the handle, when she realized she was… taller. Much taller. The world felt farther away from the ground than it had a moment ago.

Her breath caught.

She looked down.

Black cargo pants. Thick, heavy. A belt cinched around her waist, weighted with things that absolutely had not been there seconds ago—an axe hanging against her hip, a knife in a sheath, coiled rope bumping against her thigh when she moved. She shifted her weight, heart racing, and frowned harder.

She couldn’t feel the cold fabric of the pants directly against her skin. Instead, there was the dull, dense warmth of wool underneath.

Thermals.

She lifted her hands, staring at them like they might belong to someone else. They were bigger. Stronger. Scarred in places she didn’t remember being scarred.

Her jacket was different too—thicker, heavier, a winter coat with a fur-lined hood brushing against her neck. Even her boots had changed, fur-trimmed and solid, planted firmly on the porch boards like they belonged there.

“What…?” she whispered.

The word didn’t make a sound.

Her mouth moved, but the air swallowed it whole.

Her pulse spiked as she lifted her head and really looked around.

The house behind her was gone.

In its place stood a cabin—rough-hewn logs, dark with age, half-buried in snow. And beyond it stretched forest. Endless forest. Tall, dark pines crowded close together, their branches heavy and black against a sky that seemed permanently overcast. It looked like the kind of forest people used in movies when they wanted everything to feel wrong—oppressive, watching, alive in a way that wasn’t friendly.

A narrow foot trail cut through the snow, packed down as if something had been walking it repeatedly. Beside it stood a wooden sign, half-buried and frosted over.

“This Way To Lake.”

Her heart began to pound harder, faster, like it was trying to escape her chest.

She didn’t understand what was happening. She didn’t understand why she was here, or how she had changed, or why the world felt like it was holding its breath around her.

But the radio voice—her grandfather’s voice—echoed in her mind.

I need help.

Swallowing, she stepped off the porch and onto the trail.

The snow beneath her boots was firm, packed down—but it didn’t crunch. Didn’t hiss or compress or complain the way snow should. She took another step, slower this time, listening.

Nothing.

No wind through the trees. No birds. No insects. No creak of branches or groan of frozen wood. Even her breathing—visible in thick clouds of fog—made no sound at all.

That was when the fear really sank in.

She pulled the fur-lined hood up over her head, tucking her chin down instinctively as if that might protect her from whatever was watching. Because she could feel it now—the unmistakable sensation of being observed. Not by eyes she could see, but by something aware of her presence.

She followed the trail deeper into the forest.

Each bend looked the same as the last. The same trees, the same spacing, the same slight leans and twists arranged just differently enough to trick the mind into thinking progress was being made. She glanced back once—and couldn’t tell how far she’d come.

Her pace quickened.

Then she heard footsteps.

Her body reacted before her mind did. Her hand flew to the axe at her belt, yanking it free in one smooth motion as she spun around, heart hammering in her ears.

“Who’s there?” she demanded.

No sound followed.

No one stood behind her.

But the snow shifted.

Footprints appeared—one by one—just off the trail. Deep, deliberate impressions forming as if pressed down by invisible feet. Her stomach dropped.

They began to move.

Not on the trail, but beside it.

Then they started to run.

Her breath hitched, fear flaring sharp and bright—but she didn’t hesitate. She bolted after them, boots flying over the snow, axe clenched tight in her hand. She didn’t feel tired. Didn’t feel cold. Didn’t feel the burn she should have felt from running that hard.

She chased the unseen thing through the trees, past bends that all looked the same, until the forest suddenly opened up.

The lake stretched out before her—wide, frozen, endless.

The footprints stopped at the edge and vanished.

She skidded to a halt, chest rising and falling soundlessly, scanning the ice. “Hello?” she called, voice swallowed by the stillness. “Is anyone there?”

For a long moment, nothing happened.

Then—a cry.

Thin and distant, rising from the middle of the lake.

Her eyes locked onto the sound, and she saw it: a lone figure standing far out on the ice, waving both arms.

Without thinking, she broke into a run toward them.

She didn’t run with panic—not yet—but with purpose, driving her body forward through the deep snow by sheer force of muscle and momentum. She learned quickly that lifting her knees high was useless; instead, she bounced, pushing off hard with each step, letting her weight and strength carry her forward in long, powerful strides. The snow swallowed her legs up to the thigh, but she refused to slow, refused to stop.

The figure ahead of her did not change in distance.

No matter how fast she moved, how hard she pushed, it neither grew closer nor slipped farther away. It simply existed—fixed in the distance, waiting. The motion felt wrong, like running in a dream where effort meant nothing.

Her breath came fast, fog curling from her mouth in thick clouds that vanished without sound.

At some point—she didn’t know when—unease crept up her spine. A quiet, crawling sense that something about this was deeply incorrect. She slowed and turned around, just for a second, to check how far she had come.

Her stomach dropped.

The shoreline was distant. So distant it barely looked real anymore. The trees stood like thin black scratches against the horizon, impossibly far away.

“I should be in the middle of the lake,” she whispered.

She turned back.

She was.

The snow was gone.

Not gradually thinned or scuffed away—gone entirely. A perfect circle of bare ice spread around her feet, smooth and glassy, faint cracks veining through it like old scars that had been healed and sealed over. The ice beneath her boots was solid, unnervingly so, thick enough to feel immovable.

The figure was gone.

Her heart slammed against her ribs as she spun in a slow circle, eyes searching the empty lake.

“Grandpa?” she called, louder now. “Grandpa!”

The sound still didn’t exist.

Panic began to press in at the edges of her thoughts. She turned again, faster this time, scanning the ice, the horizon, the empty sky. There was no one. Nothing. Just endless frozen water and silence so complete it felt oppressive.

She stepped backward without meaning to.

The back of her legs caught on something solid.

She went down hard, stumbling back onto it, sliding briefly over the smooth surface before slipping off the other side and landing flat on her back. The impact should have knocked the air from her lungs.

It didn’t.

She lay there for a second, staring up at the pale, blank sky, then propped herself up on her elbows. Cold did not bite her skin. Pain did not follow the fall.

