Discover Top Posts Tagged with #postapocalypse!reader

↷ ⋯ ♡ᵎ THE CALM BEFORE

JJ Maybank x Post-Apocalypse!Fem!Reader [ more pa!reader content ]

SYNOPSIS & WC─•❥ [2.5k] The beginning? The worst hasn't even begun yet.

WARNING(S) & A/N─•❥ mentions of illness, mentions of death, swearing, reader is kind of known to be the paranoid one of the group

IT WAS MARCH 12TH. Around eleven PM, if you recalled correctly.

The air hung lightly over the Outer Banks as it always did. But lately, the air seemed darker. Heavier.

It was after hours when you and your friends were scattered around The Wreck, the 'closed' sign flipped to face the empty street, but inside, the lights were dimmed to a warm, amber glow—a few candles lit.

You were tucked into a corner booth, the cracked vinyl cool against your legs. To your left, JJ was sprawled out, his arm draped over the back of the seat, fingers absentmindedly drawing shapes into your exposed shoulder. Across from you, Kiara and Pope were sharing a basket of lukewarm fries, while John B and Sarah sat at the adjacent table, legs tangled together.

"I’m telling you," Pope said, his voice dropping an octave as he leaned over the table. He poked a fry toward the group for emphasis. "The timing is too perfect. They set up that 'logistics hub' on the north end three weeks ago, and suddenly, the cellular data is spotty, the fish are biting in weird patterns, and there’s a blackout every other night."

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↷ ⋯ ♡ᵎ ARE YOU SAFE...OR JUST USEFUL?

JJ Maybank x Post-Apocalypse!Fem!Reader [ more pa!reader content ]

SYNOPSIS & WC─•❥ [4.7k] Were you rescued, or were you simply collected?

WARNING(S) & A/N─•❥ mentions of severe injury, mentions of death, swearing, medical procedures, mild combat, paranoia

YOU could feel the change in the weather outside. Hell, you could almost see it.

The way it was humid but not hot, the way little flowers were trying their hardest to sprout through the blood-soaked soil.

In the old world, today would have been about taxes and spring break. In this world—the one that stopped spinning you don't know how long ago—it’s just the day you might finally stop being a dead girl walking.

You’ve been alone for weeks. You lost track of how many. Maybe five?

Potentially five weeks of canned slop, sleeping with a hunting knife clutched in your hand even it was strapped to your thigh, and watching the horizon for...something.

But yesterday, you found hope. A frequency, a signal, a voice. And today, that voice on the other end was the only thing keeping you tethered to this mess of a planet.

"Hey, kid," Sergeant Stokes’ voice is a low, mechanical growl through the static of the hand-held radio. "Jus' checkin' in. You still in your same spot?" He sounded tired, but still professional and determined—like a man who had done this a thousand times.

"I’m here," you whisper, your voice cracking from how dry your throat was. You hadn't used your voice much lately, it was still adjusting.

You were huddled in the corner of an abandoned ranger station, the floorboards creaking under your feet as you paced in front of the only small window. "Still in the station. But the sky's getting cloudy..."

"Don't get all worked up." He calmed. "We’ve got your coordinates locked. Jus' stay off the open ridge. There are anomalies nearby in the valley. Jus' keep your ears open for the bird."

Anomalies. Hm. You figured he was talking about the Rotters. You guessed everyone had adapted to calling them something different.

"Okay," you say, clutching the receiver so hard your knuckles splinter.

Then, you hear it.

It’s a heavy and unusual noise that vibrates in your feet, traveling up to your teeth before it even reaches your ears. You scramble to the window, frantically wiping the dust and grime off of the glass when you see it.

Cutting through the gray and gloom of what you assume is an early spring sky is the biggest symbol of hope you've seen in weeks, proof that there was life besides your own.

A helicopter.

"I...I see you," you breathe into the radio, your eyes stinging as the older man laughed on the other end of the receiver.

"We see you too, kid. Nice place y'got there. Hold tight, we're comin' down."

The world becomes a blur as you gather all of your things, trying to fight the smile forcing itself on your face as the tears try to jump from your eyes.

When the helicopter touches down, just as you exit the small shack, the air pressure change makes your ears pop—leaves whipping past your cheeks, eyes squinting from the winds whipping your hair every which way.

Your heart thumped dangerously as big men in green splattered tactical gear spilled out, rifles raised. But you knew they weren't looking for enemies—they were clearing the perimeter.

But instinctively, you take a step back as one of them approaches you and reaches a hand out. His face is mostly covered but you still stare at him, hesitating.

You think on it for a heartbeat—the instinct to run, to hide, to fight. But then you look at the "US" patch on his shoulder and his open hand as your shoulders settle.

Your eyes flicker between where you think his eyes are and his hand before you take it. His grip is firm as he hauls you up with a kind of effortless strength and the floor of the helicopter is metal that feels weird under your shoes and sound terrible in your ears with each step you take. And as the men pile back inside, the helicopter lifts, the small station shrinks into a speck in the dying green of the wilderness.

THE FLIGHT is a blur of nerves and anxiety. There were four soldiers in the back with you, all with their masks still on.

One tries to offer you a protein bar, shouting something over the roar of the engines, but the propellors were just too loud. You just nod, accepting the bar but not eating it, clutching your bag and shotgun to your chest.

You don't speak. You forgot how to make small talk when the world ended. You just watch the landscape go by out of the miniscule window, looking for any sign of the life you used to know—the beaches, the marsh, maybe even your house.

But you see nothing but ruins.

And when you land, it isn't at a grassy field or a gated campground. It's a fortified compound, a concrete labyrinth surrounded by three layers of electrified fencing and snipers in towers.

The moment the doors slide open, the quiet is gone—hands are on you immediately. They aren't cruel, but they are frantic, rushing. The masked men rush your through the gates as more come up, stripping you of your bag and gun.

"H-Hey! I need that—" you say, your voice finally finding its edge as a soldier reaches for your holster, taking your knives.

