#dark 141

[pricetagged]

Reader who's shuffling towards their winter break, exhausted, malaised. The beginnings of a flu are catching in your throat, nose blocked up and head-heavy. Too overtired to notice the way things have been moving around your apartment

—scratches around the locks, food gone from the fridge, an extra cup sitting in the drying rack—

It's only when you finally reach Friday night, with the time and the promise of a lie-in on Saturday, that you start to feel a prickling on your neck. Shaking it off, you take a hot shower, steam furling and opening up your congested nose. Hot water spraying over your aching muscles—

—except

The shampoo is almost used up. The bathroom was already slightly damp when you got in.

When you reach for the towel, it's already wet. Hastily folded over the rack, and smelling like you but more—

The lights go out as you're staring at your stunned face in the steam-hazed mirror.

[angelsworks]

Goldilocks and the Four Bears

Chapter 2

Poly!141 x reader

Summary: You wake to four strangers at the end of your bed.

Warnings: 18+, dark themes, mention of kidnap, mention of torture,

Note: Merry Christmas Everyone - I hope you all enjoy this chapter! 🎅🏻🎄

Masterlist -> Here

For the first time in a long time, you slept well. More than well actually, amazing.

Your body was supported at all points, neck raised slightly, head cushioned on a thick feather pillow. And the sheets were actual bedsheets. One matching set of dark grey linen sheets, adorning the king sized mattress.

A luxury compared to how you’ve slept in the last few months. You never could fall into a deep sleep. Knowing that at any point your captors would come back to your room, kicking you from your slumber and starting your torment once more. When you did try to sleep it was on the concrete floor. Curled in a ball, spread like a starfish, lying on your front. All positions that you’d tried and failed to have a restful night of sleep in.

It must have been the light that woke you, you think wistfully to yourself. A ghost of a smile graces your face at the sight. Light streaming in and hitting the bedspread. Particles of dust, dancing carelessly in the rays. Things were turning around.

You roll on to your back. Stretching your neck from side to side and groaning. Your eyes find the ceiling, a plain white rectangle above you. You take a moment or two to enjoy the silence of the morning, letting yourself wake up.

It’s when you turn to your other side to gaze out the other window, that your peace is disturbed. The window itself is fine, the glass is intact, with a thin frosting of snow on each pane. But the figure that leans beside it is not something you wanted to see, in the previously empty cabin.

A mix of a gasp and shout of surprise leaves your sore throat as you jump in place. Your body becoming rigid and tense with stress at the sight of the intruder. Now sitting more upright, you see that the stranger not alone. He stands with three other men, each more imposing than the last.

While the one by the window did frighten you, his boyish dimples and lean figure have nothing on how the Goliath by the dresser makes you feel. He stands tall, taller than the rest. His face covered by a skull painted balaclava. His grey eyes give nothing away as they stare blankly at you on the bed.

Between the two opposites, are another two men. One stood next to the nicest looking of the four, crossing his arms and trying to keep his face stoic. His hair is styled into a Mohawk and the sight reminds you of bad guys from old movies. His blue eyes stand out against his brutish appearance. Softening the fear that his very being brings you.

The only one left is the man who sits on a chair found in the room. His legs naturally spread a little due to the size of his thighs. His arms are crossed over his chest, causing the muscles in his forearms to bulge under his long sleeve shirt.

His face is blank, hiding what his true thoughts are and most likely what he truly feels. His face is adorned with a healthy amount of facial hear. The feature ages him and makes him look rugged. Your eyes draw to the thick line of hair that he harbours above his pink lips.

They say nothing. They just stare. The action unnerving you. Making you feel like some sort of zoo animal.

The sight of the four muscular and good-looking men put you on edge of course. But there’s something else. Urges that you’d never thought of before. Feelings were never part of the mission. You were determined to keep it that way.

“You sleep alright love?” The man sitting asks you. Him deciding to speak first and the fact that he others look towards him leads you to believe that he is the leader of the men. Despite the authority that they all seem to hold.

His voice is low and quiet. The sounds rumbling together at the low volume. The words are clear enough though, that you can make them out a few feet away on the bed.

You don’t respond, you can’t. What is he wanting you to say? Yes thank you, it was the best sleep of my life.

So you strengthen your resolve and stay silent. Slowly shifting your position so you’re sitting up more instead of lying down. You calm your breathing and focus your mind. You let your eyes glance over the men in the room again.

“Enjoy sleeping in a strangers sheets?” Again his voice is quiet, soft even. But his eyes tell a different story. His eyes that are squeezed into a glare, glower at you. When you meet his eyes it’s too intense. You feel as if you’re on trial for your life. Come to think of it you are.

You stand no chance against these men. In any capacity. If they wanted to kill you, they could. If they wanted to hurt you, they could. If they wanted to take you, they could.

The last thought resonates with you deeply. That’s when the a prick of fear starts to grow in the back of your head. You realised how lucky you were that Miasma had no interest in hurting you in any sort of sexual way. Despite there being many opportunities too, the guards found more enjoyment in kicking you around then fucking you.

“Not going to answer love? Fine.” The man stands from his chair. He moves to stand at the bottom of your bed, hands stretching out over the bed frame. His presence getting that much more suffocating. When he stands close you find no refuge from his gaze. You can’t look to the other men as much, only him. Only his cold, piercing eyes that tell you telling this man anything but the truth is a death sentence.

“What are you doing in our house?” His tone is sharper, harder. The softness found in the low rumble of his previous words is lost.

Your mind races through the cover story you had before infiltrating Miasma. The details around it are so fuzzy. It feels like you’ve got the right story but there are undecided parts.

What were you here for?

Start simple. If you start simple you can fill in the details later. Give yourself a chance to think.

“I got lost in the woods.” Good start, it’s vague enough. Now change your tone.

“I’d been walking for so long and I,” your voice cracks for good measure and you feel your eyes starting to water. You use the emotions from the last few hours to fuel your tears. You were scared. You were afraid. These were all real feelings, you just had to try and channel them. “I was just so cold and so desperate. This was the first place I’d seen in miles.”

For a moment you see his eyes soften. In a flash they’re back on your again. Hard and cold and unrelenting.

“What we’re you doing in the woods, in the middle of winter?” He asks you. Behind his imposing figure you see the one with the Mohawk shift in his stance, trying to get a better look of you.

Your story doesn’t have to just convince the man I front of you. It has to convince the other three in the room. The thought registers as you run through your cover story as quickly as you can.