Her eyes dropped to what she had tripped over.

A coffin.

It was large and ornate, crafted from dark, richly stained wood—almost black, polished to a muted sheen. The kind of coffin meant for ceremony, for honor, not something hastily made. There was no name carved into it. No dates. No photograph.

Only flowers.

A bouquet rested neatly atop the lid: forget-me-nots. Dozens of them. Small, perfect blossoms in the same precise shade of pale blue, each with a bright yellow center. No variation. No imperfections. Not a single pink or purple bloom among them.

They looked… intentional.

Her heart began to race.

Slowly, cautiously, she reached out and lifted the bouquet. The stems were supple, the petals whole. Warm.

Not frozen.

That was wrong. Everything about that was wrong.

Her fingers tightened around the flowers—and the world shifted.

The weight on her shoulders changed. The familiar balance of her body altered. She gasped softly and looked down at herself.

She was wearing a uniform.

Green Canadian camouflage, the fabric stiff and heavy against her skin. A sidearm rested at her hip, unfamiliar and unused, the holster worn smooth from someone else’s hand. Her axe was gone. So were her knives. Her fur-lined boots had been replaced with standard-issue military boots, brown leather, scuffed and practical—and too big.

The sleeves of the uniform hung slightly past her wrists. The pants bunched awkwardly at her hips.

She didn’t belong in this.

“I’m not military,” she muttered, confusion rippling into fear. “I never—”

The lake around her was no longer dusted with snow.

It was all ice now. Endless, unbroken, reflecting the pale sky like a mirror.

Her gaze snapped back to the coffin.

Jaw tightening, she stepped forward and flipped the metal latches open. They clicked loudly in the silence. She gripped the lid and lifted.

It was heavier than she expected—solid, resistant, like it didn’t want to be opened.

Inside, there was no body.

Instead, the coffin was filled with black fox furs, glossy and thick, layered beneath a bed of forget-me-nots identical to the ones she had just held. Nestled among them lay a single folded note.

Her fingers trembled as she picked it up and unfolded it.

why have you forgotten?

That was all.

Her pulse thundered in her ears as she dug through the furs and flowers, searching frantically for anything else—another note, a name, some explanation.

There was nothing.

She stepped back, breath quickening, a dull ache blooming behind her eyes. Her thigh twinged sharply, familiar and wrong all at once. She pressed a hand there instinctively.

“Forgotten… what?” she whispered.

Had her grandfather said something else over the radio? Something important she hadn’t remembered? Had she missed something—someone?

The sound came without warning.

A crack—loud, violent.

Her head snapped down just in time to see fractures spiderwebbing through the ice at her feet, racing outward in jagged lines. Her breath hitched into a gasp.

“No—no, no—”

She turned and ran for the shore, boots pounding against the ice. But the trees did not grow closer. The distance did not shrink.

The cracks did though.

They surged toward her, snapping and groaning, the ice breaking into massive floating chunks beneath her feet. One split free, pitching violently.

She screamed—soundless—and leapt, landing on another slab just as the first flipped. The ice rolled beneath her, slick and unstable.

She grabbed the edge desperately, trying to haul herself up, trying to jump—

The ice gave way.

Cold swallowed her whole.

She plunged beneath the surface, shock ripping through her as black water closed over her head. She kicked, clawed, slammed her fists against the ice above as it shifted and slid—

Then sealed.

The fractures knitted together, freezing solid again, trapping her beneath the lake as the world went silent and dark.

A sharp, desperate gasp tore itself from her chest—and the world lurched.

Cold water surrounded her, cradling her weightless body as she floated suspended in the middle of it. The sting hit her eyes first, a biting burn that should have forced them shut, yet she kept them open, blinking against the blur. Tiny bubbles escaped her nose and mouth, drifting upward in lazy spirals. She registered, distantly, that she wasn’t breathing.

And yet, she wasn’t choking.

There was no panic clawing at her lungs, no fire in her chest. Her body felt strangely calm, as if it had forgotten how to fear this.

Something slammed into her arm.

She spun in the water, instinct kicking in, arms sweeping wide as she fought for orientation. Her heart jumped—then nearly stopped.

It was a body.

Not just one.

Dozens.

They floated around her at different depths, limbs slack, hair drifting like dark weeds, clothing tugged by unseen currents. Faces pale. Eyes closed. Some mouths hung open as if frozen mid-scream. Others bore expressions so peaceful it made her stomach twist.

A horrified sound escaped her—and this time, water rushed in with it.

She coughed, reflexively inhaling, her lungs flooding as the cold invaded her chest. Terror surged at last, sharp and consuming. She clamped her mouth shut and kicked upward, arms pulling hard through the water as she swam for the light streaming down from somewhere far above.

She swam harder.

Faster.

Her muscles burned, though they shouldn’t have. The light never grew closer. It stayed fixed, distant, unreachable, like a cruel promise.

Fingers closed around her upper arm.

She jerked violently, trying to twist free, panic spiking—but the grip was firm without being painful. It slid from her arm to her shoulder, steadying her, anchoring her in place.

She turned.

The woman in front of her was young—no, ageless in that way some faces are. Beautiful, but not in a fragile sense. Her features were strong, balanced, deliberate. Long black hair flowed freely around her head, fanning out in the water like ink, untouched by gravity. Her eyes were a deep, piercing brown, so dark they almost seemed to drink in the light around them.

Her skin was a warm tan, glowing faintly even here, beneath the surface.

Three lines were tattooed down her chin: one long line in the center, flanked by two shorter ones. The markings were simple, precise, and carried a weight Y/n couldn’t name but felt instantly.

The woman wore a dress made of black fur, the texture rippling gently with the water’s movement. She looked directly into Y/n’s eyes—not past her, not through her.

Into her.

Y/n froze.

The woman smiled.

It was soft. Kind. So utterly out of place in this submerged grave that it stole the breath Y/n hadn’t needed.

Without a word, the woman tightened her grip and began to swim upward.

This time, the surface came.