"Standard procedure, ma'am," a woman says. Probably the only woman there. She doesn't look like a soldier—dressed in a white coat with a slicked bun.

You feel naked. Vulnerable as they pat you down for anything else. "All weapons are logged and stored in the armory. You’ll get them back if you’re assigned to the safeguard sector. Right now, we need to get you processed."

"Safeguard sector—what?" You muttered, looking around at the woman in the white coat and the two soldiers holding each of your arms.

"Follow me." She says calmly, turning on her heels and walking into the compound as the men usher you through the halls and into a sterile, white-tiled room. They hand you a pack of basic clothes—just a t-shirt and some pants with a pair of white sneakers—and point you toward a shower.

The room is so pristine and white that it burns your eyes and you stumble inside as they close the door behind you, letting you know that someone was positioned outside the door to escort you to the next location after you were done.

You look around, walking toward the shower and turning the water on—the sound almost foreign now. It gave you a flashback of normalcy—showering gave you a flashback.

How crazy was that?

Memories behind your eyes of showering with JJ after the beach, running around with your friends in the rain during a storm warning when you should've been inside.

It almost hurt to think about.

You let your dirty and soiled clothes fall to the floor as you cautiously step inside—the water is lukewarm and smells like nothing, but it feels like heaven. The water traveling down your back, touching your scalp, splashing on your face—it was heaven on whatever remained of earth.

Even seeing the dirt brown water flow beneath your feet, revealing skin underneath layers of dirt that was almost an entire shade lighter. You don't know how long you were in there before the guard outside knocked on the door, urging you out and snapping you out of your trance.

You turned off the water, stepped out, shivering as you forgot about the post-shower chill. Wrapping a towel around your frame, you dried off and slipped into the clothes they provided you with. They were soft, comfortable. Clean.

As you exited the washroom, the guard was waiting—nodding at you before walking as if he expected you would follow him. He guided you to a different wing of the building—the medical wing.

Sergeant Stokes is there, standing by a desk. You didn't get to see him in the helicopter. He was in the cockpit. He’s older than he sounded on the radio, with salt-and-pepper hair and eyes that look like they have seen the worst of this new world.

"Hey, kid," he smiled, shifting on his feet. "Glad you made it." He nods.

The woman in the white coat is standing by his side, hands clasped in front of her with a small smile on her face that didn't reach her eyes. He turns to her, throwing a hand out in her direction.

"This is Doctor Sloan. She's gonna make sure you're all good before you join everyone else."

You looked at her, eyes wide and a bit terrified of what that meant. The doctors never scared you. Well, you used to hate needles. Now you figured that was the least of your worries...

They let you relax in a medical cot before they take three vials of blood, swab your cheeks, swab your palms, pluck a strand of hair, and make you bite down on a piece of plastic.

You feel like a rat being experimented on, eyes darting across the room at the plethora of doctors bustling about when you notice two doctors whispering in the corner, looking at a digital readout of your vitals and glancing back at you like you weren't human.

"...Is something wrong?" you ask, shifting uncomfortably in the chair.

"Oh! Um..." The male doctor stutters. He looks geeky—too nervous to contain himself at any given point. He stammers for words as he pushes his glasses up onto the bridge of his nose. "J-Just checking for mutations and viral load. And... other markers..." He rambles, looking between you and the female doctor beside him who just looked annoyed. "We're looking for compatibility for the long-term projects."

"What projects?"

"Well, lots of them. M-Most importantly, a c-"

"That's enough, Stuart." Doctor Sloan slides up next to the two younger doctors, her gaze on the boy hard as he nods compliantly and turns around. When the two are out of earshot, Sloan turns back to you with a forced smile, blocking your view of the other doctors and the monitors.

"Don't worry about any of that. I assure you, you're safe with us. All the doctors in this room are here for your sake." She nodded, resting a hand on the edge of your cot. She stares at you for an uncomfortably long time and it's almost like you can hear the saxophones blaring in your brain as your shoulders tense.

She looks you and up down before huffing and removing her hand, clasping them in front of her. "Right, well, we've collected everything we need from you. Why don't you head on out? There's water on the table near the door. Sergeant Stokes is waiting to escort you to TAM."

Doctor Sloan turned away as your threw your legs over the edge of the medical bed, groaning as you did so before calling out to her. She paused in her tracks, turning to look at you over her shoulder.

"Yes?"

"TAM?" You questioned, massaging the sore spot from where they drew your blood. "What is that?"

"WELCOME to TAM." Sergeant Stokes stood before you in a large, vast yard—multiple buildings surrounding, including the one you just exited. "TAM is an abbreviation for The Aptitude Matrix." Stokes explained, voice gruff as he crossed his arms in front of you. "For the next few hours, I'll observe you in five different environments and decide where to place you."

"Where to...place me?" You asked, crossing your own arms, fixing the man with a skeptical look.

He chuckled at your reservations. "It's nothin' bad, kid." He looked down at you. "We're dedicated to keepin' everyone safe, but that don't mean you all jus' get to sit on your asses and make us cater to you. Everyone is good at somethin' and that 'somethin'' is how you contribute to this place and earn your keep. That's standard for all quarantine zones."

You looked around at all of the buildings, silently wondering what they'd do if you weren't good at a damn thing. "...How does this even work? You just decide what you think I'm good at?"

"No, nothin' like that." The Sergeant replied, walking towards a table as you silently followed behind. "It's a careful system." He told you, grabbing a clipboard. "It's basically a point system. It's timed, an hour in each category, and you gain points for everything you do right. Sector with the highest points is where y'go." He explained, motioning a hand towards the first building—a greenhouse. "You ready, kid?"

THE next five hours were exhausting and grueling.

Stokes lead you into the greenhouse for your first observation. It was beautiful, made of tempered glass, colors everywhere. He asked you to identify seedlings, explain soil pH, explain why certain plants weren't growing.

