task force 141 finding a pregnant and scared reader in a zombie apocalypse… 💭
(mature content, pregnancy and dead people!)
⊹ ࣪ ˖ ꫂ ၴႅၴ ₊ ⊹
in the quiet hush of what used to be a world full of noise and life, you had somehow managed to carve out a fragile, solitary existence in your isolated cabin. it was nestled deep in the dense woods of what had once been rural georgia, a place far removed from the crumbling cities and highways where the dead now roamed in endless, groaning hordes…
the apocalypse had erupted like a nightmare you couldn’t wake from, a virus that spread through bites and scratches, turning people into mindless shamblers. their skin would gray and flake away over time, their eyes turning a milky white, empty and eternally hungry.
not all of them were the slow, dragging types you’d seen in old zombie movies, some of the freshly turned ones moved with a frantic, almost desperate speed, lunging with agility that could catch you off guard before their bodies fully decayed and stiffened.
but most, after a day or two, devolved into that familiar shuffle, drawn relentlessly by any sound, any scent of the living, or the slightest movement in their blurred vision.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ ꫂ ၴႅၴ ₊ ⊹
you’d been surviving here for months now, exactly five months into this hellish new reality, and every day felt like a battle won against impossible odds. the cabin itself had been yours long before the world ended, a cozy weekend getaway you’d inherited from your grandparents after they passed away peacefully in their old age. it wasn’t anything fancy, just a single story wooden structure with weathered logs that creaked in the wind, a wraparound porch that overlooked a small, overgrown clearing encircled by towering pines and oaks that whispered secrets in the breeze.
you’d managed to rig up a couple of solar panels on the slanted roof, salvaged from a nearby abandoned farm, providing just enough intermittent power to run a single lamp in the evenings or charge the old radio that mostly spat out static and the occasional garbled emergency broadcast that hadn’t updated in years. water came from a rusty hand pumped well out back, and you’d learned the hard way to boil every drop over a small fire pit to kill off whatever contaminants might lurk in it.
inside the cabin, it felt like a stubborn holdout of normalcy against the encroaching decay of the world outside. the walls were painted a soft, faded blue, the color reminiscent of clear summer skies you’d almost forgotten, and they were adorned with framed photographs of your family from better times, smiles captured at birthdays, holidays, and lazy sunday picnics.
some of the frames were dusty now, but you wiped them clean every few weeks, a ritual that kept the memories alive. scattered among them were wildflowers you’d picked from the woods in the early days, pressed flat under glass and hung as simple decorations, their petals still holding hints of purple and yellow even as they dried. one shelf in the living room held your collection of books, escapes that had become lifelines in the silence. classics like jane austen’s pride and prejudice, where you could lose yourself in witty banter and romantic entanglements that felt worlds away from your reality, or stephen king’s the stand, which now read like a chilling prophecy with its tales of a post apocalyptic plague.
the spines were worn thin from rereads, pages yellowed and dog eared where you’d paused to savor a line or let tears fall unchecked.
your bedroom was the most intimate space, simple and unadorned. a double bed with crisp white sheets that you’d washed by hand in a basin outside, hanging them to dry on lines strung between trees. in one corner, you’d improvised a crib from an old dresser drawer, lining it with the softest blankets you could find, stuffing pillows around the edges for cushioning. it stood empty for now, a silent promise or perhaps a looming worry, waiting for the baby that was growing steadily inside you.
surviving alone in this setup hadn’t been easy, especially not with the pregnancy that had complicated everything. it stemmed from an encounter you tried hard not to dwell on, a night in the chaotic early days of the outbreak when you’d been part of a loose group of survivors scavenging for supplies in the ruins of a small town. the man had been one of them, tall and rough edged with a jagged scar across his cheek and eyes shadowed by too much loss and desperation.
it happened in the dim back room of an abandoned convenience store, a moment born out of fear and the raw need for human connection amid the horror. it wasn’t violent, but it wasn’t right either, consent blurred by the adrenaline and the unspoken understanding that tomorrow might not come.
he’d vanished with the rest of the group the next morning, leaving you alone with the dawning realization weeks later when the nausea struck like a wave, morning sickness that had you vomiting into the underbrush as you fled to the cabin. your body changed gradually, breasts tender, belly swelling under your loose fitting shirts, and the first flutters of movement confirmed what you already knew deep down. no pregnancy tests survived the looting, but the signs were undeniable, a life forming amid death.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ ꫂ ၴႅၴ ₊ ⊹
adapting had been your only option. you’d turned foraging into a meticulous routine, venturing out at dawn when the shamblers were often less active, gathering blackberries and wild strawberries from thorny bushes in the summer months, their tart sweetness a rare treat. roots like dandelions and cattails were dug up with a small trowel, boiled into nutritious if bland soups. you’d studied a survival guide from the cabin’s attic, learning to set snares for rabbits and squirrels, skinning them with your knife on a flat rock outside, cooking the meat slowly over the fire pit to preserve every bit of protein.
water was pumped daily, boiled in a large cast iron pot, then cooled and stored in glass jugs lined up on the kitchen counter. to avoid the dead, you’d reinforced the doors with heavy wooden bars each night, sleeping fitfully with your knife clutched under the pillow and a pistol, its magazine holding only six bullets now, resting on the nightstand within easy reach.