They broke through the water together, the woman hauling Y/n up and out with effortless strength. Y/n sucked in a sharp breath, coughing hard as air filled her lungs, her body remembering what it was supposed to do.

She was pulled onto something solid—wood.

A large, flat platform floated beneath them, dry and sturdy, rocking gently with the water. Y/n rolled onto her side, gasping, hands scrabbling against the rough grain as she tried to orient herself.

There was no shore in sight.

Just water. Endless, dark, stretching in every direction. A lake—huge. One of the Great Lakes, her mind supplied faintly, though she didn’t know how she knew that.

Pain flared suddenly in her thigh.

She hissed and rubbed at it instinctively, fingers pressing into the familiar spot. The ache sharpened, biting deeper—

A hand caught her wrist.

Firm. Gentle. Insistent.

She looked up.

The woman smiled again and slowly pulled Y/n’s hand away from her leg, shaking her head just slightly. The pain dulled, not gone, but softened, as if wrapped in something protective.

And then Y/n noticed the clothes.

The black fur dress was gone.

The woman now wore blue jeans, the knees stained dark with dried blood. A baggy light grey hoodie hung loose on her frame, a black silhouette of a turtle emblazoned on the chest. The fabric, too, was smeared with blood—far more than any visible wound could explain.

She wore black socks. No shoes.

Y/n glanced down at herself, breath hitching.

Her own clothes had changed again. Black cargo pants hugged her legs, familiar and worn. A dark green tank top clung to her torso, her black sports bra visible beneath it. She felt like herself again, at least on the outside.

The woman reached out, cupping Y/n’s cheeks in her hands.

Her palms were warm.

She leaned in and pressed her forehead gently against Y/n’s, closing her eyes for a long, quiet moment. Y/n’s own eyes fluttered shut without her meaning them to. The world seemed to slow, the vast water around them receding into something distant and unimportant.

When the woman pulled back, she circled Y/n slowly, studying her from every angle. Y/n found her voice at last.

“Who… who are you?” she asked softly.

The woman shook her head.

She took Y/n’s hand instead, turning it palm-up, her brows knitting slightly as she traced the tiny scars scattered across the skin—old cuts, nicks, reminders of survival. Her touch lingered, reverent.

Then she placed her hands on Y/n’s shoulders and pulled her into a hug.

It was slow. Careful. Protective.

The woman’s arms wrapped around her solidly, one hand moving up and down Y/n’s back in a steady, soothing rhythm. Warmth spread through Y/n’s chest, settling something tight and aching she hadn’t realized she’d been carrying.

The woman leaned close and whispered a single word against her ear.

“Nimemengwaa.”

My butterfly.

Y/n blinked, breath catching—not in fear, but in something dangerously close to relief. She didn’t know why, but the word fit. It wrapped around her like a memory she hadn’t lived but somehow recognized.

The woman whispered it again.

“Nimemengwaa.”

She pulled back just enough to look at Y/n’s face, then took both of Y/n’s hands in her own, holding them securely. She was a little taller than Y/n—only by an inch or two—but it felt like standing in the presence of something vast and steady.

Y/n met her gaze.

Y/n blinked at the woman, her vision sharpening and softening at the same time, like a lens refusing to focus. Recognition tugged at her chest—strong, undeniable—but when she tried to grasp it, her mind came up empty. No name surfaced. No clear memory. Just the certainty that she knew this woman.

The frustration of it made her temples throb. She pressed her lips together, eyes narrowing as she tried harder, digging through her thoughts with increasing desperation. It felt like reaching into cold water, fingers brushing something solid only for it to slip away every time she tried to grab hold. The harder she pushed, the worse it got, until a dull ache bloomed behind her eyes, spreading slowly and insistently.

The woman noticed.

She tilted her head slightly, studying Y/n with an expression that was gentle and curious, as if she were looking at something precious she hadn’t realized she’d lost. Her gaze traveled over Y/n—her face, her shoulders, the way she stood—taking her in with a familiarity that made Y/n’s chest tighten.

Then the woman spoke.

Her voice was soft and warm, young but not childish, carrying a lilting cadence that felt musical without being a song. It reminded Y/n of water flowing over smooth stones—steady, comforting, alive.

“I haven’t seen you in such a long time,” the woman said fondly. “Not since you were a little baby girl.”

Y/n blinked again, her confusion deepening. Baby girl? Her thoughts felt sluggish now, as if they were sinking into thick mud. She tried to connect the words to anything concrete, but nothing lined up the way it should have. The world felt slightly tilted, like a dream that refused to explain itself.

“I—” She hesitated, then gave up trying to force the pieces together. “Who are you?” she asked quietly.

For the first time, the woman looked truly sad.

It was subtle—just a brief tightening around her eyes, a shadow that crossed her face—but it hit Y/n harder than she expected. The woman stepped closer and reached out, tracing a single line down Y/n’s face, from the center of her bottom lip to her chin, following the same path as the tattoo she herself bore.

Then she laughed softly, the sound warm and affectionate.

“I thought my own daughter would know who I am.”

The words landed like a physical blow.

Y/n’s eyes went wide, and she stumbled back a step, staring at the woman as if she were seeing her for the first time. Her gaze swept over her again, sharper now, searching for similarities—bone structure, eyes, mouth, anything.

“My… mother?” Y/n breathed.

It didn’t make sense. Her mother had been young when she’d had her, yes—but this woman didn’t look like a teenager. She looked grown. Fully. Strong in a way that spoke of experience rather than age. But then again, Y/n realized with a strange twist of thought, she hadn’t seen her own reflection in a long time. Not properly. Not long enough to know what age really looked like on her anymore.

And then it clicked.

Her mother hadn’t died when she was a teenager, she hadn’t died until she was around twenty-two.

Her father had killed her.

Y/n’s gaze dropped to the blood staining the woman’s clothes—the jeans, the hoodie, the dark marks soaked into the fabric. Her stomach twisted.

The woman circled her slowly, laughing again, the sound like a clear stream running over glass. “I’m sorry you have to live in a world like this,” she said gently. “A broken world. The dead walking among the living, hollow and soulless.”