"Our agriculture sector is vital to how we keep everyone fed and full of energy." Stokes spoke as you dug into a pot of soil, letting it fall between your fingers to assess how much water it lacked. "The folks here are responsible for all this. Plants are used for food, medicine, all types of shit." He rambled, tapping the pen against the clipboard as he chewed on a toothpick.

You knew enough to survive, but you didn't have a green thumb. But your lack of knowledge almost made you smile, knowing that if Kie were here, she'd be over your shoulder, telling you the name of some random plant. She'd probably say the plants weren't growing because they "weren't getting enough love."

By the end of it, your hands were covered in dirt and you were starting to grow itchy as you followed behind Stokes to the next building.

Needless to say, Stokes didn't check too many boxes off during that hour.

"LOGISTICS is a pretty important sector, too." Stokes talked mindlessly behind you as you sat at a desk in a quiet room—it looked like a classroom. The entire building kind of resembled a small elementary school, just less colorful. You wondered if they still prioritized education in the midst of all of this, especially for the smaller kids.

That would've been great for Elle. She loved school...

"Though, people that score high here can get placed in lots of different places. Some of 'em, especially the older folks, get assigned as teachers for the little ones. Others are placed in the garage, creating parts for the vehicles or fixin' 'em up. Or you can get stuck developing blueprints—"

"Could you be quiet?" You asked, voice oddly soft as you looked at the man over your shoulder. "I can't really focus." You explained, turning back to the paper in front of you.

"Right..." The Sergeant cleared his throat. "I'll leave you to it."

This exam was a series of questions in a packet. Logic gates, structural integrity questions, "what materials do you use to build what" scenarios.

It was a simple pass or fail for each section, but you figured the goal was to pass every one. You pass two out of three, and just barely.

AFTERWARDS, The Sergeant leads you to a lab, not too far from the medical wing you'd arrived in.

The technology is more advanced than anything you'd ever seen—everything was white and blue. Large monitors, holograms, transparent computers.

"This is the lab for the Medical Division. I don't think much of an explanation is needed here. They're basically our lifesavers—they assess illnesses, figure out the ones we don't know about, administer meds, or sometimes even create 'em," Stokes told you, hands and clipboard behind his back as he walked further into the room. "Not gonna lie to you, kid. This is the hardest sector to get into. People used to need degrees and years of school to do stuff like this. Now, they've reduced it to a few simple evaluations and a short test."

Stokes pointed you to a computer, watching as you walked over and sat in front of it. He clicked a button, signing you in as a guest and opening up a testing browser before standing back to his full height and rounding the table to stand in front of you on the other side.

"You'll have half an hour to answer thirty questions on basic medical knowledge—anatomy, biology, bodily functions—all that weird shit." He explained, checking his watch. "Then, I'll have you look at some data and do some simulations." He told you, turning around and looking at a hologram of a brain hovering above a table.

You started answering the questions, but you knew nothing about medicine. Sure, most of the biology questions were a breeze—but needle depth, surgery tool identification, amputation?

When Stokes gave you a fifteen-minute warning, you were on question nine. You just started taking your best guesses unless you knew the answer for sure.

And when your time was up, he didn't look surprised by the score on the screen. In fact, it was so low that he figured it'd be best to just move on to the next sector, offering you a polite smile on the way out.

THE next place the Sergeant took you was a basement. It was pretty sizeable—filled with sewing machines, loose threads scattered on the floor, bins in the corners, clothing racks lining the walls.

"This," Stokes started, spinning on his heel to face you with his arms out by his sides. "Is our 'A&E' Department."

"A and E?" You questioned, shifting on your feet.

"Apparel and Equipment." He clarified, turning his back to you as he walked to stand next to one of the sewing machines, hand on the table. "These people are responsible for what we wear everyday, the reason we can still get the normalcy of wearing somethin' different. But they also make our professional gear—bulletproof vests, combat boots, gloves—hell, even them white coats the doctors wear." He explained, standing up straighter. "They're more important than y'might think."

"So, what am I supposed to do here?" You inquired, looking all around the room. It was kind of dull down here—dim lights, unkempt—but you figured these people also prioritized speed. You wondered how many people were quarantined here in total.

"Amazin' question, kid," Stokes started, walking towards you, planting a hand on your shoulder and pointing at a sewing machine that had a stack of fabrics next to it. "There's a sewing pattern over there that you're gonna try your best to follow and, after that, you gotta freehand a piece of clothing, and lastly, you've gotta repair a few rips and tears."

"...I've never used a sewing machine in my life." You said blankly, feet planted to the ground.

Stokes sigh, palming the back of his neck. "Yeah, we get that a lot. This is usually a waste of fabric if y'ask me." He shrugged, nudging you further into the room. "But, you gotta do it. Otherwise, I didn't do my job. Get to it, kid."

You threw a small glare over your shoulder at the older man as you walked slowly over the sewing machine in the far corner. You sat down in the chair, already confused as to where to go from here.

It can't be that hard, you thought to yourself—finding a foot petal on the floor when your foot accidentally kicked it. Carefully pressing your foot on it, the machine came to life—making you jump and the man across the room laugh.

You rolled your eyes, playing with the machine a bit more before you gathered the smallest bit of confidence to glance at the pattern, which you didn't understand at all, and try to recreate it.

By the time you were done, you were holding nothing but a lopsided waste of fabric. Stokes looked at your piece, wincing as if it were the ugliest thing he'd ever seen in his life.

And it was safe to say, the best thing you did in that basement was repair a rip in a pair of jeans.

"YOU smilin' yet, kid? This is your last observation." Stokes tried to joke, but you were far to exhausted to even force a chuckle. "Tough crowd, I see..." He sighed to himself, walking you into a new room in a new building.

The room had a mat in the middle of the floor the size of a boxing ring—guns, swords, knives, crossbows, and grenades lining the entirety of one wall.

"Well, uh, this is the Safeguard Department." The Sergeant explained, seeming to be growing exhausted himself, resting a hand on his hip as he exhaled. "Probably the second hardest sector to get into. Y'gotta be pretty fast, skilled with a few weapons, and know how to go hand to hand." He told you. "So, let's start with the basics, alright?"

