felt like making a post-apocalyptic au of one of my favorite stories of my childhood but i finished two characters first (before moving to the other one)
𝜗ৎ summary: the world as you know it is broken, crawling with those infected by the virus. you're one of very few survivors, and you're cautious of each step you take. when a man breaks into your house, you're torn between kindness and survival.
𝜗ৎ content warning: this fanfic series is 15+; apocalyptic setting; blood & gore; horror themes; disturbing themes; illness & disease; gun & knife violence; mental health issues; depictions of insanity; dead animals; depictions of grief & loss.
𝜗ৎ a/n: hi loves! first thing i've been able to work on and actually finish, so hopefully you guys enjoy (a lot of inspo taken from bird box and the last of us). i'm thinking of making this into a series, but i'm not sure. let me know if i should make a part 2!
IT’S HOT AND DRY, and the ants are swarming. They march in dotted black lines, trailing through your garden towards the fence. You squint against the harsh white light of the sun, your skin burning beneath the thin layers you wear.
Since the Fall happened, the seasons have become more brutal, more violent. Summer kills everything, from the bare bushes surrounding your property to the few people that stumble across the plains. But like an angry god whose vocabulary doesn’t include the term ‘fair,’ the few of those who survive the scorching summers are picked off when winter comes—leaving behind faces frozen in terror, lips nearly as blue as the lake near the Old Town when it freezes over. But winter won’t be here for a long time.
The line of ants isn't usual, so you follow along the trails, unlocking the gate and circling around the fence. Dried soil shifts beneath your shoes; twigs crack in the stale air. Flies buzz around sun-bleached bones, and it’s the tip of your boot that kicks them away from the fence that wraps around your property.
The mesh buzzes, a low hum that sings of the electricity coursing through it. The ants swarm around the corpse as it lies face-first in the brown grass, bony hand stretching forward, and only a single phalanx hooked around a loop in the mesh.
You move the tip of your boot against the side of its head, peeling skin and tufts of brown hair shifting with the light breeze that smells of dust and rotting flesh. There’s a low crack, bones that were stiff beneath the sun moving against their will as you reveal the face of the corpse.
Blank white eyes lock with yours, and bile rises up your throat. Relief accompanies it. The birds haven’t been able to pick at the eyeballs yet, so you’re now able to identify that it’s a survivor and not one of the infected—a gouger.
You sigh heavily, feeling as if those lifeless eyes are staring up at you, pleading. Why didn’t you save me? I was right here!
You know exactly what Johnny would say if he were standing beside you.
“Poor guy probably died before he even felt the shock.”
He would’ve said it with that gravel-laced chuckle of his, though there wouldn’t be any humour in it at all.
You watch the rotting corpse with the sun beating down on you, wisps of wind pushing your hair into your face. There’s a bitter taste in your mouth, and you shove the sound of Johnny’s voice to the back of your mind. You don’t want to remember him.
Brows pinched inward, you wonder why you hadn’t noticed the corpse until now. It’s obviously been here for a while, with much of its skin already peeled away like dried parchment. The clothes that barely hang from its skeleton are tattered and bleached, but it’s in far better condition than what any of the gougers wear. With a calculating survey across its unmoving form, you decide that there’s nothing you might poach from the body. Nothing useful.
Leaving the ants alone to feast on what little is left of the decaying man, you circle around the whole fence to check for anything else, though you have a feeling you won’t find anything. It’s not common for anything to show up here—at least not in the last seven months. This lonesome survivor is the first in a long time.
The plains themselves are mostly empty and have been for years. Only a small smattering of twig-like trees dot the landscape, reminiscent of thin lines dashed across the horizon. Excluding Old Town, your property is the only splash of colour to be seen for miles: a white farmhouse with bleached siding and a partially broken porch, a rusting generator that still rattles with power, and the electric fence Johnny built three years ago.
It’s the fence that makes sure they never come too close. The infected. Or the more common term given to them: ‘gougers.’
Not only do you find the remains of those who crawl to the fence for protection—and ultimately die there with nothing and no one—but you also find the remains of those whose minds were whittled away to nothing, reeking of rotting flesh and gore.
It’s been years since fear accompanied the thought of them. With age and loss, you’ve only grown more angry. And since Johnny’s death, the pistol strapped to your hip feels heavier than normal, and your fingers twitch with the animalistic urge to go searching—killing those that took everything from you.
The last thing Johnny saw was their broken faces, the dark sockets where their eyes should be—gouged out in their insanity. And you couldn’t do anything.
Swallowing thickly, you pull yourself away from the lingering images of what were once people, sane and normal.
Idly kicking away loose stones and twigs, you amble back towards the gate. Looking over your shoulder, you linger to watch the horizon; waves of heat warp the line between land and sky.
Frowning, you notice a tree in the distance, and it’s larger than the rest. Squinting harder against the sun, you watch its thin figure, a pale grey shadow in the haze of heat and dust. But it’s not a tree, you realise, and your heart stutters inside your chest.