She stopped in front of Y/n and placed her hands on her shoulders.

They felt heavier than they looked. Grounding. Solid. As if they carried more than just touch—history, weight, truth.

“Nimemengwaa,” she murmured again, smiling softly.

Y/n swallowed.

“I’m sorry I didn’t get to raise you,” her mother continued. “To teach you how to be soft when the world allows it. How to be gentle without being weak. Instead…” She looked Y/n over with something like pride and sorrow intertwined. “You became what you had to be.”

Y/n’s throat tightened. She didn’t argue. She suddenly felt like she didn’t know how to.

“You grew without a tender hand guiding you,” her mother said. “But every person grows differently. That doesn’t mean you grew wrong.”

Then, unexpectedly, she smiled again—this time with a glint of mischief. “Tell me about Keegan,” she said lightly. “The man you’ve been sleeping with.”

Y/n’s head snapped up. “I am not sleeping with Keegan,” she said immediately. “We’re just—” She hesitated, then grimaced. “Occasionally sleeping in the same bed.”

Her mother laughed. “That’s what I meant.”

Y/n scowled. “You’re impossible.” Though, Y/n didn’t know two licks about the woman.

“You like him,” her mother said calmly.

Y/n opened her mouth to argue, then shut it again, frowning. “He’s an American soldier who annoys me.”

“And yet,” her mother said, tapping two fingers lightly against Y/n’s forehead, then her chest, “your thoughts and your heart disagree.”

Y/n froze.

“I know everything you feel,” her mother said softly. “I made you. A part of me lives in you.”

She reached up, gently running her fingers through Y/n’s hair. The touch was warm and familiar—and then the world began to change.

The sky darkened, clouds rolling in fast and heavy. The water around the platform started to churn, waves slapping harder, more violently.

Her mother’s expression shifted—urgent now. “You need to swim,” she said quickly. “To the shore. Now.”

Y/n turned, eyes snapping toward the distant treeline—and when she looked back—

Her mother was gone.

The platform rocked violently beneath her feet, and the water surged, cold and relentless.

Y/n didn’t hesitate.

She hurled herself off the wooden platform without thinking, the rough boards vanishing beneath her feet as she plunged into the water. The shock of it stole her breath instantly. The lake was ice-cold, biting into her skin as she kicked and pulled herself forward, arms burning as she swam hard toward the distant shore. The trees loomed ahead now—solid, real—though she knew they hadn’t been there moments before. She didn’t stop to question it. Survival didn’t give room for questions.

Then something grabbed her.

Hands closed around her legs from beneath the surface—strong, unyielding—and yanked her down with brutal force. The water swallowed her whole, darkness folding in around her as the surface rushed away above her head.

Panic detonated in her chest.

She knew—some instinct older than thought—that if she breathed now, she would die.

Her eyes flew open underwater, wide and frantic, and terror unlike anything she had ever known ripped through her when she saw what had her. Male hands. Pale, strong, impossibly tight around her calves, fingers digging in as if they meant to drag her to the bottom and never let go. Hands connected to a face she had been taught long ago to fear.

This—this—was one of the few things that truly terrified her.

She kicked violently, thrashing with everything she had, nails scraping uselessly against skin she couldn’t see clearly. The grip didn’t loosen. If anything, it tightened, dragging her farther down, the pressure crushing her chest as the need for air became unbearable.

Her lungs burned.

Spots bloomed in her vision.

She fought harder, desperate now, fear turning into raw, animal panic—but it wasn’t enough. Her body betrayed her. She gasped, sucking in water instead of air, choking as it flooded her lungs. The pain was immediate and blinding. She coughed underwater, bubbles ripping from her mouth as tears streamed from her eyes, lost to the lake.

She was drowning.

The realization hit her fully then, sharp and absolute. This is how I die. Dragged under. Helpless. Alone.

She cried soundlessly in the water, body convulsing as she continued to fight even as her strength began to fail. The hands pulled her deeper, the darkness closing in—

Then something else grabbed her.

Strong hands clamped down on her shoulders, solid and real, shaking her hard as a voice cut through the water—muffled, distorted, but unmistakably calling her name.

“Y/n—!”

Her vision blurred.

She blinked—

—and suddenly light exploded around her.

She sucked in a harsh, ragged breath, lungs screaming as air finally filled them. Her body jolted violently, chest heaving as she gasped again and again, hands clawing weakly at whoever was holding her.

Keegan.

He was straddling her hips, pinning her gently but firmly to the bed, his hands gripping her shoulders as he shook her just enough to pull her fully awake. Early summer light spilled through the window behind him, pale gold washing over his face.

Concern filled his blue eyes—raw and unguarded—though Y/n caught the faint wince he tried to hide, the telltale sign of a headache still lingering from the night before.

“You’re okay,” he said, voice low but urgent. “You’re here. Breathe.”

She did—again and again—her whole body trembling as reality slowly settled back into place. Her face was wet, tears clinging to her lashes and soaking into the pillow beneath her head. She must have been crying in her sleep.

Her chest hurt. Her throat burned.

All she could remember was the water. The hands. The certainty that something had tried to pull her under and never let her go.

Keegan didn’t let go of her shoulders.

He just stayed there, grounding her, eyes locked on hers until her breathing finally began to slow.

************************************************************************

Part 43 | Part 45 |

ALL PARTS HERE

@fanfictliver @augustalla @ayasofreakytwo @peachmartini @sufferingwriter @ilchrys0 @aicileh

[chichi-the-treetea]

Keegan Zombie Apocalypse Part 43

Part 42 | Part 44 |

ALL PARTS HERE

“Y/n?” Ajax’s voice cut through the forest, sharp and searching, bouncing between trunks and underbrush.

Y/n’s head snapped up at the sound, tension she hadn’t even realized she was holding loosening all at once. Relief washed over her so fast it almost made her dizzy.

“Over here!” she yelled back, raising her voice and turning toward the sound.

The moment she was sure Ajax was close enough to hear her, she let go of Keegan’s arm. He immediately tipped forward like a felled log and faceplanted into the thick carpet of moss with a soft, undignified whump. Y/n barely spared him a glance as she straightened, standing tall and lifting both arms over her head to wave.