The Sergeant led you over to the workout equipment lining a wall and put you on a treadmill, increasing the incline and speed until your lungs burned as if they're filled with acid. You felt like air was a mere concept by the time you were done, but he let you know that you survived longer than most.

Then, he made you haul 50-pound crates across a yard. To simulate what? You weren't sure. Then, he made you carry a 120-pound dummy over your shoulders to simulate carrying a "fallen soldier" back to the "compound". It hurts and you ache by the end of it, but there was something that just wouldn't let you quit.

After, he led you to the small range within the building—allowing you to fire multiple different guns to "assess your accuracy." Shotguns, rifles, pistols, revolvers, a crossbow—the kickback from each one set your shoulder on fire, but by the end of it, to your own surprise and Stokes, you'd managed a 90% aim accuracy—a score that Stokes was only convinced was lowered due to your lack of use of a crossbow.

Afterwards, Stokes had this smile on his face that wouldn't disappear. It kind of reminded you of your dad used to look when he was extra proud of you...

But you got confused when Stokes chucked off his heavy-duty military jacket and tossed it to the floor, letting the clipboard fall on top of it.

"Um, Sergeant?" You questioned, cocking a brow at him. "Are you hot...or something—"

Your words were cut off when Stokes let out a hearty laugh, tossing something your way that you just barely caught. "You're funny, kid," He breathed, walking to the mat in the middle of the room, beckoning you over. "The melee weapon and hand-to-hand assessment are combined into one." He started as you came to stand in front of him, looking at the object in your hands.

It seemed to be a kind of "play-knife", not intended to cause any real harm.

"For your last test of the day," Stokes continued, transitioning into a defensive stance. "You gotta kill me, kid."

That was the first time you had laughed all day, or in weeks, actually—the knife clutched in your hand. "What?" You wheezed, reeling your neck back.

But your smile fell when you realized the man was dead serious. "...You're kidding, right?" You deadpanned. "You're a Military Sergeant. I'm like half your size—"

"Look." Stokes scoffed, dropping his shoulders. "You just ran like hell on that treadmill, trudged ten 50-pound crates across that yard, carried a 120-pound dummy on your back without your knees bucklin' once, and I just watched you shoot targets more accurately than almost any man I ever fought with." The Sergeant interrupted, determination for you in his eyes. "You got this, kid."

You stood silent, but Stokes didn’t wait for a reply. He lunged.

Your eyes went wide and you barely had time to bring the rubber blade up before his massive hand clamped around your wrist. With a sharp twist, he sent you sprawling across the mat, curling in on yourself.

Your lungs, still screaming from the treadmill, burned as you hit the floor.

"Rules are simple, kid!" Stokes barked, circling you like a wolf with a grin as you pushed yourself up, coughing. "In a real scrap, you don't win by hittin' limbs and other useless shit. That knife has to touch a major point—neck, chest, or head, 'specially if your goin' up against one of them things. Anything else is just a ticket to get yourself killed." He breathed, wiping the sweat off of his forehead. "Get up!"

You scrambled to your feet, taking a deep breath, your vision blurring at the edges from exhaustion. You took the initiative this time, swinging, but Stokes parried it effortlessly, his forearm feeling like a metal pipe against yours.

He shoved you back, and you stumbled, your legs starting to feel like jelly as you slid across the mat.

"C'mon," he growled, stepping into your space and looming over you. "You ain't endure all that time out there with nothin' to show for it! You didn't survive just to fold the second someone pushes back!"

The mention of your time out there—the world that now offered nothing for you but cold nights, hunger, and loneliness—hit you harder than his hands did, and that man had fists of fury. A sudden bolt of motivation sparked in your veins—body flooding with some kind of adrenaline.

And when Stokes moved in for another grapple, you didn't pull away. You dropped low, beneath his center of gravity. As his momentum carried him forward, you grabbed his outstretched arm and the neckline of his shirt, planting your foot and twisting with every ounce of strength you had left.

With a heavy, muffled thud that vibrated throughout the entire sparring mat, the Sergeant’s feet left the mat. He flipped over your shoulder, landing flat on his back.

Before he could even process the ceiling, you were over him, pinned to his chest with the rubber tip of the knife pressed firmly against the hollow of his throat.

Silence stretched through the room, broken only by your ragged, heavy breathing—hair clouding your vision.

Stokes stared up at you, eyes wide with genuine shock. Then, slowly, a massive, toothy grin spread across his face. He started to chuckle, the sound vibrating against the knife at his neck.

"...Well, I’ll be damned," he wheezed, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. "I am thoroughly impressed, kid." He laughed breathlessly, sitting up as you fell away from him. "You’re officially the first person, ever, to put me on my ass. I knew that shotgun you were hauling on your shoulder did y'some good out there."

You were catching your breath, legs outstretched in front of you as you planted your hands on top of your head. The tension in your chest finally snapped, and a small, genuine smile broke through your exhaustion.

Seeing it, Stokes’ expression softened.

"It’s nice to see you smile, kid," he said warmly, patting the mat and hauling himself up on his feet before outstretching a hand to help you up. "Welcome to the Safeguard Sector. We'll get you set up tomorrow."

You looked up at him, surprised to hear the words for some reason. Five hours of pushing yourself, worrying they'd toss you out on your ass if you had nothing to offer and you ended by putting the Sergeant on his ass and making into one of the hardest sectors.

You took his hand, standing up, when a loud, metallic alarm suddenly blared through the building, echoing off the walls and making you jump. Stokes grunted as he stretched himself out, rubbing his lower back as he stood.

"And just in time," he said, nodding toward the door, snatching his belongings up off of the floor and patting you on the back. "That’s the mess hall bell. C'mon. After putting me through the floor, I think you’ve earned a double ration."

THE mess hall is a massive, filled with the chatter of hundreds of people. And the smell of actual, cooked food—beef stew and baked bread—is almost overwhelming.