It’s smoke.
Feeling your throat seize, your heart starts thudding against your ribcage. What you thought was the distant canopy of a large tree is really the billowing cloud of a column of smoke. And it's not the heat warping its shape, but the smoke rising higher in the sky, a fist of ash, and a sign of fire.
You move on instinct.
You rush through the gate, making sure the several locks and chains rattle behind you, securing your home. Hopping up the steps of the porch, the floorboards groan under your weight, and you glance back at the dark pillar in the sky.
You can’t take any chances.
The front door slams shut, rattling the old picture frames on the walls. Your breathing deepens, your pulse throbbing inside your ears as adrenaline rushes through you. Like a well-trained soldier, you check that each of the windows has its curtains drawn shut, wooden boards hidden behind thin white lace.
The house is dipped into pale light and shadows. Only slivers of sunlight that shine through the wooden boards peek through the gaps in the curtains. It’s quiet, not even the wind whistles through the cracks in the glass.
But your heartbeat doesn’t slow.
Glancing at the heavy chest of drawers in the foyer, you exhale sharply through your nose before striding towards the old piece of furniture. Pressing your palms against the side of the once-polished wood, you dig your feet into the floor and push. It barely moves.
“C’mon, c’mon,” you mutter harshly, pressing your shoulder against the chest and leaning all your weight against it. With a sharp scrape against the floor, the chest dislodges. You almost trip, feet sliding, before pushing it with relative ease to barricade the door.
Straightening with your shoulder aching, you glance over the barricade with a small pang of satisfaction, but you know that a lone piece of furniture won’t save you.
Moving through the house with purpose, you cut through the living room to the kitchen, and you pull open a cabinet mounted on the wall. The hinges squeal in protest, but the gold glint of ammunition is what you're after. Grabbing as many of the cardboard boxes as you can, you carry them upstairs.
There are three bedrooms upstairs and an attic. Every single window has been boarded up ever since you found out the hard way that gougers can climb, though you still had Johnny back then, and you hadn’t set up the electric fencing yet.
Dropping the boxes of ammo, you crane your neck upwards at the string hanging from the ceiling. Jumping, your feet land with a thud at the same time that your fingers wrap around the wooden knob at the end of the string, and you pull.
A groan deep inside the house reverberates around you, and the attic ladder unfolds with a wooden creak. Inhaling sharply, you gather up the boxes again before ascending the ladder.
The attic itself is mostly empty, save for only a few boxes sporadically piled around and the thin mattress and blankets tucked in a corner that you keep up here in case of emergencies—like today.
Hunching your back so as not to hit your head against the slanted ceiling, you shuffle further into the wide room towards the two windows on your right side.
These windows remain open and unboarded, giving you a clear view of the front yard, and specifically the gate to your property. If things hit the fan in a disastrous way, you’ll be able to slide out one of the windows and scurry up onto the roof. Thankfully, you’ve never had to resort to that.
You let the boxes of ammo clatter to the floor, and the smell of dust is so thick, you can taste it on your tongue. You move to the other side of the room and pull away a pile of boxes. A plume of dust hits the floor, and you sputter out a choked cough, gagging as your eyes flood with water.
Waving a hand in the air to dispel the yellow cloud, you kneel to the floor and pull at one of the wooden boards.
There's a soft creak before the board pulls away and reveals a hollowed-out space. It's large enough and deep enough to hide away a perfectly intact, gleaming M21 sniper rifle.
Your heart stutters against your chest, the steady beat of your pulse loud inside your ears. You haven’t touched it in seven months.
The gun glints in the bright light that streams through the windows, winking at you with all of its memories just as clear and bright as the nocturnal scope mounted on the barrel of the rifle. Swallowing thickly, you push through the nerves that hold you captive for only a moment and gently ease the gun out of the empty slot.
“Alright,” you murmur into the empty space around you, “let’s get this show on the—”
The explosion rattles your entire house. Gasping, your fingers tighten around the body of the M21 as the frame of your house shakes violently. The noise rings inside your ears painfully, rippling through the air and piercing through the walls of your home and straight through your chest.
Staggering forward, you move to one of the windows and peer out across the plains. You can't see anything other than the column of smoke in the distance, but you rapidly scan the horizon for anything else—a mushroom cloud punching through the sky or an orange-red ball of flames.
With your ears still ringing, all you can do is wait as the earth slowly settles again, the soil no longer quivering and the floorboards no longer shaking beneath the soles of your feet.
Panic hits you like a truck. It's been months since anything like this has happened—which is why you had stored the M21 in the attic in the first place. You didn’t need the gun, and its owner is dead. For whatever foolish reason, you’ve let your guard down.
Sucking in a trembling breath, you realise just how tightly you’re gripping the M21. Unclenching your iron-tight grip, your mind races.