She scanned the trees until she spotted Ajax weaving his way through them. He wasn’t exactly subtle—his steps were loud, his path a little clumsy as he dodged roots and low branches. Y/n snorted softly to herself. Ajax was capable in a fight, strong, and reliable, but stealth in the forest looked like it had never been his specialty.

It didn’t help that Y/n blended into the woods almost perfectly. Her cargo pants were the same muted blacks and browns as the forest floor, her black sports bra swallowed by shadow. If she hadn’t been waving like an idiot, she doubted he would’ve spotted her quickly at all.

Ajax finally saw her and jogged over, slowing only when he got close enough to take in the scene: Keegan sprawled in the moss, limbs twitching slightly, eyes unfocused and staring at absolutely nothing as he had rolled over after Y/n dropped him.

“Selena said Keegan ate mushrooms?” Ajax asked, dropping to a knee beside Y/n and immediately reaching for Keegan’s wrist.

“Yeah,” Y/n replied, rubbing a hand over her face. “I can’t carry him back by myself, and I really don’t want the rest of camp seeing him like this.”

Ajax pressed two fingers to Keegan’s pulse, brow furrowing in concentration. “Why the fuck did he eat shrooms?” he asked. “And where the hell did he even get them?”

“He didn’t eat shrooms,” Y/n corrected flatly. “He ate fly agaric. And I don’t think he knew that’s what it was.”

Ajax glanced up at her. “Girl, I have absolutely no idea what that is.”

As if on cue, Keegan mumbled something incoherent—something about tunnels or burrows—and then snorted softly to himself. His fingers twitched, scraping lightly at the moss as if he were trying to grab something only he could see.

He didn’t acknowledge Ajax at all. Honestly, he barely seemed aware that Y/n was still there either. His attention drifted in strange, jerky patterns, eyes flicking from tree trunks to the sky to the dirt, like the world was breaking into pieces around him.

Y/n wasn’t panicking. Annoyed, yes. Concerned, definitely. But she was not afraid he was going to die.

“It’s a hallucinogenic mushroom,” she explained, pointing toward a nearby dead standing tree where bright red caps dotted the forest floor. “They grow near birch trees. Red cap, white bumps. Fairy ring mushrooms.”

Ajax followed her gesture and winced. “Shit.”

Keegan let out a sudden, breathy laugh, shoulders shaking as he muttered something about “holes breathing.”

Ajax shook his head, though a reluctant grin tugged at his mouth. “This is kinda funny.”

Y/n smirked despite herself. “Yeah. I won’t argue with that.”

Ajax looked back down at Keegan, patting his shoulder a little harder this time. “He gonna be okay? Like—do we have to do something? Antidote? Milk? Holy water?”

“Not unless you’ve got a working hospital hidden in your back pocket,” Y/n said dryly. “He won’t die. But he’s not gonna feel great when he wakes up.”

“He’s sort of awake right now,” Ajax pointed out, nudging him again. “Hey, Keegan. Buddy. Stand up for us.”

Keegan did not move. He stared at the sky and blinked very slowly, lips parting as if he were about to say something important—then he hummed instead.

“He’s gonna pass out soon,” Y/n said. “Really deep sleep. I don’t know how long ago he ate them or exactly when it kicked in, but once it peaks, he’s done for the next several hours.”

“And after?”

“He’ll be hungover, miserable, and probably not remember any of this.” She paused, then added, “Which is why I don’t want the camp here gawking.”

Ajax nodded. “Fair.”

He glanced back at her. “How do you know all this?”

Y/n stiffened just a little.

Ajax caught it immediately. His eyebrow lifted. “You do much… experimenting?”

“Not experimenting,” she muttered, heat creeping up her neck.

Ajax grinned. “You willingly ate some, didn’t you?”

Y/n groaned. “Oh my god.”

Keegan chose that moment to laugh again, loud and sudden, though it had nothing to do with the conversation. He reached up, swatted at the air, and whispered something about the trees leaning in too close.

“Yes,” Y/n admitted, glaring at Ajax. “Once. Years ago.”

Ajax laughed. “Of course you did.”

“I was thirteen,” she snapped. “And before you start, you absolutely would’ve done the same thing if all your classmates were getting high in school bathrooms.”

“School bathrooms?” Ajax repeated, baffled.

“I don’t know either,” Y/n said quickly. “I didn’t eat it there. I ate it at home. With permission.”

Ajax blinked. “Your parents let you eat a mushroom that turns people into… this?” He gestured vaguely at Keegan, who was now whispering intensely to a patch of dirt.

“It was controlled,” Y/n said defensively. “Safe environment. I learned what happened, learned my lesson, and I’ve never touched anything like that again.”

Ajax shook his head, half-amused, half-impressed. “You are… something else.”

She sighed. “Can we focus, please?”

“Right. Logistics.” Ajax shifted his weight and hooked his arms under Keegan’s. “Does he stand at all?”

“No,” Y/n said flatly. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have dragged you out here.”

Ajax grunted. “Fair enough. Guess we’re hauling Sleeping Beauty.”

Y/n crossed her arms, watching Keegan mumble nonsense into the moss. “Next time he tells me not to do something dangerous,” she muttered, “I’m reminding him of this.”

Ajax snorted. “I’ll back you up.”

“You had better,” Y/n snorted, shaking her head as she glanced down at Keegan sprawled between them. “He’s really good at keeping an eye on me, it seems.”

Ajax straightened beside her, rolling his shoulders as if preparing himself mentally. “He’s a sniper. Kinda in the job description to notice everything.”

“Yeah, well, he really makes a point of it,” Y/n muttered. “This fucker slept on my floor last night. You know that?”

Ajax paused, then huffed out a quiet laugh. “That explains a lot. I was wondering where the hell he disappeared to. Merrick kept bitching about having the whole cabin to himself.”

Y/n snorted. “Lucky bastard.”