It’s the first time you’ve been around this many people in what feels like a lifetime.

You didn't even know this many people still existed.

Your eyes wander as you enter the line, gaze focused on the plethora of food to choose from.

You grab a tray hastily, but your movements were still sort of stiff and robotic as you find a corner table, wanting to keep your back to the wall.

Only God knows what could happen if you turned your back to any of these people—these strangers.

You’re staring down at your stew, wondering if this is a dream as you push the food around the plate. You were still on edge, everything that world had done to you still weighing heavy. You're bringing a spoonful of stew to your lips when a voice cuts through the noise.

A voice you would know anywhere.

"If that's not her, I’m officially losing my mind."

You freeze, spoon hovering above your tray as your heart hammers against your ribs so hard you can feel it.

You look up, and your breath hitches as you look eyes with them.

"Y/N?"

©loveharlow.

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↷ ⋯ ♡ᵎ AIM FOR THE HEAD

JJ Maybank x Post-Apocalypse!Fem!Reader [ more pa!reader content ]

SYNOPSIS & WC─•❥ [2.8k] What was the cost of seeking a cure for a fever that had already broken? The medicine sat untouched while the hammer did the work the ibuprofen never could.

WARNING(S) & A/N─•❥ major character death, swearing, depictions of severe illness/injury, violence

YOU SAT on a rusted folding chair, the kind your dad used to take to the beach for fishing trips. Across from you, DJ was staring into the small campfire she'd built.

She hadn't brushed her hair in three days, and the dark circles under her eyes looked like bruises. Between you, sitting on a torn and tattered sleeping bag, was Elle—picking at a tin of cold beans.

It'd been three days since the world ended. Three days since the rotters—as you and your sisters had dubbed them—tore through the entirety of Kildare Island.

Three days since you watched your parents get torn to pieces, screaming.

"You need to eat," DJ said, her voice raspy. She didn't look up from the flames, sighing as she rubbed her forehead.

"I'm not hungry," you mutter, though your stomach is clawing at itself.

"Okay, well, you haven't eaten anything in three days," DJ snapped, tired of whatever stupor you found yourself stuck in.

#pa!reader x jj maybank #pa!reader #postapocalypse!reader #postapocalypse!reader x jj maybank #jj maybank outer banks #jj x reader #jj maybank smut #jj maybank x reader #jj maybank one shot #jj maybank x y/n #jj maybank x female reader #jj maybank x you #jj maybank x pogue!reader #jj maybank x female!reader #jj maybank x fem!reader #jj maybank x oc

post-apocalyspe!reader

all works below xx

protect yourself. stay vigilant. live & learn. stick to the shadows. take whatever you can find. trust no one. stay alive. survive by any means. don't get bitten. find them. find him.

post-apocalyspe!reader → who knew something was wrong before it all went wrong

post-apocalyspe!reader → who lost her entire parents right at the beginning and her siblings during the first few days of it all—she was the only one who made it far

post-apocalyspe!reader → who couldn't get in contact with anyone for weeks—stuck with just herself, her enormous backpack, and a walkie talkie that she uses every day until someone answers

post-apocalyspe!reader → who is found by the government mandate agency but discovers...they aren't what they seem, and escapes

post-apocalyspe!reader → who quickly finds out that the walkers aren't the only evil on this earth...

post-apocalyspe!reader → who teaches herself how to use an arsenal of weapons—catching onto the fact that it's not good to be alone out here but doesn't trust people enough to join a random group

post-apocalyspe!reader → who has a mental break when she has to kill a person for the first time...and no one is around to help pull her out of it

post-apocalyspe!reader → who has to stay alive—to find them. to find him.

The Calm Before

The Storm

Please, God, Let Her Be Safe

Aim For The Head

It's Not The Bite

If Anyone Is Out There Listening

Are You Safe...Or Just Useful?

↷ ⋯ ♡ᵎ PLEASE, GOD, LET HER BE SAFE

JJ Maybank x Post-Apocalypse!Fem!Reader [ more pa!reader content ]

SYNOPSIS & WC─•❥ [2.5k] Have you ever been the victim of a sick joke? Well, JJ has. I mean, who'd actually be stupid enough to believe in-...what was that noise?

WARNING(S) & A/N─•❥ mentions of severe injury, mentions of death, swearing

YOU WEREN'T THERE, and that was the only thing JJ could focus on.

After the group split at The Wreck, his chest felt like it had been hollowed out with a rusty spoon. He’d followed the Twinkie back home, the roar of his bike the only thing keeping his raging thoughts at bay.

When they pulled into the grass, a figure emerged from the porch shadows. JJ took a hesitant step back as he dismounted his bike, but he relaxed when he saw the familiar frames reflecting the moonlight—Big John. He looked like he’d seen a ghost.

Inside, the reunion was short-lived.

JJ sat at the kitchen table, his phone clutched in a white-knuckled grip. He'd sent four messages, not even getting a simple 'read' receipt from any of them. He sighed, curling his lips in on themselves and slamming the phone face down on the table.

"Signal’s dead," Big John muttered, pacing the kitchen floor. He looked haggard, his eyes darting to the closed windows. "I’ve been trying to jam into the military’s radio frequency for two days. Somethin' in my gut just kept tellin' me it was somethin' fishy goin' on. The signal was weak, but I heard enough." The older Routledge explained, pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. "They weren't talkin' about a virus, boys. Not a normal one, anyway."

"What are you saying, Dad?" John B asked, leaning against the counter, his face twisted.

#pa!reader #postapocalypse!reader x jj maybank #postapocalypse!reader #jj maybank x reader #jj obx #jj outer banks #jj x reader #jj #jj maybank x you #jj maybank imagine #jj maybank #jj mayback x reader #jj mayback imagine #jj maybank x y/n #jj maybank x oc #jj maybank x pogue!reader #jj maybank x female reader #jj maybank x female!reader #jj maybank x fem!reader

↷ ⋯ ♡ᵎ IT'S NOT THE BITE

JJ Maybank x Post-Apocalypse!Fem!Reader [ more pa!reader content ]

SYNOPSIS & WC─•❥ [3k] What is the difference between a friend and one of them? A single heartbeat.