“I’m a zoologist. I was out here studying brown bears before they went into hibernation. Then these men-” you pause your story, desperate to have a few tears running down your cheek before telling them the rest. You need to sell this or all you’re done, all you’ve survived, would be worth nothing now.

“Go on love, finish your story.” The soft tone has returned, no doubt that it was due to the sight of your tears running and sniffling nose.

“These men came in trucks,” your eye contact won’t be enough you realise, so you free your hands from your side and use them to talk. “It didn’t seem right so I abandoned my stuff and hid. They came looking round and they, they had guns. I snuck away quietly but they found me. They took me back to some sort of military base. Last night was when I managed to escape.”

It wasn’t far from the truth. At least now you’d have a way to explain the myriad of injuries that had been inflicted on you.

The man hums audibly. You aren’t sure if you’ve done enough to convince him. His face doesn’t give anything away.

“Why do yer have their clothes if yer were a captive?” A voice from behind the man calls out, thick with a Scottish accent.

The clothes by the fire.

The captain watched your reaction for a moment. You hope he doesn’t think the flash of realisation that was on your face a moment ago, is evidence you’re lying.

He moves to the side slightly so that you can look the Scotsman in the eye as you answer him.

“They took my clothes. It was the first thing I grabbed when I escaped.” The four men say nothing for a moment. Eyes dead set on you, on your movements, your body language. Contemplating your words, your tone, your story and your tears.

It feels like hours until the leader speaks up again. Hours of waiting for them to pass judgement on you and your future.

“They hurt you?” He asks, tone quiet once more.

You hesitate, “A little…why?” Why does he care? Why would any of them care?

The man ignores your question, “Do you need a first aid kit?”

The question confuses you. Is this some kind of trick.

Part of you wants to say yes. Knowing you’ve got cuts and bruises a plenty that could use cleaning or stitching in some cases. But your hyper aware of where they’re placed. To get to the cuts on your back you’d have to raise or take off your shirt. Not exactly something your eager to do in the four men’s company.

Your shake your head, eyes now wide and mutter out a no.

It causes the men’s eyes to narrow.

“Don’t lie to him lass. Ye wouldn’t want to see what happens if ye do.” The Scotsman threatens.

You bite your lip, “I can handle it. It’s nothing serious.”

“Serious or not, we need to see what damage has been done.” You don’t miss the we in that sentence. Do they all really need to see how banged up you are?

You still shake your head at the premise. The idea causing a pit to form in your stomach.

“You stay put love, we’ll find a first aid kit and bring you a drink. Don’t move.” He fixes you with a final look before he leaves the room. The rest of the men trailing after him.

When the last of the men leaves the room, he shuts the door. The sight of the dark oak door brings air back into your lungs, it lets the haze that’s filled your mind clear.

You need to run, you need to get out of here.

You need to return to Gunner. You don’t need to be getting involved with these four strangers. Who just so happen to be extremely handsome and muscular.

You don’t trust them. Not one bit. How do you know they aren’t Miasma, here to find out what you know and finish the job?

As quietly as you can you leave the warmth of the linen sheets and step on to the plush carpet. Creeping towards the now shut door as you gently pry it open. You have little time to get out the cabin before it’s too late.

You cringe as the door scrapes against the carpet. The sound is practically deafening in the silence you’ve created in the master bedroom. You pause for a moment, convinced the men from downstairs have heard you.

When you don’t hear the thunder of steps up the stairs, you begin your mission to escape. Moving as silently as you can along the carpeted floor. Hoping to get out before they find the first aid kit.

“What are we doing price?” Ghost finds himself asking in a hushed voice as the entirety of the 141 congregate in the kitchen.

“Looking for a first Aid kit lieutenant.” Price answers and returns to searching the cupboards.

Simon wants to scream at his captain. He wants to complain to his team. He wants to know why they’re entertaining this girl. No matter how pretty she may be, she’s lying about something. Simon hasn’t got this far in his career without being an expert in body language.

Price busies himself with rifling through the cupboards. Thankful that Laswell keeps all safe houses fully stocked.

His hands brush past plates and cans and glasses before coming to the last cupboard. Finally his hands grasp the large green box, packed with medical supplies.

When his gaze moves from the first aid kid, he sees his men staring out him. Looking confused at the sight.

“I’ve got Laswell doing background on the insignia on the jacket. I want to see she’s lying. Looking at those so called injuries will do that.” Price tells the team as he checks the first aid box before taking it upstairs.

It seems the rest of the team h av e a permanent frown on their face.

“I just don’t think any of this is right.” Ghost mutters. “It all just feels wrong.”

“Aye, she looks so frail and small. How can a lass like that escape a group of armed men?” Soap questions.

“She’s either insanely lucky or has some sort of special training.” Gaz voices to the others.

The thought permeates within their heads. Are you some sort of secret agent? Able to escape from armed men at hidden facilities?

The sound of a creak breaks them from their thoughts.

[possumposie]

I have a goal of actually writing this year instead of just gnawing on ideas in my head so heres some more delivery driver reader thoughts

"you all roommates?" You ask, handing Gaz the bag of food. You told yourself you wouldn't linger but damn if you weren't curious, and damn if Gaz wasn't gorgeous.

"something like that"

he smiled, leaning against the door in a way that made your stomach flutter. You're too busy fumbling with your phone to complete your order to notice him glancing behind you to check in on Soap's progress as he places the tracker on your car.

"you have a lot of orders?"

You can't help but sigh at the question. Judging by how slow it's been lately it's clear you're not the only one struggling financially. The look of concern in Gaz's eyes makes you falter

"It's been alright" it feels dumb to lie now after he clearly already knows the answer, but you can't bring yourself to burden him with your problems. You awkwardly clear your throat, glancing away ,

"Um, anyways, I'll get out of here, guess I'll see you next time you order food"

The awkward laugh you give does nothing to cover the cringe you feel at your clumsy words, but he gives you a warm smile anyway, one that makes you feel hot under the collar all over again

"I'm sure you will"

[gremlingottoosilly]

Under the Christmas tree [dark!141 x fem!Reader] (Secret Santa fic)

Secret Santa gift for @crash-and-live 141 had a wonderful time taking their combat medic to be their captive barracks bunny instead. Now, the Sergeants have decided you will make a wonderful gift for their COs. CW and Tags: Dub-con, poly!141, inappropriate celebration of Christmas, power imbalance, bondage, slight BDSM.

Gaz was always an expert on knots. 