Her expression sobered as she looked back down at Keegan, who was now staring at his own hand with intense fascination, flexing his fingers like they belonged to someone else. “Just so you know,” she added, voice dropping a notch, “I can’t take a lot of his weight. He redid one of my stitches the other day, and I’m not about to rip myself open hauling his ass.”

Ajax nodded immediately. “Alright. I’ll take most of it. I’ll get him up first, then you slide under his other arm. Worst case, we drag him like a sack of potatoes.”

“Nah,” Y/n said without hesitation. “It’s not his fault he’s like this.”

Ajax raised an eyebrow. “Then whose is it?”

“Ben’s.”

Ajax closed his eyes and sighed like a man who had expected that answer on a cosmic level. “Should’ve known.”

He crouched and grabbed one of Keegan’s arms, tugging firmly until the sniper slumped upright with a soft, startled gasp. Keegan blinked hard, pupils blown wide, gaze darting wildly between Ajax’s face and the trees beyond him.

“Hey, Keegs,” Ajax said calmly, like he was talking to a drunk friend outside a bar. “Let’s get your shit show on the road. Up you get.”

Keegan did not respond. He just stared, mouth opening slightly as if he were about to say something profound—then he laughed under his breath and whispered, “The ground is breathing.”

Ajax grimaced. “Yeah. That tracks.”

He hauled Keegan’s arm over his shoulder, bracing his stance and gripping the man’s hip with his free hand. Y/n mirrored him on the other side, though she moved slower and more carefully, her jaw tightening as she positioned herself and tested the weight.

“On three,” Ajax grunted. “One… two… three.”

They heaved.

Keegan’s weight came up all at once, dead and uncooperative, and Y/n hissed sharply as her thigh muscles engaged. The pull tugged at her stitches, a sharp, unpleasant reminder of her limits, but she swallowed it down and held firm. Between the two of them, they managed to get the nearly two-hundred-pound man upright.

Keegan contributed absolutely nothing.

His legs dangled uselessly, knees buckling, his head lolling slightly as he stared at something only he could see in the canopy above. If he’d been even marginally coordinated, Y/n was certain he’d have wandered straight off into the trees chasing hallucinations.

“Fuck,” she grunted, adjusting her grip. “He needs to diet.”

Ajax barked out a laugh despite the strain. “He used to weigh more.”

“Oh, great,” Y/n deadpanned. “Be glad it’s not you, then.”

Ajax snorted. “Trust me, I am.”

“If it was you,” Y/n shot back, “I’d leave you for Elias to deal with.”

“How kind and compassionate of you,” Ajax said, shaking his head, though he was smiling.

They took a few careful steps, trying to find a rhythm—but it became obvious almost immediately that it wasn’t going to work. Ajax was taller and broader, able to shoulder more of the weight, while Y/n, shorter and already injured, ended up taking the brunt of Keegan’s slanted torso.

By the third step, Keegan’s weight shifted awkwardly, pressing into her shoulder and throwing her off balance.

“Fuck—nope,” Y/n hissed, letting go before she went down entirely. She stumbled back, rubbing her shoulder and exhaling hard. “We can’t carry him like that.”

Ajax eased Keegan back down into a seated slump against a tree. “Yeah. Too off-balance.”

He looked down at Keegan, who was now poking at a pinecone with intense curiosity. “Why’s this motherfucker so tall?”

“He ate a lot of beans?” Y/n suggested dryly.

Ajax huffed. “He’s been in this shit since he was sixteen. I don’t think it was the beans.”

Y/n whistled low. “Damn. And he still can’t track better than me.”

Ajax laughed, the sound echoing softly through the trees. “Yeah, it’s pretty hard to get in that young. His mom had good money, though. And he always wanted to serve.”

Y/n blinked and looked at him. “Huh? You can join at sixteen. You just need parental consent. They train you weekends and summers while you finish school.”

Ajax stared at her for a beat—then realization clicked. “Ah. Right. Different countries.”

“Oh,” Y/n nodded. “Yeah.”

They both looked back down at Keegan just as he gasped suddenly, then burst into laughter again, pointing vaguely at a rock. “... judging me.”

“I really wish I had a camera,” Ajax said, grinning now.

Y/n’s lips twitched despite herself. “He’d kill us if he ever found out.”

“Then we hide it really well,” Ajax said lightly. “You seem like you’re good at hiding things.”

“Pretty decent,” Y/n replied. “Ben still hasn’t found the giant stash of candy rings I hid in my cabin.”

Ajax’s eyes widened slightly. “You shouldn’t have told me that.”

“You go rummaging,” she warned, “and I’ll crack you over the head with one of your wood blocks.”

“If you can catch me,” Ajax shot back. “I’m fast.”

Y/n let out a mock-evil laugh, low and dramatic. “Not in the forest.”

Between them, Keegan giggled softly and leaned back against the tree, utterly unaware of the effort it was taking just to keep him safe—and alive.

“I never thought I’d hear Keegan—of all people—giggle,” Y/n muttered, staring down at the man sprawled on the forest floor like he’d been gently deposited there by the universe and forgotten about.

Ajax nudged Keegan’s calf with the toe of his boot. Keegan responded by humming happily and wiggling his fingers at absolutely nothing. “I’ve known him longer than you,” Ajax said, his tone caught somewhere between disbelief and amusement, “and I have never heard that man giggle. Not once. I don’t know if I’m uncomfortable or impressed.”

“Both,” Y/n decided. “Definitely both.”

Keegan rolled slightly onto his side, cheek pressed into the moss, smiling at the sky like it had just told him a really good joke. A thin line of drool slid from the corner of his mouth and soaked into the green beneath him.

Ajax grimaced. “Yep. We’re dragging him back.”

Y/n nodded, arms crossed. “Yeah. He’d probably do the same for us.”

Ajax elbowed her lightly, waggling his eyebrows. “Not you.”

She shot him a look. “Excuse me?”

“He wouldn’t drag you,” Ajax continued, smirking. “He’d baby you. Full-on. Carry you bridal-style back to camp like some fucked-up fairytale.”

Y/n scoffed. “Maybe he’d carry me, but he wouldn’t baby me.”