WARNING(S) & A/N─•❥ major character death, graphic depictions of death, swearing, mentions of illness/injury, mentions of murder

MARCH 23RD. Ten days.

That’s how long the world has been killing itself, though it felt like ten years. The air in the lowcountry was usually thick with the scent of pine, burning wood and salt, but now it carried a permanent undercurrent of rusted copper and stomach-turning decay.

Though, it'd been seven long days since Elle. Since her fight ended. There was this hollow emptiness in your chest since that night, one you couldn't seem to fill.

It's what made you leave the camp. You couldn’t stay there. Neither of you.

Every time you looked around you, you didn't see a shelter anymore. You saw the spot where you had to watch your little sister succumb to a fever that was relentless. Every time you closed your eyes to get even a wink of sleep, all you saw was the moment her eyes went milky and the way you had to drive a hammer into her skull.

So, now you were leading the way through the thick of the woods, your boots crunching over feeble twigs and pinecones. Behind you, you could hear the heavy, uneven breathing of your older sister as you got further and further from the camp. Every time the wind whistled through the trees, you flinched, your hand tightening around the hilt of the hunting knife strapped to your thigh, your pocket knife from JJ slid right next to it. You'd found it one day while looting an armory with, not surprisingly, not much armor left.

"Keep up, DJ," you mutter, not looking back. "We have to stay close."

She doesn't answer, per usual. She hadn't said much of anything since Elle. She just carries the shotgun slung over her shoulder like a heavy penance, like she's punishing herself, her eyes red-rimmed and distant.

You couldn't get the way she looked at you that night out of your head—like you were the one that had turned.

BY MIDDAY, you'd reached a suburban development on the outskirts of Charleston—the only sign that you'd reached the county being a blood-streaked 'Welcome to Charleston' sign, a body hung limp over it. The houses were beautiful, coastal-style homes with wrap-around porches that should've been filled with rocking chairs and hanging ferns.

Instead, the windows were smashed, and the silence was punctuated only by the distant, constant thud of a rotter banging its head against a garage door somewhere down the block.

"We need food," you sighed, spotting a house with the front door kicked in. "And water."

You entered the house through the kitchen. It was trashed, more than that, really.—cereal boxes strewn across the dirt-streak linoleum, the smell of spoiled milk and rotting fruit was gag-inducing. You explore the kitchen, signaling for DJ to scout out the connected living room.

Suddenly, a rasping sound emerges from the laundry room. A rotter stumbles out—his clothes are shredded, his jaw hanging by a single tendon and he fixates his sights on DJ who has her back turned.

"DJ! Watch out!" you hiss, your hands full of canned food that you're stuffing haphazardly into your bag.

DJ whips around and freezes, wide-eyed. She raises the shotgun, but her hands are shaking terribly. She can't help but stare into the creature's milky eyes, her bottom lip trembling. The rotter gains on her, its black-veined hands reaching for her throat.

"DJ, move!"

She doesn't move. She just stares. You don't know what had been up with her lately—your older sister, the one that was so quick to protect with no hesitation had been struggling to kill the rotters since Elle's death. You chalked it up to her being thrown off of her game by the passing of your younger sister, but you were starting to catch on to it being much more than that.

You drop the cans, the metal clattering loudly on the floor, and spring forward. You tackle the rotter just before its able to sink its teeth into DJ’s shoulder. You roll across the floor, the creature managing to pin you down, its snapping jaws inches from your face. Its breath smells horrid and you struggle to get your knife out, your forearm pressed against its neck to keep the teeth away.

"DJ, fucking do something!"

But again, she just stands there, the shotgun limp in her hands, tears streaming down her face.

With a grunt of pure adrenaline, you manage to unsheathe your blade and drive it upward, through the soft, decaying tissue under the rotters chin and into its brain. The creature goes limp instantly, its cold, heavy weight pressing you into the floor.

You pant heavily, drops of blood hitting your face as you push the corpse off and scramble to your feet, sliding the knife back into it's holster and wiping the liquid from your face.

Your heart is hammering against your ribs so hard it hurts as you fix DJ with a hard expression, sick of whatever was going on with her.

"What is wrong with you?!" you reprimand, the frustration of the last week finally boiling over as you stand to your feet, stomping back into the kitchen to shove the cans into your bag. "He almost bit you! He almost bit me!" You scold, glaring at her as you zip up your sack and throw it over your shoulders. "I mean, seriously—"

DJ stands in the middle of the living room, wide eyes still on the rotter. "I couldn't do it, okay?"

"Yeah, no shit!"

"I just, I looked at him and I just saw... I saw Elle. I saw her face-"

"Jesus- That wasn't Elle, DJ! And that wasn't a man! That wasn't even a living person! It’s dead!" You step into her space, your voice low and dangerous. "Look, I get it. You're grieving, so am I, but you’re going to get us killed. You’ve been doing this shit for a week, and I hoped that if one of us was in serious danger, you'd snap out of it-"

"They were people!" DJ yells back, her eyes wild and teary. "They still have souls in there somewhere, they have to! You didn't see her eyes right before we... before I buried her. There was a flicker. I know there was!-"

"There was nothing!" you shout, giving her a harsh reality check. "You didn't see her eyes when I had to kill her! Elle was dead the second that thing bit her. Whatever it was that came back, it wasn't her. If you can’t accept that, then..."

The silence that followed was gut-wrenching. DJ looked at you like you were a stranger in her sister's skin, and you felt a coldness settling in your chest that had nothing to do with the weather or the state of the world.

"W-who's there?" A voice cracks from the top of the stairs, you both spinning around to face the noise. You raise your knife and DJ instinctively levels the shotgun, though her hands are still trembling.