Fancy little ribbons and bows – not so much. He prides himself on being suspiciously quick to adapt to the changing environment, yes, but learning how to tie bows when your little captive is acting just a tad bit dismissive towards the whole idea is…hard. Not as hard as hanging down the rope on a moving helicopter, but…

— Come, luv. Stop strugglin’ 

He smiles, all teeth and no lies, when you – his favorite medic, the best thing ever happening to this bloody team – started meowling something about the circulation and cutting off the bloodstream and how you don’t exactly like not only being held in the basement of the base but also being tied up…he looks at you and just knows he can’t resist booping you on the nose, kissing your perfect fuckin cheeks while Soap already has his hands in your hair, gently brushing it to put even more ribbons and bows. Red, just like on a Christmax gift. 

You’re a bloody gift. 

— I ken ye don’t like sittin’ like this, but Lt needs pick me up, aye? 

Soap smiles when you struggle just a bit more, your tied hands brushing against his stomach as you slowly buck your hips back. Trying to get just a tiny bit of stimulation, sneaky little lass – this is why he loves you, so smart and so adorably dumb at the same time. The best thing that ever happened to them is that you still act like you don’t enjoy being their shared chewing toy. They can agree it’s just a bit of a stretch from your previous working environment but hell, at least you’re not being shot at. Johnny’s hand gently moves from your head to your neck, adjusting the little red bow he made from the ribbons. They tried so hard to find the softest ever ribbons without a sharp edge and material that could cut off the circulation – even though Kyle was still doing his favorite knots that rendered you absolutely defenseless. You lick your lips and try to rock from side to side, making the ribbons a bit more loose – it doesn’t work, of course. Not like your team ever wanted you to have a say in their perverse desires, right? 

You fell into the Stockholm syndrome quite easily, especially since they were so stuck on always respecting your wishes(except for letting you out, of course) and never forcing anything too harsh…up until now, apparently. Making sure you’re on your best behavior because it’s Christmas, they have a small table set up – beer, whiskey, some snacks that you naively put on because you’re still not allowed to cook, and they don’t really care for home-cooked meals – and your shaking form, twisted in a somewhat sexy pose all because they needed a little Christmas present for their CO’s. 

Gaz brushes his hand on your tummy, gently pushing it down – you were prepared, of course, so much lube was out in your glossy folds, with Soap’s mouth buried deep between your legs, until you felt you’re going to pass out from the sheer amount of orgasm he was edging out of you. There is a reason why Johnny isn’t allowed to eat you out when Ghost isn’t around – his self-control is non-existent when push comes to your cunt and the tongue he can shove in. 

You feel like you’re going to burst when you finally hear the door opening. When you finally hear Captain – his tired, gruff voice, the way Ghost’s jacket silently hits the ground as they start to undress. Usually, you’re made to greet them with kisses and your soft lips on their cocks if they feel particularly tired. Usually, you’re made to wait for them in the bedroom, with their sergeants gently playing with you because, of course, you’re the property of all four of them, no matter the power dynamic. 

Nothing is usual now – you’re laying under a Christmas tree, naked and aroused, your pussy is all puffy and swollen from Soap’s tongue, your body is tied up with red ribbons Gaz was using. You want to be good for them, and so you lay here, hoping your obedience will be enough for a few more climaxes. Ghost is the first to put his hands on you. 

Kneading your breasts, gently forcing his rough fingers on your exposed nipples, you’re so sweet for him, so perfect, laid out like a beautiful gift – he can only groan in arousal as he slowly pushes the ribbons from your chest, taking in the view of your hardened buds and bite marks – evidence of Kyle taking his mark while he was tying you up. You might have been apprehensive about the whole idea, but you’re playing the role of a gift perfectly – just like you should. 

— Bloody hell, love. So pretty for us. 

— She was such a good girl for us, Lt. Didnae even resisted much. ~ — Is that right, sweetheart? 

You can only nod, your mouth stuffed with a pretty gag – you’re drooling all around it, looking fucking adorable as you try and look as harmless as possible. No reason to provoke them now when they already made it clear just how many orgasms they are going to take from you tonight. 

Ghost smiles under his mask, his hands moving to play with your lower tummy, squeezing the soft flesh and teasing your folds – you’re soft and pliable for them, spread out like a perfect toy. The most desirable thing they could ever find under a Christmas tree.

Price caresses your face with a softness you didn’t know a man of his position could have. He kisses you, and his whiskers tickle your soft skin – you aren’t sure if you can even handle him being so damn gentle about everything. He laughs as you try to wiggle out of Ghost’s grasp, their hands laying on your body – bruises and marks are scattered across your skin, making you the perfect canvas. Gosh, you’re beautiful – John doesn’t even know what they did to deserve such a little treat. — Such a pretty display for us, eh? 

— Sergeants outdid themselves this time. 

— You bet they did. Are you goin’ to behave for us, love? 

Price smiles when you whimper, spreading your legs like a pretty toy. Ghost already pushing you to the ground, forcing his way in between your thighs – you’re so open for them, vulnerable to the tip of his cock pressing in your folds already. Soap did a good job eating you out, even Simon’s cock won’t be too much – not after the way Gaz was spreading you on three of his fingers, smiling with each of your little attempts at moans. You know the night is going to be long.

[idiodicideations]

It’s the End of the World As We Know It [2]

Part [1] Here

Red Dawn inspired AU Poly! 141 x Reader. This will eventually be a Dead Dove Do Not Eat so be prepared. Following chapters to be tagged accordingly. let me know if I missed any content warnings and I’ll add em. First actually published fic so forgive me as I figure all this stuff out. I also have no idea how to tag shit.

cw: suicidal ideation, ptsd type flashbacks

As the sun fell just along the pines, her breath started to solidify in the air, hanging lowly in the dimness of the night.

Her first instinct was to run. Adrenaline and fear melting logic and raising the fur at the nape of her neck. She embraced the feeling of something animal. Shivering and alone in a dark forest with predators just steps away.

Somewhere between the air growing colder and the birds having stopped singing she felt a chilled knife of reality slip between her shoulder blades. Pinning her squarely uphill behind the treeline from her grandparents cabin.

They'd taken it. More accurately they’d fucked up their vehicle on the precarious 2x4’s and stood in confusion for a few minutes before rallying and breaking down the front and back doors simultaneously with practiced ease. Military definitely. Their gear and their precision, silence. It was deafening. Or that was until they realized the place was empty. Even from safety she could see they were cataloguing, probably wondering where the owners of the home were.

No doubt thinking they'd find a bigger stash if they located the owners. That made her turn tail to the safety of the cabin before she could dwell on her precarious position in the food chain any longer.