Someone must have caused that, and not just anyone. Sure, gougers weren’t entirely dumb, but they weren’t usually capable of setting off explosives either. And as for survivors…it was rare that anyone had the means or strength to detonate something that powerful.
This was something else, and your skin crawls at the thought. Quickly, you snap your gaze to the electric fence, staring hard at the mesh and waiting for a tell-tale spittle of electricity to catch your eye. You need to know if the generator had been affected by the shockwave; if your generator was down, so was your fence.
There’s a spark of blue, and you breathe a sigh of relief before returning your hawk-like eyes to the horizon. You sigh heavily.
Tonight’s going to be a long night.
The crickets chirp angrily inside leafless bushes, perched on thin twigs as they play their nightly choruses. Usually, you take comfort in the noise they make, but now, it only adds to your nerves.
Lying on the thin mattress in the corner, you strain your ears to listen above the sound. Anything out of place could mean something—a twig cracking, a rustling of leaves or clothes. Nothing can be brushed aside as simply ‘nothing.'
It’s too hot for any of the blankets, and even if it were cold, you wouldn’t dare slip underneath them. If you had to jump up at a moment’s notice, the blankets could entangle you and cost you precious seconds.
Seconds that could result in your death. Or worse.
The M21 is cradled in your arms, fingers resting lightly along the stock. The safety is on, but you can just imagine Johnny scolding you for sleeping with a firearm.
“You try’na kill yourself before anything else can, kid?”
A fragile smile pulls at your lips, though it disappears as your thumb gently brushes across the initials engraved on the side of the stock.
J. B.
Jonathan Barnes.
Johnny.
Your throat tightens, and you swallow thickly. It’s been seven months. You need to stop crying about him.
With a hollow exhale, you curl around the M21, ears perked for any noise. All you can hear are the crickets and the low groan of the house as the wind pushes against it.
You’ve gone over every possible situation that could have resulted in the giant explosion, and you guessed that it came from the Old Town. It didn’t make much sense, though, considering the Old Town is miles away and completely deserted. Nothing but hollowed-out frames of what were once bustling stores and stylish saloons remain there. Relics of a past you can hardly remember now.
There’s a scuffle outside, and you immediately shoot upright. Your fingers flex around the sniper rifle. You sit and wait.
The house remains quiet; the crickets keep chirping. For a long, drawn-out minute, you sit as still as a statue and listen. Even your breaths are quiet, too scared to miss any other telltale noise that you’re not alone.
You don’t hear anything else.
Your muscles are as tense as a coiled-up snake, but you slowly shift back onto your side. The grip you have around the gun doesn’t ease up, and your heartbeat is painfully loud in your ears. The night will drag on, and you’re sure you won’t be able to relax the entire time.
Johnny’s voice rings softly in your ears.
“Loosen up, kid. We’ll be fine.”
You close your eyes, wishing that Johnny could be as quiet in your mind as he is in the grave. The grave you dug. The one you filled with dirt and tears.
You fall asleep within seconds.
***
Your eyelids are heavy as you peel them open, and dread stirs inside your stomach. Confused, you prop yourself up onto your elbow, squinting through the inky blackness and listening to the noises around you.
The crickets are utterly silent, and not even the wind whispering through the bushes can be heard. It’s only your soft breaths that seem loud in the still atmosphere of the attic.
You groan lowly beneath your breath, rubbing a hand over your face. You hadn’t meant to fall asleep. How stupid could you be?
Just as you're about to stand and move to the window to get a better look at the horizon, a noise stops you in your tracks.
It was low, barely perceptible. But with the silence of the crickets and wind, you could make out the sound.
Footsteps.
Your pulse bursts to life, throbbing almost painfully in your throat. Swiftly, your fingers latch onto the M21 that had drifted from you in your sleep, fingers flexing against the polished wood.
Straining to hear any more sounds, you eye the panel of wood you placed over the attic hole and the heavy box you had placed on top of the panel as an added precaution. It was something Johnny had done when you'd both camped out in the attic. He said it made it look as if there was wood nailed to the entrance of the attic and would possibly deter anyone from even trying to climb the ladder.
You hoped that it would work this time too, as the footsteps grow louder. They're heavy, belonging to something that must be large and bulky. Your stomach twists with anxiety, sweat gathering along the back of your neck.
Slowly, as if you were a hunter stalking prey, you stand on your feet, making sure your movements are measured enough to avoid making any noise. You can’t afford to be heard from below, can’t afford to make any of the floorboards creak beneath your weight as you stand.
With your breathing strained, you press the butt of the rifle into your shoulder, and your fingers are shaking. It's been months since you've had to fire a gun at something that wasn't a rabbit or shrew, though those were extremely rare to find in and of themselves.
The footsteps are loud. They thud along the upstairs floor, directly below you. Your brows furrow.
Whatever or whoever it is, it's not consciously trying to be quiet.
There's a low scrape, shuffling footsteps, before a long pause rings in your ears.
The silence is loud.