Two boys with similar faces stand on the landing. One looks older, around DJ's age—dark hair and a weary, defensive posture. The other is younger, hovering nervously behind his older brother’s shoulder.

"D-Don't shoot!" the older one says, raising his hands. He’s holding a crowbar, but he lowers it slowly. "We’re just... we're staying here. We don't want any trouble."

"Who are you?" you demand, your eyes darting between the two of them, voice still sharp with anger.

"I’m Zachary," the older one says, pointing a shaking hand at himself. "And this is my brother, Aiden. We’ve been in these houses for a few days. We haven't seen anyone since everything started. Anyone living, anyway..."

Aiden peeks out from behind Zachary, his eyes wide and hopeful. He can't be any older than thirteen. "...Do you have food? Are you with other people? Other people who can help us?"

You look at DJ. The anger is still there, but the sight of two kids—because that’s what they are, just kids like the two of you—softens her expression. She lowers the shotgun. "No. Just...just us." She says honestly. You weren't sure how you felt about that. "We’re just looking for a place to settle," DJ tells them, her voice regaining some of its warmth.

Zachary walks down the stairs slowly, holding Aiden's hand as they descend. "There’s no safe anymore. The biters, t-that’s what we call those...things, they’re moving into the neighborhoods in bigger groups. We were going to leave tonight. We just...didn't know where to go." He looks at Aiden, then back at you as they reached the bottom of the staircase. "Can we...stick with you guys? We lost our folks at the start. It’s just been us. We're just happy to see people. Real people." He explained, eyes pleading between you and DJ who eyed each other. "Please."

You wanted to say no, something told you to say no. You think of your friends, how JJ always talked about pogue life and how it was built on trust. How you gained some of your best friends through simple trust.

But JJ wasn't here. None of them were.

"They're just kids. Like us," DJ whispers, pleading with you, seeing the hesitance in your narrowed eyes.

You look at Aiden, who looks so much like Elle did when she was scared—that scared, innocent look in his eyes. You sigh, sheathing your knife. "Fine. Okay."

For a few hours, as the four of you loot the surrounding houses together, things feel almost... normal. You talk about how things were for all of you before all of this—about school, about the island, about the things you miss.

By evening, you decide to head toward the town center. Zachary tells you all that he remembers an old attraction—the Charleston Museum. He said it was a sturdy, stone building with limited entry points. Said it was the best shot you had at a night’s sleep without a rotter wandering into you.

THE MUSEUM was a tomb—large skeletons of whales hang from the ceiling, casting long, skeletal shadows in the moonlight filtering through the skylight. You all find a tucked-away gallery on the second floor and set up your spaces to sleep—worn blankets, torn sleeping bags, and a flickering lantern in the corner of the area.

It wasn't long before you fell into a deep, dreamless sleep—exhausted by everything the day threw at you. Exhausted from surviving, from having to become the older sister, exhausted from missing the one person you needed through all of this. The one person you couldn't find.

You prayed. Every night. You prayed for JJ. That he was safe. That no matter where he was, even if he was so far by now that you'd never find him—you prayed, every night, that he was alive and safe.

But a few hours later, a sharp sound wakes DJ. Not you, no, you're too deep into your slumber—letting your aching body rest.

But she isn't waken by a rotter’s groan, but footsteps. A muffled whisper.

She doesn't move, not yet, her eyes just flicker open, fleeting towards your sleeping form in the dim light of the museum.

"Aiden, shut up. Just grab their packs so we can go," a low voice hisses. Zachary.

"Zach, this is a bad idea," Aiden whispers back, his voice thick with guilt. "They helped us. They gave us some of their stuff, I don't think they're going to hurt us-"

"It doesn't matter, Aiden. You should know this by now. Nobody is who they say they are. We can't trust them." Zachary snarls softly.

DJ feels the blood in her veins turn to ice, she slowly shifts, her hand slowly reaching next to her before the heavy clack of a shotgun being pumped rang out.

"Put the bag down, Zachary." DJ demands. She’s standing up now, the shotgun leveled at Zachary. The moonlight hits her face through the glass roof of the exhibit, showing a mixture of heartbreak and a stone-cold resolve. She really wanted to trust them.

Zachary freezes and slowly turns around, but he doesn't drop the bag. Instead, he reaches into his waistband and whips out a small, silver pistol within seconds. He aims it right at DJ’s chest.

"I don't want to do this," Zachary says, his voice cracking. "But I have to put him and me first." He jerked his head in Aiden's direction who stood, scared. "I’m sorry, but you shouldn't have trusted us. That’s how people get killed."

"We're not the ones who are going to kill you, Zachary," DJ says, her voice steady. "Put it down. We can still walk away from this. We can be a team."

"No!" Zachary yells, his eyes spiraling into a frantic, panicked state, the gun. "No, my folks... they trusted the wrong people. They shared their food, their blankets, everything they had. And those people killed them in their sleep. They only left us because we were kids and they thought we'd die anyway. I won't let that happen to Aiden. I won't."

"We aren't them." DJ pleads, stepping forward. "Look at me. I just lost my sister. I know what you're feeling. You can trust us-"

"I can't!" Zachary screams. The overlapping voices fill the quiet museum gallery—DJ begging for peace, Zachary spiraling into a trauma-induced rage.

"Just put the gun down—"

"You'll kill us as soon as I do."

"I won't,"

"You will!"

"Zachary, just-"

The sound is cataclysmic in the enclosed space—the gunshot echoing off the marble walls and the glass cases.

You scramble up, your heart in your throat, just in time to see the flash. You see DJ jerk backward, her chest exploding in a bloom of dark red as she hits the floor with a sickening thud, the shotgun clattering beside her.

"No!" you scream, immediately taken from your sleepy haze, a sound that doesn't even feel like it came from you.

Zachary looks horrified at what he’s done, but survival instinct is a monster. One more horrifying than the ones outside. Despite his own bewilderment, he grabs the main supply bag—the one with the food and medical supplies. Aiden is crying, trembling as he drops your smaller backpack with all of your things—the one he was supposed to carry.