It was always a possibility, that’s what she had to keep telling herself as she holed up in the bathroom with the two dogs, shivering and shakily holding a rifle. After seeing the sight of a once cherished home falling victim to an oversight of the 3rd amendment, the horror settled in her bones. If anything, laying low was the way to go. Then again, they weren’t Russian like the news had said. As she sat on the floor and grappled with decisions, Bronco laid out with great distaste, having been moved from his comfy couch for far too long. Rooster however cowered happily under her armpit.

Before she could realize what was happening, birds were softly chirping through the bathroom door. Groggily she sat up, gun still in hand and dogs snuffling into her to ward off the coldness of the tile. When her sensibilities came back to her, she perked up.

A bunny on a hill when a twig snaps.

It took minutes, hours maybe, for her to get her hands to stop shaking enough to open the door. When she did, everything was just so.

Everything in its place. Yet she was the only thing out of place.

Door creaking slightly she jumped when Broncos nails clicked against the tile and passed her so casually to the door. Looking lazily from over his shoulder. She swallowed thickly and turned to look back at the border collie puppy just behind her, equally as scared, crowding around her legs.

The morning air was thick with dew, and really she wasn’t sure she should be standing in the doorway dumbly as Bronco padded around on soft leaves and gravel. Could they hear them from all the way down there? Were they still here?

A braying made her head snap east to the barn. Hungry and angry that his breakfast was being delivered late, Jack was loud. Loud enough to alert the others.

Her blood ran cold, not thinking clearly as she sprinted toward the makeshift barn, rifle now on her shoulder and bouncing treacherously along. She didn’t even remember putting it there. Tears swelled in her vision and bile filled her mouth. Her fingers burned as they tried to pry the itchy twine away from the new bale. The noises the animal made were starting to warp, echoing off the aluminum roofing and driving her mad. Finally- the twine gave, grabbing a flake of hay she tossed it over the gate, spraying loose ends around her and onto Jack haphazardly before he quieted and snuffled on the ground.

Her body was full of static, waiting for something, anything bad to happen. All she could picture was the blood soaked carpet of her neighbors house. How they’d killed them like dogs. She knew she couldn’t do this alone.

Alone. All alone. Who would save her? Is there an army left to come save her? Before she knew it she realised she had been standing and watching the mule bounce back and forth on his back legs whilst chewing, only lifting hi s head once she’d gained her perception of reality once more. Something brushed against her leg and she stiffened, looking down to find Roosters small head staring back up at her.

————

It was now almost dark. She hadn’t dared to peek over the ledge of the hill holding the cabin aloft her grandparents. She’d heard noises, voices, she assumed they were trying to fix their vehicle. At one point a loud Scottish(?) voice cursed loudly before a loud thud followed. All the curtains had been drawn and doors locked. Anything heavy had been pressed against said doors to at least keep a respectable distance between them and herself. The rifle hadn’t been more than a foot away from her, and her fathers Glock 19 had made its home in a leather holster by her right hip. Ammo filled her pockets, clanking while moving erratically from room to room, preparing for night fall. Jack had been fed and watered for the day with enough to keep him satisfied overnight in an effort to keep him quiet. The dogs had followed her while tending to him and done their business as needed, venturing out for only a few minutes at a time and closely monitored through a nearby window. A low whistle seemed to grab their attention enough to lure them back inside, or Bronco at least. Rooster seemingly following the older dogs example.

She’d packed a couple bags hesitantly as the sun fully began to set over the mountain tops. It felt wrong to leave, to give up her position so easily but staying alive was paramount. She had supplies laid out on the kitchen island. Water, fire starters, supplies to make shelter, first aide. Pick your poison and there was probably some variation of an item that was somehow laid out and ready to be put away. Her ears perked, there was the crunching of gravel faintly outside. Hearing them before she could see them.

Then there came the voices, coming from the front door. Large footfalls crunching gravel getting heavier and heavier. Closer and closer. There were more than two. She was certain.

Her blood ran cold and the rifle sitting just off to the side was up on her shoulder in a shaky instant.

••••

an: thank you guys for the support on the last post sorry it’s been a bit since I last updated. I’m glad everyone enjoyed it if anyone would like to be tagged in future chapters please let me know!

[the-faceless-bride]

Y'all remember this Dark fic? I've been thinking about a part two... Anyone interested?

[pricetagged]

lorica

Dark November nights aren't safe, especially not for women lingering outside pubs. A taxi should get you home, and it would have if you'd remembered to double-check the license plates.

Here is 2.2k drabbly nonsense since I feel bad about my month-long lack of posting. Ghost/Reader/Price (with implied 141/Reader at the end).

Content: Dark, MDNI, kidnapping, threat of violence, guns, body neutral, f-reader, unedited.

_____________________

White whisps danced and swirled in the air before you, your breath given substance in the chill of the night.

You shuffled from foot to foot, cold air and anxiety swirling in a discomforting soup that sunk down to your bones  A glance up and down the street confirmed that yes, your taxi still hadn't arrived. You unlocked your phone once more, foolish in the hope that staring at the screen would make the car appear sooner. The little black icon on the app mocked you. Your driver is 2.6km away!

A sudden cheer split the silence, flooding from the frosted windows of The White Hart. You and your friends had agreed to leave by 8 p.m., hoping to avoid the jeering and jostling of impassioned football fans. A quiet drink after work was one thing; you hadn't, however, planned on lingering to catch up with the Premier League. The noise of rowdy punters and drunk men spilled once more into the street behind you, making your heart race a little. They were just watching a match, just in their cups…

But standing solitary as you were in the dimly lit street it reminded you that you were alone.

A single streetlight buzzed and flickered its dim companionship.

You could see your breath puffing out in front of you, white on black as the night stretched on. Perhaps you should've agreed to the lift that your friends' offered, cursing your politeness. Don't want to inconvenience you! I'm headed in the opposite direction - let me just call a cab. Dark nights weren't often kind to lone women. Winter, too. It left you shivering, trussed up in fleecy fabrics as the wind bit at your numb nose and made your eyes stream. You looked like some soft, gentle thing huddled in a doorstep, hoping to pass the night safely. You panted a little, unease quickening your breath. The misty vapor furled upwards; you imagined it carrying off your hopes. Your desperation. Please, let this car arrive. Let me get home.

A nondescript black car slowed along the curbside, wheels slick and splashing in the stagnant water gathered by the gutters. You caught the tail end of the license plates, mud splattered yes, but you could see some numbers and letters shining through. Finally. You puffed out your relief, tucking your phone away as you reached for the door. Prayer answered, it seemed.

A wave of warm air kissed your cheeks as you slid in, dry and comfortable.