You flinch violently when the first thud echoes, a step taken down the staircase. Breathing in a shuddered breath, you close your eyes, relief flooding through you. Whatever it was, it wasn't interested in the attic ladder leading up to what looked like a panel of wood.
You listen intently to the footsteps thudding down the stairs before the sound recedes, and you're thrown back into silence again.
The muscles in your arms are taut, your thighs braced to run to the window and climb onto the roof. You want to relax and unclench your jaw, but you know that the thing must still be inside your home.
Then it dawns on you. The fence. The electricity.
How did it get in?
Taking tentative steps, you make sure to walk where the wood doesn't groan, and you move to the open window.
Your heart drops to your stomach. Next to the gate, the mesh wiring has been cut in a large arch, opening up a hole in the fence for anything to slip through and into the yard.
Swallowing down the bile bubbling in the back of your throat, you take a deep, calming breath, though it does nothing to soothe the panic that's rooted inside your chest.
This thing is smart, you think. It's capable.
Gougers aren't able to problem-solve. They don't have eyes to see, and their minds are purely animalistic. Carnivorous. If something in front of them is alive and moving, they'll ravage it and tear it to shreds. But if there's a fence in the way, the gougers are useless. They can only wail and shriek, but they can't solve the problem.
So whoever is inside your house isn't a gouger, and that's ten times worse.
"Remember," Johnny grumbled, "you can always outsmart a gouger. But an uninfected? They can be just as smart as you."
You need to kill this person before they find you.
Slowly, you walk over to the box and the panel and sling the rifle over your back. Crouching, you nudge the box out of the way, careful to move it gingerly enough that it doesn't scrape along the floor.
Once the box is out of the way, you shimmy your fingers under the panel and carefully dislodge it from the opening.
Looking down, fear curls inside your stomach. The lower floor is shrouded in darkness. Leaning over the edge of the hole, it feels as if you're staring into a void, and you can just imagine bright eyes looking up at you from below. Murderous. Inhuman.
Shaking the thought away, you remind yourself of your safety. Of your home. Some jerk had decided to trespass on your property, and with your life on the line, you were going to put a bullet through their head because of it.
With tentative steps, you ease your way down the ladder. You don't let the ladder fold in on itself again, just in case you need to book it to the attic and climb onto the roof.
Glancing down the hallway, you bring the M21 back into your hands, fingers flexing near the trigger guard. None of the lights are on.
It's completely dark.
Breathing through your nose and out through your mouth, you do what Johnny taught you to. Steeling your nerves as best as you can, you slowly descend down the stairs.
You know this house better than anyone. You know exactly where to step, an ingrained map of the house's aches and groans etched out in your mind.
When you reach the ground floor, your skin crawls. A quick glance down the foyer reveals the front door wide open, pale light spilling across the dust-coated floorboards. Outside, the hole in the fence gapes mockingly at you, and the thin trees look like sentinels watching you. Waiting.
You listen for noise, for footsteps. Moving through your house, you stare into every corner and every shadow, waiting for something to reveal itself. The M21 is heavy, but the trepidation inside your chest is heavier.
If Johnny were here, he'd be taking point. He'd be holding this gun. Not you. Never you.
"I don't want you touching my gun, kid."
"Why not? Scared I'll break 'her'."
"Smart aleck."
"Old man."
A shrill clatter reverberates through the house, and you slap a hand to your mouth to keep from gasping audibly. Your fingers are shaking as you peel your hand away, and you swallow thickly.
Get it together.
The noise came from the kitchen.
With the butt of the M21 digging into your shoulder, you cut across the living room, eyes carefully glancing around you before snapping to what's ahead of you.
You nearly gag as the overwhelming odor of gunpowder and sweat floods your senses, and your blood pulses inside your ears.
The shuffling becomes louder, and you're sure you can hear someone breathing. It's strained, laboured.
You press your shoulder against the barrier between the living room and the kitchen, hands clenching around the pistol grip. Peering around the corner, you breath locks inside your throat.
Shoulders as wide as the doorway are illuminated by the moon's pale light, and you catch the glint of a bolt cutter languidly thrown across the kitchen island.
That must have been what made the loud clatter earlier, you file away mentally.
You watch with piercing eyes as the giant man leans heavily against the kitchen counter, spine bent inward as harsh breaths leave him, his head dipped.
For a moment, your grip around the rifle slackens. If it weren’t for the moonlight slipping into the kitchen, you would have mistaken the broad frame for Johnny.
Dark hair. Creased leather jacket. Deathly pale skin.
No, you close your eyes briefly; this isn’t Johnny.
Clenching your fingers around the pistol grip tightly again, you inhale deeply and step through the doorway. The barrel of your gun points directly at the man’s head. Your finger hovers above the trigger.
It must have been the shaky breath escaping past your lips that alerted him to your presence. The man’s head snaps up; obsidian eyes lock with yours; they glint coolly, as if the dark abyss of them had captured slivers of moonlight.