"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!" Aiden wails, looking at you with pure terror as Zachary grabs his arm, hauling him away and out of the museum.

They disappear into the darkness of the museum’s back stairs as you grab the shotgun from the floor, ready to chase them—but then you hear a wet, ragged gurgle from the floor.

"DJ," you whisper, whipping around and dropping the weapon.

You fall to your knees beside her. The wound is high in her chest, right where her lung should be. Right above where her heart is. Bright, frothy blood is bubbling from her lips.

"No, no, no," you chant, pressing your hands against the wound, blood seeping between the gaps in your fingers. "Stay with me, DJ. Focus on me, c'mon, don't do this. We just lost Elle. Please, I can't be alone."

DJ’s eyes are wide, looking up at the whale skeleton above her. She tries to speak, but only blood comes out. Her hand reaches up, weakly clutching your wrist. Her grip is surprisingly strong for a moment, then it begins to slacken.

"I’m sorry," you sob, the tears blurring your vision, pressing harder as your hands begin to slip. "I'm sorry for what I said. I'm sorry I let them stay, I should have listened to myself. DJ, please don't leave me."

But her eyes roll back. Her chest hitches one last time, a rattling sound that stays in the air long after her heart stops, right beneath your fingers.

Your breath gets caught in your throat, reality slapping you across the face.

You face crumples as you collapse onto her chest, crying into the emptiness of the museum. It hits you right away—you're alone.

Truly, utterly, and completely alone.

You stay there for what feels like hours, cradling her cooling body, the weight of the silence more crushing than anything else..

But in reality, only maybe a minute passes before you hear it.

You pull back slowly, wiping your eyes, paying no mind to the blood that smears your face as you do. "...DJ?" you whisper, hope flaring in your chest like a cruel joke.

But then you see her hands. Her fingers are twitching, curling into claws. Her head lolls to the side, and then, with a jerky, unnatural motion, her eyes snap open—cloudy. White.

She growls and lunges at you, her teeth snapping at the air as you back away.

You scramble back, bumping a display case as she rises to her feet in front of you. "No... no, you weren't bitten..."

You were confused, your mind was racing. Elle turned because she was bitten. That was the rule, or at least what it seemed to be.

That was what you'd assumed.

That was the only way this worked.

But DJ was...shot. Zachary shot her.

There was no bite.

She was hovering above you as you curled into the display, lips trembling—growling, her jaw clicking as she gets closer to you. She looked just like others.

She looked just like Elle.

You reach for your thigh strap and pull out the small pocket knife, your hand steady now, but your face is a painting of tears. "I'm sorry," you whisper.

As she lunges, you stick a hand out to catch her before she falls onto you and drive the blade deep into the side of her temple. She drops like dead weight. Like nothing.

You slowly rise to stand over her in the middle of the dark museum, the silence returning alongside the sound of your own heavy breathing.

By the end of the night, you’d learned two things.

One—you can't trust anyone. Not a kid, not a helpless stranger. No one.

Two—It’s in everyone. It has to be. The bite isn't the cause, it’s just the trigger. Whatever this is, it’s already inside you—Pope's words ringing like a bell in your ears.

'If it’s a virus… what if it’s in the air?'

What if...you don't have to be bitten to turn? You thought to yourself.

What if you just have to die?

©loveharlow.

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↷ ⋯ ♡ᵎ THE STORM

JJ Maybank x Post-Apocalypse!Fem!Reader [ more pa!reader content ]

SYNOPSIS & WC─•❥ [2.4k] Is the front door locked? It doesn't matter anymore, they’re already inside, and they aren't looking for a way out.

WARNING(S) & A/N─•❥ mentions of illness, graphic depictions of death, swearing

THE DRIVE HOME was a blur of shadows and a tight-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. Every time your headlights hit a reflector or a swaying branch, your heart hammered against your ribs. The silence of the island wasn't peaceful—it was heavy, like the air right before a massive storm.

When you finally pulled into your driveway, you didn't hesitate before cutting the engine and scrambling out, bolting for the front door with your keys already trembling in your hand.

Before you could even get the key in the lock, the door swung open.

"Oh my God, get in! Now!" Your mother’s voice was a frantic hiss. The moment you stepped over the threshold, she swept you into a hug so tight it knocked the wind out of you. She smelled like perfume she always wore, but her skin was clammy. "Where have you been? Did you not see the broadcast? Are you hurt? Did anyone touch you-"

"Mom, I’m okay, I’m fine," you choked out, but she wasn't listening. She was already pushing you toward the living room, her eyes darting to the darkness behind you before she slammed the door shut, locking it behind her. You watched her turn the deadbolt, jiggling the door handle to make sure it wouldn't budge. She peered through the peephole, her fingers twitching on the wood.

#Spotify #pa!reader #pa!reader x jj maybank #postapocalypse!reader x jj maybank #postapocalypse!reader #jj outer banks #jj obx #jj x reader #jj maybank x you #jj maybank x reader #jj maybank imagine #jj maybank #jj maybank x y/n #jj maybank x pogue!reader #jj maybank x female reader #jj maybank x female!reader #jj maybank x fem!reader

↷ ⋯ ♡ᵎ IF ANYONE IS OUT THERE LISTENING

JJ Maybank x Post-Apocalypse!Fem!Reader [ more pa!reader content ]

SYNOPSIS & WC─•❥ [2.5k] What do you find when you finally reach out into the dark? A light that only exists to show the hunters exactly where you are standing.

WARNING(S) & A/N─•❥ mentions of severe injury, mentions of death, swearing

#pa!reader #postapocalypse!reader x jj maybank #postapocalypse!reader #pa!reader x jj maybank #jj obx #jj outer banks #jj x reader #jj maybank x you #jj maybank x reader #jj maybank #jj maybank imagine #jj mayback x reader #jj mayback imagine #jj maybank x y/n #jj maybank x pogue!reader #jj maybank x female reader #jj maybank x female!reader #jj maybank x fem!reader