'Hi, how's it going? 2350, right?' You sent a half-glance at the driver, pulling your seatbelt on as you waited for confirmation.

The gears of the belt buckle clicked in the silence. Heavy, noticeable silence.

Turning back towards the front seat, your polite smile wavered slightly. The driver was a big man. Strange that you hadn’t noticed it before, but he was hulking in the seat, shoulders stretching beyond the limits of the side panels. You swallowed slightly as you noticed the headrest barely brushing the nape of his neck.

Two unwavering, dark eyes met yours in the rear-view mirror.

'Uh…' you faltered slightly, perched like bird in the backseat eager to take off, feathers ruffling and twitching. 'This is- you're the car I called? Confirmation number 2350?'

You could feel your face heating -from the chill outside, the AC inside, the mounting embarrassment - skin feeling itchy and tight. Still, you were reluctant to break his gaze. Your instincts sparked, flared to life illuminating only the thought to keep him in your sights. You felt altogether too cramped in the car, his presence spilling across the back seats.

'Yeah, 2350,' his voice rumbled over the hum of the engine. 'Tha's right.'

He made no move, didn't even blink as he stared you down. You could just about make out the arch of blond eyebrows, the craggy lines of a well-worn face but a black barrier mask halted any further consideration. You cracked first, glancing down to his thick, gloved hand resting on the gearstick. The entire dash was dark, no blue light or luminosity from his phone. No digital dials or screens anywhere.

'Aren't you gonna type it in the app? Confirm it from your end?' You hoped he didn’t notice the shake in your voice, unease plucking at your vocal chords weaving nerves into noise.

'Waitin' on yer rideshare, aren't I?'

'I didn't book a rideshare, this is just-' You cut yourself off as your numb, clumsy fingers groped for your phone. 'Let me check, I should've just booked a solo journey-'

'No need, 's'a busy night. Friday. Match on, lots of punters.' His voice was deep, tumbling like gravel from his chest. It was disjointing, actually, with his mouth covered and the lights off. His voice seemed to echo around, filling all the dark curves and corners of the car's interior. Coming from nowhere but this beast of a man with no mouth.

You shook off the thought like waterdrops from your hair. He was just a working man. Big, yes, gruff, but no need to tar him with the sticky, resinous pitch of your paranoia.

'Yer lucky to get a ride,' he continued. 'Car pool's better than standin' out in the street by y'rself. S'not safe.'

You relaxed a little into the seat, tension trickling away. Slightly. It lingered still at the base of your spine, on the back of your neck.

'Right,' you puffed out a breath as you slid your hand from your pocket. 'Do you know how long they'll be? It's just that I've been out since work this morning and I'm looking to get home sharpish.'

He snorted at that, loud and curt, "'e'll be out when he's out. Someone waitin' for ya to get home, or wot?'

'No,' you hesitated, awkwardness cutting you short, 'sorry. Just tired.'

He hummed at that, flicking his eyes around the silent street outside. Murky, orange light cut through the condensation of the pub windows, casting a faint haze on the shutters and bars of the nearby shops. All closed for the night. All empty.

'Wot you doin' out by y'rself anyway?'

Odd. He didn't seem the type for small talk.

'I wasn't out by myself,' you cringed at how pandering it seemed. How you felt you had to justify yourself. 'Was out for drinks with some colleagues and friends.'

He huffed at that, muttering something too low for you to hear. It made you prickle, for sure that it was at your expense. Maybe you should stick in your earphones, stop talking and just treat this like the transaction that it was. You drummed your fingers against the door panel, breath fogging up the window as you stared out aimlessly.

A few beats passed like that, quiet settling uncomfortably in the car like an itchy blanket. You could feel it, wanted to shift away or throw it off or something, but a glance outside at the damp, litter-strewn street kept you still. Better just to endure the discomfort if it got you home.

The snick of the locks disengaging made you jolt, drowsiness dispersing at the sudden shock of cool air from in front.

A man, almost as tall and broad as your driver, settled into the front passenger seat. His eyes, flinty under his stern brow, mapped the length and breadth of your bundled form. His lips twitched under his mustache, amusement or disbelief carved into the burgeoning smile.

'What's this, then? Picked up a stray?'

You bristled a little, scintilla of apprehension raising the hairs on your arms. They shared a look, something warm and familiar passing between them as the idling engine hummed back to life. They sat in front, black-clad and broad shoulder to broad shoulder nearly blocking your entire view of the dash.

'It's your rideshare, in't it?' the driver grunted as he pulled away from the curb.

'Booked a cab, did you sweetheart?' the stranger turned to you, strong face in profile. You could make out fragments - high nose bridge, dark hair, mutton chops obscuring most of his face. The darkness veiled the details, like staring at a painting through gauze. He was the image, the impression of a man, yes, but distant. Unsettling.

'Clearly,' tiredness and nerves made you sharp. Brittle. You sunk further into the seat, clutching your bag on your lap. As if it could act as a barrier. A shield.

A string of tension hummed, taut and quavering. You tried to ignore, watching streetlamps blur together outside, it but it whirred high and distracting. They noticed it too, you thought, shoulders squaring up as muscles tensed and flexed. The stranger huffed through his nose, proud and steady as an ox. You swore that you heard the driver chuckle under his breath, a low hehehe as he indicated right and turned off from the M60.

'Testy one, I see,' he hummed, disapproving. 'Gonna have to fix that attitude.'

The string snapped, you snapped, 'Look, Sir, I'm not trying to be rude, but I don't fancy a chat. I'm just trying to get home.'

You fumbled in your bag for your earphones, hoping to drown out any awkward silences or terse comments.

'Alright, that's enough of that. Simon, pull over.'

You looked up, half in alarm and half at the authoritative tone of his voice. The driver, Simon apparently, swerved into the hard shoulder with a 'roger that'.

The tattoo beat of your heart drowned out your thoughts, heavy thumps rushing past your ears and thrumming down to your fingertips. You scrambled for the doorhandle, scratching clumsily like a mouse.

'What are you doing? Is this some kind of Chuckle Brothers double act because if so, it's not funny,' your words fell like fragile little shards, hoping to cut but shattering in the air. Your pitch rose, 'You want the bag, my things? I'll report you, you shouldn't be fucking working this job.'

Your phone felt heavy in your hand, shaking fingers missing the keypad as you tried to type the password.

The stranger sighed heavily, patronising. Like you were inconveniencing him in some way. You licked you lips and glanced up, ready to run your mouth again as the app loaded.

A steely glint by the central console strangled the words in your throat.