Your breath stutters. They’re the opposite of the lifeless eyes belonging to the corpse still clinging to the fence outside.
The fence this man tore apart.
Tense silence settles heavily between the two of you, and your heartbeat is thudding against your ribcage like a wild bird beating itself to death.
Like two predators silently watching each other with bated breath and flicking tails, you stare at each other with calculating glares.
You break the silence first, doing your best to keep your voice firm and steady.
“Who are you?”
The stranger stares at you, his breathing strained. Johnny’s voice had matched his looks: gravel-laced, rough. You half expect the same from this boar of a man, but instead, you’re surprised when a smooth, deep voice echoes in the kitchen, although it quivers subtly.
“No one.”
“Cut it, edgelord,” you snap, though your voice remains low. “What is your name?”
Your feet shift, hips trading weight as you keep the barrel of the M21 level with the man who lets out a long exhale, and you catch the hitch trapped inside of it.
“My name’s Jason,” he says quietly, eyes sliding languidly along the kitchen island and the bolt cutter, before flicking up to you.
They seem canine, but not in a domesticated way. His eyes give you a glimpse of a wolf silently studying you, calculating whether or not you are worthy prey. It sends a cold shiver slithering down your spine.
“Okay,” you mutter, “Jason. Why are you here, in my house?”
Johnny would have rolled his eyes and said, “Yeah, sure. ‘Your’ house.”
Jason’s brows lift close to his hairline in what you can tell is faux surprise.
“Oh? Your house? Sorry. Didn’t see a sign out front—thought it was abandoned.”
You bristle at his tone, and skepticism coils inside your chest.
"You thought that a house with a fully functioning electric fence and generator was 'abandoned'?"
Jason's eyes watch you carefully, as if he's surprised that you caught that inconsistency. Does he think you're stupid? Blinded by fear?
He shrugs as if it doesn't matter, though his stance heightens your anxiety; there's a stiffness to his shoulders, and a clear bell rings inside you: something is wrong.
"Look, lady—"
"Why are you here?"
You stare at each other, the tension akin to a pot of water simmering on the stove, slowly beginning to boil.
When he realises that you're not going to let him leave without answering and that you're not lowering the sniper rifle any time soon, he relents with a harsh exhale and a swift nod.
"Alright, fine," he straightens, and you clock the sharp jerk of his hand moving to his side. Instantly, you square your shoulders, knuckles turning white with the iron-tight grip you have on the pistol grip.
Jason lifts his other hand, brows raised in caution. You scrutinize him, and he purposefully keeps his movements slow.
His hand slips to his side, hidden behind the leather jacket, and you brace yourself for the glint of a gun, maybe even the impact of a bullet. Your finger hovers dangerously over the trigger.
"Chill," Jason mutters, and you suck in a sharp breath.
Jason removes his hand from his side, and instead of the metallic sheen of a gun, you're left staring at the gleam of blood dripping from his fingers. It shines black in the moonlight, but if you were to turn on the overhead light, it would drip to the kitchen tiles in droplets of crimson.
"I need—" his voice cuts out before he swallows thickly. "I ran into some trouble...thought I might find medical supplies here."
Your gaze snaps between the blood on his hand and his face. There's a tightness to his jaw, as if he's bracing himself against waves of pain.
Sympathy pulses inside of you, something you thought had died long ago. But you think back to the fence, the hole that you don't know how to fix. It was Johnny that set up the fencing—who speared the poles into the ground and cut the sheets of mesh. Who made sure that the generator worked and brought electricity sparking along the metal wiring.
You only helped where you could, but you don't know where to get supplies to fix the fence in case of something like this happening. It's too late to ask Johnny—something you should have done three years ago.
"You ruined my fence," you say lowly.
Jason's eyes flicker shut for a moment, a puff of air pushed through his nose.
"Yeah, look. I wasn't going to get myself—"
"You could have at least cut the padlock on the gate instead of the actual fence."
"That's—" he stops, realising the truth of your statement.
You scoff, eyes flickering to the side before returning to him again. Two parts of you are warring against each other. There's a desperate, instinctual urge to switch the light on and bring out your medical kit, but another, fainter desire to pull the trigger—rid yourself of the problem in front of you.
So, in true survival mentality: if you help him...what's in it for you?
You opt for another question. "How'd you get hurt?"
Jason hesitates. His gaze flickers over you cautiously, warily. A spark of annoyance heats beneath your skin. After destroying a part of your fence in an irrational move and breaking into your house, bleeding all over your kitchen floor, do you not deserve an answer?
"Buddy," you level, "if you don't answer me, I'm letting you bleed to death or I'm shooting you. Your decision."
After a moment of stiff silence, Jason relents. He glances down at his hand, taking in a sharp breath.
"I ran into some trouble with a couple of gougers."
Your hackles rise. Instinctually, you take a step back, but keep the gun's barrel steady. Panic begins to claw inside your chest again, and Jason notices.