“Oh, he absolutely would,” Ajax said without missing a beat. “He’d call you an idiot for eating mushrooms, sure—but then he’d sit you down, give you Gravol, make you sip water, and hover like a damn ghost. Rub your back if you puked. Talk to you the whole time to make sure you weren’t seeing demons or thinking the walls were melting.”

Y/n pressed her lips together, considering that far longer than she meant to. “Are we talking about the same Keegan?”

Ajax gestured with his chin. “The one drooling on the forest floor? Yeah. That one.”

Y/n glanced down again—and winced. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

The drool had definitely gotten worse.

She sighed, rubbing her face with both hands. “Please tell me fly agaric doesn’t make people piss themselves too.”

Ajax shrugged. “Couldn’t tell you. But if he does, that’s a problem for future Keegan.”

“If he pisses himself,” Y/n muttered, “he’s sleeping on the floor in my cabin. And cleaning it himself when he wakes up.”

Ajax laughed. “Fair.”

She looked at Keegan again, annoyance softening just a fraction. He’d put her in her bed without hesitation last night. Hadn’t even asked. Just decided she needed it more than he did.

Dammit.

“Alright,” she said. “Arms or legs?”

Ajax scratched his jaw, thinking it over like this was a serious tactical decision. “If we drag him by the arms, he’ll get dirt and pine needles all up his ass.”

“Gross,” Y/n said flatly.

“If we drag him by the legs, it’ll all go up his back.”

She sighed. “As a caring person?”

“Legs,” Ajax said.

“As his best friend?”

“Arms.”

Y/n tapped her foot, watching Keegan slowly tip sideways from where he’d been propped against the tree, landing gently on his shoulder and blinking at the ground like it had betrayed him. “As a mean person, I say arms. As the person he stitches up and helps sometimes… legs.”

Keegan let out a soft, pleased noise and smiled at a pinecone.

“Kinda reminds me of Sid the Sloth,” Y/n added, snorting.

Ajax blinked. “Which one?”

“The one with the pirates. Where Sid eats something and gets paralyzed.” She frowned. “Was it berries? I don’t remember. I haven’t watched those movies since I was, like, twenty.”

Ajax nodded slowly. “No, no, I get you. Yeah. He does. Same energy.”

Keegan chose that moment to lift one hand and wave at a leaf.

“Unless you say otherwise,” Ajax said, rolling his shoulders, “I’m dragging him by the arms.”

Y/n hesitated.

Keegan had done a lot for her. Quiet things. Useful things. Things he never made a show of.

She sighed. “Legs.”

Ajax raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue. “Alright then.”

They maneuvered Keegan onto his back. Y/n grabbed his right leg; Ajax took the left. Keegan didn’t resist—didn’t even seem to register what was happening—though he did make a series of soft, curious noises and wiggle his fingers like he was conducting an orchestra only he could hear.

They lifted his legs, tucking them awkwardly under their arms, and started walking.

Keegan’s body dragged behind them, shoulders bumping over roots and dirt, his head lolling slightly as he made faces at the sky. Pine needles clung to his shirt. A twig caught in his hair.

Y/n glanced back, grimacing. “Better hope there’s no rabbit shit back here.”

Ajax burst out laughing. “Holy fuck, yeah. Can you imagine? He’d kill us both.”

“He won’t remember any of this,” Y/n said. “Or the hour before it. So as long as we keep our mouths shut, we can convince him something else happened.”

“I’m not lying to him,” Ajax said firmly. “But I’m also not telling him everything.”

“Like the drooling.”

“Especially the drooling.”

Y/n smirked. “Good.”

They came upon a fallen log blocking the path. Ajax stopped, adjusting his grip. “Alright. Plan.”

“I’ll lift his torso,” Y/n said. “You pull.”

Ajax nodded. He braced himself, hauling Keegan’s legs up and over while Y/n crouched, gritting her teeth as she got her arms under Keegan’s shoulders. Pain flared through her thigh, sharp and insistent, but she held it, lifting just enough.

Keegan’s head lolled back, eyes finding Y/n’s face.

“You’re… shiny,” he slurred.

She rolled her eyes. “Fantastic.”

Ajax dragged Keegan’s legs over the log, boots scraping bark, until his lower half cleared it. Y/n carefully lowered his head, making sure it didn’t smack into anything, then moved back to grab his leg again.

Keegan giggled softly, murmuring something about something being pretty—maybe the trees, maybe her, maybe the sky itself.

“Alright, Sid,” Y/n muttered. “Let’s get you home.”

They resumed dragging him through the forest, the sound of his body sliding over leaves and dirt oddly gentle compared to the chaos that could have been.

For all the ridiculousness of it—the drool, the giggling, the nonsense—there was something quiet and oddly intimate about the moment.

Two people hauling a third home because that’s just what you did.

Because you didn’t leave your own behind.

It ended up taking Ajax and Y/n nearly an hour to drag Keegan all the way back to camp.

At first, he’d been a constant stream of muttering—half-formed words, quiet laughs, and comments that made sense to no one but himself. Somewhere along the way, that faded. His voice thinned out, words turning into soft hums and breathy noises before stopping altogether. By the time the trees thinned and the familiar shapes of the camp came into view, Keegan was mostly dead weight, blinking slowly up at the canopy whenever his eyes were open at all.

They stayed just inside the treeline, crouched low and still, watching.

Camp life went on like nothing was wrong.

Merrick stood near the woodpile, shirt damp with sweat, axe rising and falling in a steady rhythm that echoed softly through the clearing. Each crack of splitting wood felt too loud to Y/n, like it might carry straight to them. Ben and Elodie were in the garden, hands buried in soil, pulling weeds and carefully watering the struggling plants. The garden looked better than it had weeks ago—but not good enough. Not nearly enough to feed everyone through winter.

Y/n’s jaw tightened as she watched.

It wouldn’t matter. When winter came, the kids would eat first. She’d already decided that, even if no one else knew it yet. Adults could stomach hunger. Kids couldn’t—not without it carving something out of them that never quite grew back.