'Didn't want to have to do this sweetheart,' the stranger's lips quirked up in a sad, half-smile. You scanned his face, seeing no note of hesitation. Just cool, steady eyes and that stupid, fake smile. 'Hand that over, nice and easy.'

Neurons fired, trying to make connections or plans. Trying to assess. Here you were, alone in a car with two strange men. You shouldn't hand your phone to them, you could barely feel your fingers anymore, never mind unfurl them from the edges of the case. If you handed over your phone - your lifeline- then what?

If you didn't hand it over, you had the answer to that question from the barrel of the gun pointed your way.

You stared at it, dull silver in the dark. Like a cynosure, it pulled your gaze towards it. A sick facsimile of the North Star, leading you away from safety and further into the den of the wolves ahead.

Your animal instincts screamed, struggled, but lost as you passed your phone into his large, calloused grasp.

'Good girl,' he smiled fully then, round cheeks and bright eyes masking the coldness beneath. 'Don't get fussy now - Simon, the locks - just sit tight and you'll be home in no time.'

You tugged futilely at the handle, useless now that Simon had engaged the child-safety lock.

'I don't live down this way, I- this is not the right way,' you licked your lips again, mouth dry and bitter with the taste of rising bile. You could see, now, that you wouldn't be going home that night. Your next words tasted acrid, tinged with defeat.  'Why are you doing this?'

'Thought ya wanted to come wiv us,' Simon's gravelly voice cut in, amusement warming the pitch into something mocking. 'Why else jump into a strange car?'

'You said you were my taxi, you confirmed-'

'Did I?' you saw his eyebrow quirk, dead predator eyes meeting yours once more through the rear-view mirror. 'Not very good at lookin' after y'rself, are ya?'

Your quick little breaths fogged up the window beside you. It was hard to see, hard to think. But clearly, not thinking had brought you this far. You didn’t think to accept your friends' offer, didn’t think to properly check the license plates, didn't think open the app and check the journey status.

There must have been something of surrender in the tremble of your lips. In the flickering of your wide, glossy eyes. It scented the air, whetting the appetite of the beasts in front of you, swirling around their chops.

'S'alright, love. We'll get ya home. Get ya taken care of.'

Lacrima painted your lash line, salty and hot as it brimmed over and down your cheeks.

You heard a rustle, felt a rough thumb brushing at your tears. The stranger had reached back, large hand nudging your face back up to look at him.

'No more tears, now, c'mon,' he dug his into the corner of your mouth, tugging your lips into a coy, marionette simper. 'Smile, sweetheart. The rest of the boys are dying to meet you.'

________________________________

Bit rushed, but hey 🤷‍♀️. This has probs been done before but here's my spin. Apologies for the lack of fics lately! Feel like I'm getting my groove back so should have some actual content out soon.

[idiodicideations]

Its the End of the World As We Know It

Edit: went back and simplified and edited some bits. If you have any feedback please let me know

Red Dawn inspired AU Poly! 141 x Reader. This will eventually be a Dead Dove Do Not Eat so be prepared. Following chapters to be tagged accordingly. let me know if I missed any content warnings and I’ll add em. First actually published fic so forgive me as I figure all this stuff out. I also have no idea how to tag shit.

cw: sorta suicidal ideation, death, dead animals, killing for sustenance

Being home for Thanksgiving break meant a reunion for all the family. Preparation, drinks, drama and the works. She had been in shock since the news stations first started going dark. No one had been answering calls or texts though, phone lines going haywire. It was the first sign of the impending darkness. Maybe being home and antisocial for the holidays was the only thing that had kept her out of harm's way.

So, she did what she thought was best. Preparing for the worst.

She started purifying water and storing it in the cellars and reserve tanks scattered around the property as the radio went haywire in the background. Putting away roughly 10 gallons a day until she ran out of room in the storage drums. She took breaks to try and contact anyone, but nothing seemed to work and no one seemed to be making any contact with anyone. She had spent three straight days sweating in the kitchen and canning what could be salvaged from the late fall gardens, adding to the surplus of other canned goods already ordered, labeled and dated for situations like these. After years of going up and down the stairs with armfuls of freshly canned goods with extended and close family at every gathering, she finally realized their higher purpose.

That her family wasn’t just crazy, they were right.

The rabbits in the corner of the barn had been harvested and cleaned on day seven. All the hides stretched and dried were nearly prepared to tan. She’d cried just like she had when she was a child. Gently stroking soft fur before mustering the courage to deliver that singular deadly blow to all five of the yearling bucks. The tendrils of blood diluting in the running water and twirling sickeningly down the drain of their barn processing sink seemed to haunt her. Bracing herself on either side of the wash basin, she let her head hang and cry, hands still bloody and running into the running basin.

The jerky had finished dehydrating before the grid went down, a week and a half since no contact. She was at least a little bit thankful their deaths weren’t in vain.

If anyone peeked in, they’d think she was preparing for the harsh mountain winter ahead. Or just carrying on their family's time-honored tradition the confused onlooker would consider steeped in delusion. They wouldn’t know what horror waited in these mountains unless they looked for the signs.

Over the past several days, she had further camouflaged her father’s hunting lodge with downed evergreen branches. Utilizing the foliage to keep the roof and edges of the building hidden from air surveillance. It was relatively easy to just lock away all the perishable food in the basement and hide the cellar entrance with more foliage. She’d moved all the ammo, artillery, and some of the water up the road to the hunting cabin as discreetly as possible.

There were only two ways to get up on this side of the mountain. You could use the family road that began right behind Nana and Papas, only accessible from the long windy driveway (which was now blocked with barbed wire, a beater pick up with the batteries now disconnected and about five two by four boards with rusty nails poking precariously out of them and covered with some leaf litter) or Mr. Anderson's back pasture road. Which was secure in the way it was a well-kept secret, only used by either family who knew of the path. Which made it the default egress point incase she needed to bug out in a hurry.

This wasn’t all her doing, of course. There were many, many people with input into the overall plan. The plan clearly laid out in a few large binders color coded and hidden in a drawer next to the fridge in the hunting lodge. She was never really an active planner of all the possible apocalyptic scenarios, never had the head for it. She hadn’t experienced the hardship of war or starvation quite like the generations before her had. She was just doing as she was instructed, with as much confidence as she could muster.