His hands raise again in a placating motion, "the gougers didn't cause this. It's a gash from barbed wire."
It's hard to believe him. In the past, people have lied—said that they got hurt from something else and not the sharp nails or yellowed teeth of the gougers. Once you're marred by a gouger, you run the risk of catching the virus. You risk losing yourself to insanity, to becoming something inhuman.
You've seen people scratch out their eyes, wailing and shrieking. People you knew. People you loved.
But you don't know Jason. He's only a stranger that's jeopardized your safety and broken into your house—Johnny's house.
He could be lying just so you don't shoot him on the spot.
And you're trembling without realising it.
"How do I know—" your swallow thickly, taking another step back, "—that you're not lying to me?"
"You'll know in a day's time."
The words hit you like a ton of bricks, though you don't know why. It's true, though. The virus eats away at the mind in a matter of days—hours even.
There's a bitter taste in your mouth, and your hands feel clammy around the M21. You've put more space between you and Jason, but you feel as if you're suffocating. There's not enough light in the kitchen to give you a good idea of what he's saying with his eyes, and his rough exhalations grate against your ears.
If what he says is true, then you have nothing to worry about. But if he’s lying, you’ll be faced with a gouger inside your home in a day or two, ripping you to shreds.
Or, you could shoot him when that happens.
You think it over in your head, your stomach knotted with anxiety.
You have three options: help him, let him bleed out, or shoot him—either now or later.
It's Johnny who makes that decision for you.
"You've still got a heart, kid. You don't find that anymore."
You inhale slowly, eyes fluttering closed for a moment as you give in to the deeply ingrained part of you that can't not help.
"If I help you," you say slowly, "then you have to help me in return, got it?"
Jason eyes you, and you can see the way he's mulling over your words. There's a sag to his shoulders, a tremor in his breath.
He'd be dumb to not take up your offer.
"Fine," he says gruffly, glancing away from you briefly. "What do you want?"
"Fix my damn fence."
"Done."
You blink, surprised. It was that easy, huh?
"One condition," Jason adds, and your surprise is immediately replaced with suspicion. Who does he think he is?
He points a finger at the M21, brows raised. "You put away the gun."
You open your mouth to argue, but cut yourself off before you can say anything. Glancing at the M21, you wonder if it's a smart decision to conform to that condition.
What if he takes you off guard?
What if he grabs it and shoots you?
Looking back at the bolt cutter on the kitchen island, you sigh heavily before returning your gaze to Jason, who's already watching you.
"If I put away the gun, you can't have those."
Jason glances at the bolt cutters and scoffs. "Really? It's not even a weapon."
"Anything can be a weapon," you say flatly.
Jason tilts his head, brows furrowed. The reality of your words isn't lost on him. There's a short pause before he nods his head softly.
"Alright," he says quietly, "fair enough."
With measured movements, you slowly lower the barrel of the M21, feeling exposed and vulnerable immediately. Holstering it across your back, you move forward to take the bolt cutters. The rubber handles feel warm still, and you wonder if electricity burns inside the material.
Jason observes you the entire time while you move towards the kitchen entrance. You make sure to not turn your back to him.
"I'll put these away, and I'll come back with a med kit. Don't move."
Jason huffs, glancing down at his side before looking back at you with an unimpressed look.
"Trust me, doll. Ain't going nowhere."
Your face pulls into a frown, and your gaze lingers on him for a second before you take a step back into the living room.
Then a thought dawns on you. And you quickly look back at him.
"Jason?"
There's a low hum in response.
"Did you cause that explosion—earlier?"
You watch wordlessly as he shuffles into the kitchen entrance way, and you take another step back into the living room. His hunched shoulders brush against the frame, leather jacket creasing.
The look of genuine confusion on his face says everything, and your blood runs cold.
You're injured but moving as fast as you can with your bow slung over your back. Soap is close behind you, giving chase, shouting your name as he does. Doesn't he learn? Doesn't he know you'll pull your bow on him again if he corners you?
He must know, but he's too stubborn to give up the chase. You don’t understand it.
He pushes on, just as graceful and twice as effective as you. You slip through the thick trees and their branches trailing whips of brambles. He shoves past them. You’re injured. He’s not. He's gaining, boots heavy in the soil.
"Watch yourself--!"
Your boot lands on leaf litter that falls out from under you--a pit trap. You’re moving barely fast enough for your momentum to save you from falling in. Your waist hits the edge of the pit. You brace yourself by your elbows, fingers digging into the dirt. The soft underside of your arms drag against something sharp underneath.
Soap grabs you by your coat and pulls you up out of the trap and to your feet before you can scramble out yourself. You're neither surprised nor mollified by his careful handling of you.
"Let me go!"
"Na. You're hurt. Stay still."
"Soap, I swear to God--"
"Shut up. I'm taking a look."
He holds your arm firmly with one large hand and, with the other, pulls your sleeve away from the bleeding gash. You grab his wrist with a pained curse. Whatever caught your arms—the rough wood and metal at the trap's edge—tore you bloody. Soap glares at the gash and then at you. He's close.
