ׂ╰┈➤ CHAPTER ONE: CORNER AMBUSHES.
It's been almost 2 years since the apocalypse started — or rather, since the beginning of the end.
To be more exact, it's been 731 days, 17532 hours, 1052640 minutes and 63158400 seconds. That long of absolute hell.
Part of her considers shooting her brains out, just as she did to all the infected she's stumbled across. The bigger part of her has a tinge of hope that she might live through it.
The last 2 years have been nothing but lonely and miserable, watching the world burn directly before her eyes, people who once had a life and families now deformed and disgusting creatures that seem to be heartless.
She's not exactly educated on these zombies, how it started, the stages of infection, how the infection is transmitted from one innocent, pure body directly to another — how it seems to destroy every millimetre of clarity and humanity that's left in a soul.
Sometimes it's almost hard to kill them, knowing that you're murdering somebody who was once a friend, a daughter, a son, a sister, a brother, a father, a mother, an uncle, an auntie, a nephew, a niece...the list goes on. Sometimes it makes her wonder what their lives were like before. But nonetheless, they're now nothing but a body with a rotten brain, controlled by nothing simpler than immoral desires.
Right now, her mind is on food. She lets out a huff of air, trailing lazily to what appeared to be a deserted gas station — a skeletal remnant of a world that once moved. Its weather-beaten and half-collapsed, its metal signage hanging by a thread, creaking in the dry wind. The pumps are rusted, some torn open like broken ribs.
Glass is shattered — windows, headlights, bottles — crunching underfoot. Vines and overgrowth of plants have crept to claim the crumbling walls, Faded Logos and graffiti tag walls with warnings or desperate messages.
It's a liminal place — part ruin, part relic.
She enters wearily, the door doesn't creak because it's off its hinges already, anyways. She pauses in the doorway for a breath. One hand rests near her hip, not quite on her weapon, but not far either. There's a tension in her shoulders, the one that comes from surviving too long, trusting too little. Her facial expression is more wary than afraid. She scans the room, not as if she's trying to find something — more as if she's making sure nothing finds her.
Once she knows it's safe, she treads over to the shelves, crouching and scavenger for something that's preferably not 3 months out of date. It feels like she might've hit the jackpot — the shelves aren't exactly full, but they're not empty either. it's as if whoever was here before wasn't as selfish as the others, leaving behind some for the few survivors left. Or maybe the many. Not that she's stumbled across any.
she jumps at the yell of joy, standing up straight. her shoulders snapped up, breath catching mid thought, eyes wide, flicking towards the sound, her muscle and fear reacting before reason could step in.
"Jeez, Chris!" a voice scolds — one that sounded mildly similar to the one which yelled, but different enough to be able to identify it was more than one person. She grips her knife, stepping forwards slowly, the soles of her shoes seeming to have been trained to stay silent, her footsteps never noticeable.
She rounds the corner and collides with him, she squeals slightly, eyes blown wide, feet skidding back a step as she swings her knife automatically. "Woah-" the guy grabs her wrist, successfully preventing her from nearly scraping away at his skin violently. He inhaled sharply. for a split second, his face was all raw edges — startled, tense, a flicker of something vulnerable flashing across his features. Then it passes.
Awkwardly, the two stand there, staring at eachother. His hair is a tousled mess of dark waves, casting soft shadows across his face. His jaw is sharp, a contrast of the softness of his lips. There's an edge to him — subtle. Like the glint of silver at his ears and the small pendant that rested at his collarbone. His eyebrows are full, part of one missing — barely noticeable, but you can tell if you look hard enough.
As for her, her skin is pale and dusted with constellations of freckles — a quiet galaxy mapped across her cheeks and nose. Her dark lashes frame her brown, wide eyes. Her lips are pink and slightly chapped, her hair straight yet slightly knotted and messy. There's a gravity to her, a pull that wasn't loud, but undeniable. The kind that didn't beg to be followed.
He releases her wrist, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other as if the floor was suddenly made of glass. His eyes flicked up to hers, then down again before letting out a breath that sounded like something more along the lines of a nervous laugh. "Sorry, i wasn't trying to— like, jump out the shadows like some horror movie idiot, i swear." he murmurs apologetically.
"You always sneak up on people like that?" she asked, her expression still guarded and her tone defensive — unintentionally rude.