Halfway prepared, halfway done and there was no one there. Her spirits slowly started to dampen. A college kid wasn’t meant to take this on all alone, let alone at all. The rundown garage near the hunting lodge had mostly been cleared and the boat awning on the side of the building was now dually being used for water storage and firewood storage. The inside of the run down garage nearest the lodge had a corner packed to the ceiling full of hay for the winter and a stall for her singular mule companion. Her father had made alterations to the back of the garage, making a sheltered run just under the tree line to keep prying eyes from above none the wiser, and razor wire on the outside to keep bears and other predators out. Not counting all the feed and overstock of hay down at Nana and Papa’s, Jack would surely make it through the winter. She wasn't sure she would make it though. Surely she’d go mad in isolation.

No one showed up. No word in or out. There was always a bug out plan that every family member agreed to right as they moved out. Hell, the hunting lodge even had a few kids' toys for the little ones her siblings popped out. Stockpiles were always built and managed for twelve people to survive with a harsh winter in mind, which in hindsight would make it easier on herself. Seeing as she had no idea how long she was going to be locked away alone and scared.

Preparation was the cornerstone of their lives. The two patriarchs knew something would happen and made sure their family would outlive them. It didn’t matter how, it was all obsolete now. There was so much preparation, decades of it, and it was all for nothing. She didn’t want to live. She didn’t want to try and fight. She didn’t think she’d actually have the nerve for war or killing someone if it came down to it. Yet she had to try. Just in case the family was caught up somewhere, maybe they just couldn’t reach her yet. So she thought of their smiling faces and soldiered on.

It was two weeks since the bloodshed started. She hadn’t seen it, but then again she didn’t have to. You can infer that those loud explosions a few days back killed a few people, that constant gunfire resulted in casualties.

Suddenly, her vision was blurry, and it took her shaken brain a moment to comprehend that she was in fact crying. Jack was sure-footed and didn’t even stutter step on the gravel drive as she continued on, wiping her tears on the back of her thick jacket sleeve. It had been three days since she’d heard anything on the radio other than how the Russians took most of the North Western mountain towns and the national anthem played over and over again. In between constant songs they relayed that there were fights along the West Coast, they’d claimed Alaska in days. Hostages were taken, some of them executed to prove a point to those who defied them.

Violence and death were a universal language, and she could hear them even this far up in the mountains. Bombs, helicopters, and vehicles hummed on and in the sky over the main roads, only adding to the cacophony. Luckily, they wouldn’t dare try and traverse these tight backroads. Too steep, too much weight in a tank or armored car. Tree cover was her only ally in the fight above, keeping out of sight and inconspicuous. She’d taken a few dives into the dirt in the past two weeks when a helicopter had come too close, trying ever so hard to listen to what she had been taught. She’d abandoned her own vehicle down in the driveway along with the booby traps, leaving it with a siphoned gas tank and locking Nana and Papa’s front door. The first time it had ever been locked in years. The click of the deadbolt made her stomach churn.

She did the only thing she could think of. After nearly three weeks with no word. She headed to Mr. Anderson's farm up. He’d illuminate her situation, tell her what needed to be done. Tho she was pretty sure he’d tell her what she feared.

That no one was coming

Startling awake after dozing on his porch rocker by Jack's hoofs displacing gravel, Anderson’s rifle was up to his shoulder in an instant and his Vietnam Vet hat sat proudly askew on his head from sighting in so fast. Once he saw Jack's large ears come around the corner, his rifle went down and his large calloused hand ran down his face, exhausted and exasperated.

—

So there she was, a cup of coffee keeping her hands warm in the chill of the fall morning. Jack tied to the rail of the house just outside as Lizette, Gerald Anderson’s wife, scurried about. The older woman’s mind drifting back to the pleasantries of hosting even in such a hostile environment. She selflessly pulled the last of her chocolate chip cookies from her infamous moose cookie jar to set between them.

“Well sweetheart, I ain’t gonna sugar coat it we’re fucked-“

“Gerald Anderson, language!”

“Lizette- god-damn it woman, the girl needs to hear it!” his bushy furrowed brow quickly softened when he realized his outburst and twisted into an apologetic and apathetic gaze. This was the beginning of the end. It was a matter of time before their homes were raided, and they’d no doubt be dead. The man hadn’t survived one war without surrendering to die in another man’s with his head in his ass. His rough hand grabbed his wife’s smaller, less worn one, and he patted the back of it with reverence. His ranch was expansive, nothing like the small chunk of land her family inherited. He’d been a well-known name in town for years and a second grandfather to everyone.

“I’m not built for war anymore, honey. If I was, I'd take both of you out of here, and we’d make a difference in the fight, but I ain’t cut out for it.” His voice quieted, softening the blow of his next truth as he made eye contact with the girl across from him.

“You need to get gone. As gone as you can. No one else is coming sweetheart. They’re dead or gone.” It sunk in, that’s for sure. Unfortunately, it sunk her further onto her elbows on the dinner table as silent tears rolled down her cheeks in waves.

“I’m going to give you all the guns and ammo I can spare. You’re going to go up to your daddy’s huntin’ cabin and get hunkered down. I got my gas tank down on the mouth of that road. I got it covered pretty well last week with brush and shrubs ain’t nobody gonna see it. It should run you through winter and maybe into spring if you ration. I want to give you somethn’”

—

What she didn’t think would happen on this outing was leaving the property with a border collie puppy under her arm in the warmth of her wool jacket. It was stupid, actually really fucking stupid. Sure, there was more than enough food and water, but a crying puppy was going to be a huge problem. Or so she thought anyway, the poor thing hadn’t made so much as a whine since Anderson had pulled him from the guest room.

“He was a gift for my granddaughter. Or was ‘sposed to be anyway.”

The second surprise followed at Jack's heels with steely mismatched eyes. The infamous older blue heeler the old man called Bronco. He must have seen the way her lips quivered at the thought of being left alone. No one and nothing to live for. Now there were at least three reasons for her to snap out of it. It was better than nothing.

—

The lodge was empty. Not really. There was furniture and skulls of every shape and size, a TV mounted in the living room with a VCR player and all the western classics, a wood stove off in the corner, two bedrooms with twin bunk beds lining the walls, an armory, and another cellar also filled to the brim. No, it wasn’t empty in that sense, just that she’d never heard the place so quiet. Bronco was quick to enter to sniff at the door frames only to harrumph onto the first couch he spotted. The puppy, however, was skittish. After his claws hit the hardwood, he curled up into himself and got his tail tucked between his legs underneath the wooden bench at the entrance and stayed there. She shed her jacket and shoes and stood in the doorway dazed. There wasn’t anything left to do. So she did the one thing that she could think of.