mornings were dedicated to the tiny garden you’d scratched out behind the cabin, a patch of fertile soil where you’d planted potatoes and carrots from seeds scavenged from an old hardware store. you’d weed it carefully, hands sinking into the cool earth, feeling the sun warm your back as you whispered encouragements to the sprouting greens, as if your words could coax them to grow faster.
it was therapeutic, that connection to the soil, a reminder that not everything was lost. afternoons passed in quieter pursuits, mending clothes with a needle and thread from your grandmother’s sewing kit, patching holes in jeans or darning socks that had worn thin from constant use. or you’d read, curling up on the couch with a book, your free hand resting on your belly, feeling the baby’s kicks that started as gentle flutters and grew into insistent nudges, each one a spark of hope and terror.
“you’re strong, little one.” you’d murmur, imagining a future where you could teach her to read these same books, where the world might heal enough for laughter and play.
but the isolation gnawed at you, especially as the months stretched on. at three months, the bump was barely noticeable, but by four, it was undeniable, and now at five, it protruded enough to make bending over a chore.
the baby kicked more vigorously, a fighter’s spirit that made you smile through the ache. you’d talk to her in the quiet hours, spinning stories of fairy tales and adventures, promising a world better than this one, even as doubts whispered in your mind.
how would you deliver alone? what if complications arose? the cabin was safe for now, its location remote enough to avoid most herds, but it felt like a fragile bubble, one loud noise or bad luck away from bursting.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ ꫂ ၴႅၴ ₊ ⊹
that sense of unease had been building for days, but today, it peaked. it was late afternoon, the sun hanging low in the sky, painting the woods in golden hues and casting long, eerie shadows across the clearing. you were in the kitchen, standing over the wood stove, stirring a pot of vegetable stew made from your garden’s harvest, carrots and potatoes simmered with a handful of wild onions you’d foraged. the aroma filled the small space, comforting in its simplicity, and you hummed a half remembered tune under your breath, one hand on your belly as the baby shifted lazily. a kick landed squarely against your palm, and you chuckled softly. “easy there, kiddo. dinner’s almost ready.”
then, the sound cut through the peace, a distant crunch of leaves under boots, not the mindless drag of shambler feet, but purposeful steps, multiple pairs, at least four. your spoon clattered against the pot’s edge as your heart leaped into your throat. straining to listen, you heard low voices carried on the wind, accents that sounded british, clipped and military like. survivors. your mind raced with possibilities, raiders? scouts? in this world, the living could be far more dangerous than the dead. you’d encountered groups before, shadowy figures testing your defenses from afar, but you’d always hidden or fired warning shots to drive them off.
panic flooded your veins like cold water.
you snatched your knife from the counter, its handle familiar and reassuring in your grip, and quickly extinguished the stove’s flame with a puff of breath, snuffing out any telltale smoke. moving as silently as your pregnant body allowed, you slipped into the bedroom, heart pounding so loudly you feared they’d hear it. the closet was your go to hiding spot, a narrow alcove behind hanging coats and stacked boxes of canned goods.
you pulled the door almost shut, leaving just a thin slit to peer through, knife raised in one hand while the other cradled your belly protectively. “shh, baby, stay still…” you whispered silently, the baby obliging with a gentle roll that felt like reassurance. sweat beaded on your forehead as the front door creaked open slowly, the lock you’d never bothered to fix giving way easily.
“entry clear.” came a voice with a thick scottish accent, rough but alert. “no walkers inside. but this place is lived in, lads. look at the setup, fresh herbs drying, books arranged neat like. someone’s turned this into a proper home.”
a deeper, gruffer voice replied, laced with caution. “stay sharp, soap. could be a trap or ambush. fan out and check the rooms.”
⊹ ࣪ ˖ ꫂ ၴႅၴ ₊ ⊹
their footsteps echoed through the cabin, deliberate and trained, not the clumsy stomps of desperate looters. you heard the kitchen drawers being opened carefully, the quilt in the living room being lifted and set back down. then, the bedroom door swung inward, and your breath caught. through the slit, you saw him, a man with a distinctive mohawk, stubble shadowing his jaw, blue eyes sharp as they scanned the room.
he was dressed in tactical gear, a vest bulging with ammo and tools, a rifle slung across his back. his gaze landed on the closet, and he approached slowly, hand on the door knob.
the door flew open, light spilling in, and his eyes widened as they met yours, taking in your curled position, the knife brandished defensively, your swollen belly obvious even in the shadows.
“whoa, easy there, lass!” he said, hands raising slowly in a gesture of peace, his rifle remaining shouldered to show no threat. “i’m not here to hurt you. name’s johnny mactavish, but they call me soap. you the one living here?”
you froze, adrenaline surging, eyes flicking over his face for signs of deceit. he looked hardened by the world, scars on his knuckles and a faint one above his eyebrow, but his expression was one of genuine surprise, not malice. trust was a rare commodity, but something in his open palms kept you from lunging.
“get out.” you hissed, voice low and trembling with fear and defiance. “this is my house. leave.”
© amopitaya, 2026.
part 2 coming soon.