He raised a brow in response, not entirely sure if it's safe for him to speak up or not.
"You good, dude? or did she cut you?" a muffled voice spoke up — a boy who looked awfully similar to him, only his hair a little longer, spun around the corner, joining them. He has an opened bag of skittles in one hand and a half-eaten granola bar in the other, as if he couldn't decide which snack was the priority. He stopped when he saw her — the knife still lowered, but very much visible in her hand.
"Oh," he says, blinking. "Hey, you're not a zombie."
a moment of silence passed before he smiles — one that is definitely much too wide for the situation the world is in right now and totally way too casual for someone who's just rounded the corner into a potential murder. "That's cool, i'm Chris."
"Don't worry," he adds, popping a red skittle into his mouth. "i'm not contagious or anything. Unless you count lactose intolerance."
The first boy lets out a breath, either amused or exasperated. Probably the latter, judging by the look on his face. "Chris," he mutters under his breath, shooting him a firm look. "Maybe don't talk so much when someone's holding a blade."
Chris looks down at her knife, then back at her, unphased. "Oh, right. Sorry." there was a pause.
"Do you want some skittles?" he held the bag out to her, the sound of candy shifting inside echoing a little too loudly in the dead air.
She blinks. "....Are you fuckin' serious?" she asks flatly.
Chris nods. "Totally. They're the sour kind, too. Best flavour, hands down."
The first boy — still standing awkwardly nearby, still recovering from nearly getting sliced, just mutters, "She almost stabbed me, and you're offering her candy."
Chris gives him a lopsided grin in return. "Well, yeah. She didn't stab you. That's called diplomacy, my guy."
She raises her eyebrows, silently questioning to herself how they're even surviving with such a person — or how he even knew what the word 'dipolomacy' meant. "For the record, i wouldn't have almost stabbed you if you didn't decide to fly around the corner full speed." she states to the first boy, rolling her eyes.
The first boy lifts his hands in mild surrender, the edge of a reluctant smile tugging at his mouth. "Noted," he murmurs. "No more corner ambushes."
Chris, clearly pleased with himself, nods like he's just brokered peace between two nations. "See, look at us. Growth. Trust. Team-building."
She snorts. "you talk like this is summer camp."
Chris gasps, mock offended. "excuse you, this is a post-apocalyptic, team-building retreat. Scavenger hunts, zombie dodgeball, and emotional breakdowns every Wednesday."
The first boy mutters once more, "you have an emotional breakdown every day, Chris."
"Exactly," chris says, completely unfazed. "I'm just really ahead of the schedule."
She can't help it — a small, involuntary smile flickers across her face before she catches it and schools it away.
The first boy sees it, though. His eyes catch hers, the corners of his own mouth twitching slightly in response. "I'm Matt." he says, his voice softer than Chris's constant stream of chaos. "In case you were wondering."
She hesitates. The moment stretches long enough to be noticeable.
Then, she finally responds, "Morgan."
Chris beams like he's just unlocked a rare achievement. "Stabby has a name!"
Morgan rolls her eyes again, but the tension in her posture has eased a fraction. Her knife is still near, but her fingers no longer ghost toward it every other second.
"You guys always this annoying?" she asks teasingly.
Matt gives a low chuckle. "Only somedays."
Chris immediately jumps in. "Mostly Thursdays. And when we find candy."
"Or when he hasn't eaten in five minutes." Matt adds.
"Okay, rude." Chris says, tossing a skittle at him, Which matt catches mid-air without even looking — the action almost attractive.
Morgan watches them with narrowed eyes, still unsure how to feel, but something about the way they act feels real. Stupid, but real. And that's rarer than food these days.
A/N: These chapters are going to be long since this is a whole fanfic book i’m writing! just a disclaimer! My pinned post has a description of the characters, the blurb of the book, aswell as links to each chapter that’s been posted so far (so probably at the moment, only this one.)
ׂ╰┈➤ i’ve written twelve chapters so far which are all already uploaded on wattpad, so if you use wattpad and don’t want to wait for me to push them out on tumblr, you can look there! Link will be below.
ׂ╰┈➤ lmk what you think in the comments!
Once an Apocalypse breaks out - Morgan Aspinal gets used to surviving on her own.
That was before she ran into some idiots in the Gas statio