The VCR hummed as it rewound the tape. She had been rewatching the same movie with a glass (or three) of strawberry wine since sundown with only her favorite cowboy western film to fill the deafening silence. Not the greatest use of electricity, but was necessity for her sanity. She’d been non-stop. Work hadn’t ended for three weeks. Ears perked for the slightest twig to snap. A rabbit tirelessly digging itself down into the earth for safety. It wouldn’t keep the predators out for long. Soon they’d come. It was a matter of time, and she didn’t know what would become of her after they found her.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. She was supposed to be on campus studying, charming everyone with tales of small towns and prepping.

“Well, maybe your family should go on that show!”

And let the whole world see how much they had stockpiled and prepared? Ring the dinner bell? No fucking way. She just smiled and nodded, agreeing with her peers for appearance's sake, before quickly changing the subject.

The VCR stuttered back to the begining, and the chorus started to play softly in the dark lodge. Bronco lay at the end of the couch, muzzle sitting on the edge of it and staring directly at the TV. He almost looked bored. The new puppy laid on the floor dozing quietly after becoming a custom to his new circumstances. Maybe it was the buzzing of the wine in her veins, but she never recalled asking the old man the dog's name.

Mason jar still in hand and nearly empty of the tinged pink alcohol, half lidded eyes and interested in the patterning of the collies coat. Gangly and shy, yet sweet and needy. Ideas of a name rolled around somewhere between sadness and numbness. The gunshots of the movie took her briefly out of the trance of swirling the liquid absentmindedly and brainstorming to face the TV. There stood the answer to her problems, John Wayne as the one-eyed Rooster Cogburn. A famously mean and twisted bastard. Perfect, a good way to toughen him up was to get him a good name. Keep the theme with all the animals being named after animals.

—

She woke up with a start, having at some point in the night turned the TV off (thankfully) with Brono curled between her legs. The couch wasn’t insanely comfortable, but neither was the situation. Or the pounding in her head.

Recon. It was part of any good mission, or so she had been told. She wouldn’t know, it was all second-hand information that bored her to death. Luckily, it was second nature with how many dry runs they did as a family. Somberness struck her in the gut as she laced up her boots and got ready to head out. It also involved makeup, or what her grandfather used to promise was better than mascara and foundation.

Why would you need anything better than this sweetheart?

It was as if someone else was staring back at her. She couldn’t look into the bathroom mirror, thinking about how ungrateful she was for this opportunity to live. To be the designated survivor when this was the last thing she ever wanted to be part of. So the smears of brown and green on her face were probably more asymmetrical and terrible than needed, as she applied them haphazardly away from her daunting reflection.

With that, she left with Rooster and Bronco and Jack tucked away and out of sight and a rifle in her hands. She started walking down the back path, staying off the roads and listening for anything. It was still too quiet. There was always some stupid banter about a college football game or the ever present “who brought grandpa's beef jerky” and to fork it over to de-pepper for the trek. Because God blesses Papa, and he made the best jerky, but god-damn it, it was so peppery that it was all you could taste.

So she made her way through the back dirt road, ducking her head out to check its clarity before quickly crossing and ducking onto the Anderson Ranch’s path. Cutting through rough shrubbery to come out just behind the barn to ensure Mr Anderson didn’t shoot on sight.

Unfortunately, the signs of death had already appeared. Every horse was shot dead, left lying in the paddock and her hand went quickly to cover her mouth at the stench. Flies buzzing soon drowned out her thoughts as she got closer. They must have been dead for a day at least. Her heart sank to the pit of her stomach and she turned and headed toward the house as fast as she could manage. The door was already ajar, so she just shouldered it open some more with her rifle on her shoulder. Time seemed to slow, and the only thing she could hear was the thrum of her heartbeat deafening everything. Quietly as she could, she made her way through the house, eyes already welling up before getting into the bedroom. There were drag marks, blood was running out the door. She turned to reach for her breakfast. They were dead. Lizette was in the closet half in and half out. She was hiding. And they killed her. Mr. Anderson looked like he held his ground before they tried to come for him. Looked like he killed or winged one of them enough to drag them out before they put him down.

They were alive yesterday. They were alive fucking yesterday. Those horses had at least half a day to rot, so they came yesterday after she left. If they had come just a bit earlier she would have been there too. She stumbled to the porch and let her body fall down the steps. This wasn’t just a make-believe scenario anymore. There were people here to kill her. God knows how many or where they were. It seemed hopeless. Sitting on the porch until dusk, head in her hands and thinking. If they found Mr Anderson, they may have already found the other driveway. The thought dawned on her, and she grabbed the rifle next to her and double-timed it down the main road, the fastest way home.

She was almost there and ready to cross, but her footfalls were soon spurned with the turning of wheels on gravel, and she all but threw herself into the ditch. Quickly pulling her weapon out from beneath her and to the side. She didn’t have any advantage in this firefight. Shit she had barely brought any ammo. The most she thought she would see today was maybe a coyote. Closing her eyes for a moment to compose herself as the truck passed, praying they didn't spot her.

Or so she thought. Then the gravel stopped rolling under the tires and she heard the creaks of doors opening. Three maybe?

“Don’t think they cleared up 'ere cap. Seems well-preserved”

“Coudnae make it up this far wi’ their vehicles”

There was some shuffling, clicking and racking of assault weapons that made her blood run cold. Then again, one man had a Scottish accent. Did Russia take over Scotland? Then again, the other dude sounded more posh, British maybe. Before she could put a finger on it or chance a look to make out what they were wearing, another man spoke, and she ducked back down instictivly.

“‘E ain’t daft enough to stick is’ name on the wall, Johnny. The Yanks want is head on a spike too”

Deeper but less posh. Definitely British, who the fuck else calls Americans Yanks? She tightened her grip and pushed up on her heels. Unfortunately, a rock underfoot slipped and knocked itself down the road. She didn’t need to see them to know they were looking in her direction. The world stopped turning, and her ears were thrumming with blood and adrenaline again. These guys seemed like they knew what to do with a weapon, how to kill someone. Like they were looking for trouble. That was it, the end. Nice knowing ya. Bye bye. There was a deathly silent pause and her grip tightened on her weapon as she prepared to go out fighting.

“Ye think there's bears oot here, LT?”

With a silent shaky sigh of relief and the tension in her body disparaged, if only slightly.

“Aye, mammy bear an' daddy bear an' the little 'un with the porridge that's just reyt”

Two of the men seemed to laugh, and a fourth voice chimed in.

“Shut it. We'll stay here for the night. We'll be in town by morning.”

Maybe they’d leave, take a trip up Anderson's farm road and leave without a trace in the morning. Keep everything right in place.

“Back down the road seemed guid enough fer the nicht, Cap.”

Or maybe not.

[Part 2]