You could reach for your bow or for the dagger on your hip. But you know for a fact he's armed. With guns. A sniper rifle on his back and two sidearms at his belt. He knows how to use them, too. If you fight, he wins. But you know better than to back down quickly. The world is crueler than it used to be ever since things went to shit. People who show weakness don’t survive.
"Why are you following me?" you growl, your grip on his wrist tightening.
His grip on you loosens in turn when you speak. "You know why. I'm lookin' out for ya."
"I didn't ask for your help."
"Aye, but you still needed it."
"You're not a soldier anymore, Soap," you retort, trying to pull your wrist away. "It's every person for themselves. Stop following me."
"That's no way to live. The world may be a shithole, but there are still folk around who'll lend you a hand even though they don't need to. Soldier or no'."
You can't get out of his grip when he's determined to keep you there, and he is. As much as you'd like to give him a matching wound for being so goddamn stubborn, the rational part of your brain--the part that makes sure you survive--knows better than to expend energy struggling when it's not strictly necessary.
"Nobody lends a hand unless they want something in return," you mutter, glaring down at your wound as he bandages it. "Even if they're pretending otherwise."
He knows you speak from experience. You're a woman, and that means you're nothing but a resource to the worst of whoever’s left. He can't blame you for being guarded. Then again, you wouldn't be making such heated statements to his face if you really thought he intended to hurt you. You're just... defensive. Hiding under all that anger. That's what he tells himself. So he ignores your grumbled protests.
"That's how you'd look at it," he finally replies as he finishes dressing the wound. "Seein' as you've not met the right people. But some of us don't expect anything back."
"You don't expect it because you think you're better than asking. But you still want it."
"Might be so." His voice is soft, gravelly, but you can hear the steel in it. "But am not asking, now am I? So stop your fussin'. You're safe. Nae need to worry." He releases your bandaged arm.
"You run your hand along the wrapping, checking it. "Fine. But I'm... I'm not coming back with you."
"Can't promise you'll be safe out there. Where do ye plan to go?"
"I don't know. Wouldn't tell you if I did."
"Aye." He rubs his jaw, examining you with flint in his blue eyes. Pressing you for an answer would be pointless. Not that you seem to be lying—but you're not telling the whole truth. The short history you share with him is just enough that he can tell. But he also knows trying to change your mind would be pointless. If you won't listen, he'd have better luck bashing his head against one of these huge, mutated oaks.
"Am nae stoppin' ya. But these woods are full of treacherous paths. If ye run into trouble—when ye run into trouble--my boys and I, we know these woods well enough to dust you off and send you in the right direction. Cannae promise to find you before somethin’ else does, though."
You're fairly sure he's not lying. His boys, as he calls them—his old squad, you think—they've made their home in these woods. It's perilous living—bears, wolves, muties, and terrain just as hazardous as the wildlife. And still those men are the most dangerous things in here.
The offer is tempting. You consider it for longer than you should, looking down at your bandaged arm again. But then you step back, shaking your head slowly. "No, thanks. I have to get going."
It tears him up inside. You're making the wrong choice. If he lets you walk away, he's letting you walk to your death.
He looks at you for a moment. You can tell he's got something more to say. But he changes his mind, stepping back as well. He pulls something from his belt and holds it out. A handgun, scuffed and black, grip held toward you. You stare at it for a second before looking back up at him. He's serious?
"I'm not gonna take that--"
"You're damn well gonna take it." His voice is low and insistent. "You think I don't know you'll run into trouble out here? Don't be a fool. I have spare. Take it."
Your one rule is don't owe anybody anything. How the fuck are you about to owe this man twice?
Fine. Whatever. It's not like you have to use it. Could just barter it. Not like you’re going to see him again. You take the gun, biting back a retort.
He nods his approval. The steely look in his eyes softens, though he still looks dismayed. "Mind where you point that. And when you pull it. Biters'll hear it for a mile and come running. Survivors, too. The curious ones." He glances at your bandaged arm one more time. Then he adjusts the bag over his shoulder and turns his back, walking away from you. Back to camp. "Am expectin' you to keep yourself alive with that," he growls. "Or else it's a lot of good time and material I wasted on ya."
"I didn't ask you to waste your breath," you retort, practically snarling at his retreating back in your irritation. You watch him go until he's disappeared into the trees. You need to make sure he doesn't plan on doubling back and following you.
Then you set off on your own. You take a winding path to throw off any trackers. Never can be too cautious. The gun in your pocket is heavy against your thigh, and you try not to think of it as a comforting security.
You came here to get Roach back, and you don’t care how long you have to wander this Godforsaken forest. You’re not leaving without him.
…
Soap feels your eyes on him until you disappear.