Down by the lake, Elias, Logan, and Hesh shoved a canoe into the water, boots slipping on wet stones. Fishing, then. If they caught anything, dinner would be communal—fire, laughter, shared plates. Canned food nights were quiet and isolated. Fresh food meant togetherness. It was becoming a pattern. A fragile little tradition.

Y/n exhaled slowly.

“If we don’t want everyone knowing Keegan’s like this,” she whispered, eyes still on the camp, “we need to get him into my cabin without anyone seeing.”

Ajax nodded, rubbing his jaw. “I can distract Merrick, Elodie, and Ben—but you can’t drag him all the way there on your own.”

“I know.” She glanced down at Keegan, who was staring at the sky like it might blink back. “Is Selena in my cabin?”

Ajax shrugged. “Probably.”

“Want me to check?”

“Yeah,” he said. “And get her to help distract everyone. Then we sneak him in.”

Y/n nodded once and slipped from the treeline.

She walked casually toward the garden, forcing her posture to be loose and normal. Elodie looked up first, dirt streaked across her cheek, eyes narrowing immediately.

Elodie flipped her off.

Y/n didn’t even break stride—just lifted both hands and returned the gesture with both middle fingers, held high and unapologetic.

Ben snorted. Elodie huffed and went back to yanking weeds out of the dirt.

Y/n smirked faintly and kept walking.

She slipped into her cabin quietly, closing the door behind her. The space smelled faintly of wood smoke and fabric and something tomato-based. Selena sat at the small table, nose wrinkled in concentration as she picked dark red mushroom chunks out of a bowl of half-eaten ravioli.

Y/n froze.

“…Is that how Ben gave Keegan the mushrooms?” she asked carefully.

Selena looked up, eyes widening just a bit. “Yeah.”

Y/n sighed through her nose, slow and controlled. “He told Keegan I said they were safe, didn’t he?”

Selena nodded. “He said you told him they were okay to eat. He put them in the ravioli so Keegan wouldn’t notice.”

“How much did he eat?”

Selena gestured at the bowl. “About half. It was a big bowl.”

Y/n closed her eyes for a second, then nodded. “Okay.”

She crouched in front of Selena, resting her hands on her knees. “I need you to help me. Can you distract Merrick, Elodie, and Ben for a few minutes?”

Selena straightened immediately. “Yeah. What do you want me to do?”

Y/n smiled faintly. “Whatever you’re good at.”

Selena’s grin turned mischievous.

“Okay.”

Y/n slipped back out of the cabin and returned to the treeline. Ajax raised his eyebrows in silent question.

“She’s in,” Y/n whispered. “Let’s wait for the signal.”

They didn’t wait long.

Selena burst out of the cabin moments later, loudly announcing something about weeds killing crops forever and asking Merrick if he knew what compost actually did. Merrick paused mid-swing, confused. Elodie straightened, clearly irritated. Ben followed Selena immediately, peppering her with questions.

The cluster drifted away from the cabins.

Ajax’s grin was feral. “Now.”

They double-timed it.

Ajax grabbed Keegan under the arms; Y/n took his legs. Pain flared through her thigh as she moved, but she ignored it, teeth clenched. They hauled him up the steps, boots scraping wood, breath loud in their ears. Keegan didn’t resist—just blinked slowly, eyes unfocused, lips parting in a quiet sigh.

They shoved the cabin door open, dragged him inside, and slammed it shut behind them.

Silence.

Then Y/n burst out laughing, breathless and sharp.

Ajax followed, collapsing against the wall, wheezing. “Holy shit.”

Keegan lay sprawled on the floor, staring at the ceiling like it had secrets worth knowing.

Y/n wiped her face and shook her head. “You’re grounded, sniper.”

Keegan blinked once.

“…Stars,” he murmured.

Y/n laughed harder.

************************************************************************

Part 42 | Part 44 |

ALL PARTS HERE

@fanfictliver @augustalla @ayasofreakytwo @peachmartini @sufferingwriter

[chichi-the-treetea]

I'm going to do it; I'm going to try and write a zombie apocalypse story with Nikto while also finishing the one with Keegan. I'm almost done writing out the whole story for Keegan, by the way, haha. I'll continue posting his zombie story on Monday, and don't worry, even when the zombie fic for him is done, there will still be short stories coming out about him for all my greedy little Keegan lovers. For the Nikto one, I'm going to try and make it as accurate as I can to his personality. It's going to be tricky, so rather than create a full-on different zombie universe for him, it's going to be the same as the Keegan one. The Biters will all be the same with the same rules.

I don't know if I want to start it off during the beginning or close to the beginning of the outbreak, or years later. I also have to figure out most of the basic plot information, like setting and such. It might take me awhile to publish it, as I have to write all my notes, plots, do research and actually write it. Wish me luck with that.

Do you readers want a Y/n who is like the one in the Keegan fic—strong, independent, and able to fully take care of herself—or something different? I might also start planning zombie stories for all the other COD characters too. Gichi Manidoo save me, haha.

[augustalla]

NIKTO ZOMBIE FIC INCOMING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[chichi-the-treetea]

I'm going to do it; I'm going to try and write a zombie apocalypse story with Nikto while also finishing the one with Keegan. I'm almost done writing out the whole story for Keegan, by the way, haha. I'll continue posting his zombie story on Monday, and don't worry, even when the zombie fic for him is done, there will still be short stories coming out about him for all my greedy little Keegan lovers. For the Nikto one, I'm going to try and make it as accurate as I can to his personality. It's going to be tricky, so rather than create a full-on different zombie universe for him, it's going to be the same as the Keegan one. The Biters will all be the same with the same rules.

I don't know if I want to start it off during the beginning or close to the beginning of the outbreak, or years later. I also have to figure out most of the basic plot information, like setting and such. It might take me awhile to publish it, as I have to write all my notes, plots, do research and actually write it. Wish me luck with that.

Do you readers want a Y/n who is like the one in the Keegan fic—strong, independent, and able to fully take care of herself—or something different? I might also start planning zombie stories for all the other COD characters too. Gichi Manidoo save me, haha.