He wants to divorce himself from this, but he’s on edge. People who strike out on their own here come to a nasty end. But he’s not going to take away your agency by deciding what's best for you. You were right about him not being a soldier, after all. He doesn’t have the authority to herd you back to his squad’s campsite. Your life is in your own hands.
He just hopes you live to do better than he believes you will.
That night, he sleeps restlessly. Which is why, when he hears a cluster of gunshots in the distance, he wakes up instantly. It's you. In trouble.
The night watch—Gaz tonight—is already there, tossing Soap's gun to him. "You were right," Gaz says.
"Course I was," Soap says with a lopsided grin. "Owe me a ten-piece in the next poker game, aye?"
...
[part 1] / part 2 / part 3
more Soap / more multi-141 and poly 141 / masterlist tag
heyy, hope everyone’s enjoying their holidays. i wrote a tpw apocalypse au if anyone’s interested. it’s a rinaltan-centric oneshot about grief. not to be biased, but i’d say it’s worth a read… this is for myself and the two other rinaltan fans out there 🤝
The notes are really messy in this one so bear with me
This takes place in an AU where an apocalypse took place obviously. Tho I still don’t know what caused the apocalypse precisely but my thought is that the family is behind it; like they had a bomb or some shit or whatever that they wanted to set off, but they didn’t tell K
K somehow learned about what was about to go down and rushed to stop it but arrived too late and the whatever fired up when he was right next to it, causing him to lose his memories under the shock
This is gonna be hard to come up with something plausible, considering that I do not want this to be a zombie apocalypse type of thing (I don’t like zombies lol), but more like a wave of super powerful natural disasters all around the globe, that caused mass destruction everywhere
And the remaining survivors grouped together into clans that are fighting for territory and resources (K doesn’t belong to any clan)
And I also like the idea of the family members (except K of course) each being at the head of the three most powerful clans
Anyway, rest of the notes here goes:
Has his hands taped up as he's more of a melee fighter, guns and ammo are hard to find
He has a metal bat as his main weapon
His mask is an actual gas mask
He lost vision in his left eye when he got shot one day
He had his mask on when he got shot, the bullet broke the glass of his mask and the shards pierced his eye
He managed to change the glass later but the trace of the bullet is still visible on the mask
This whole thing left him with a nasty scar around his left eye
He's known as, and calls himself "K" (symbol for potassium)
He doesn't remember his name or anything about himself for that matter
Not a vegetarian anymore because at that point, you can't be picky about food
All clans have heard about him and fear him
Usually starving 24/7 but has learned to ignore his stomach's opera talents
He found a kitty that he named Napoleon
Turns out the cat was female, but when he suggested to change her name, she refused
When talking to a group of people, he always try to keep everyone in his field of vision
He hates when someone is on his left side (he can't see them)
Usually takes position in a group so that he is on the far left
Over the years he has gotten used to monocular depth perception tho he still occasionally bumps into stuff and spills his coffee
Usually sleeps with one eye open
His hair grew too long to fit in a bun so he wears it in a sort of big ponytail
Somehow, radios that are still working receive a strange channel that is broadcasting songs of all type all the time 24/7
Nobody knows how or why
The channel is known as the Ghost channel and can be received anywhere in the world
This is why K has a little radio in his inventory
If he eats too much, he immediately falls asleep
He has a demon form, though he cannot control his transformation (he's still himself as a demon, he just can't transform/detransform at will)
He transforms when he or someone he loves is in danger
He stays in his demon form until he manages to calm himself down, thus he sometimes ends up staying transformed for days or even weeks (he's a very stressful individual)
Whenever he transforms, any wound he had is instantly healed
More details about the demon thing:
During his first year among the ruins, he ran into a seemingly friendly clan which he asked for permission to cross their territory
The clan welcomed him and invited him to stay for the night
K wasn't as suspicious of everyone back then, so he trusted them because it was the first encounter he had had with friendly people
But when he woke up the next morning, the clan had tied him up and intended to use him for bartering with a second clan
The other clan called Believers is a clan of mad cultists who firmly believe the apocalypse was caused by an angry god and they offer it human sacrifices to appease it
K didn't manage to escape and Believers proceeded with their ritual with him
But they fucked up something in the ritual (don't know what yet) and somehow opened a gate to Hell
K managed to break free at this moment, thus ending the ritual
But he somehow (still don't know how yet) absorbed some demonic powers before the portal closed
He didn't transform yet, mind you
K ran away but a Believer shot his eye out
Under the pain and the panic K transformed for the first time and tore appart almost the entire Believer clan except a few survivors who ran away
Can you believe this boi is five years old
Fun fact, the "One-eyed Demon" thing wasn't supposed to be a literal demon form at first, just a nickname he received after singlehandedly killing almost an entire clan, but I thought it was more fun if he was an actual demon
You can find art of him first here, second here, third here, fourth here, fifth here, sixth here, seventh here, eight here, ninth here, tenth here, eleventh here, and twelth here!
And bonus amazing fanart from illeniram and blunky's fanart of K's demon form!
