Lacey

Cold. Intimidating. Surly. 

Those were the words commonly used to describe Severus Snape. 

So imagine one’s surprise when it was found out he was married. 

“What?” 

“You’re barkin’…”

“There’s no way anyone would marry that git.’

How could anyone marry, let alone tolerate someone with his personality? Could such a person really exist?

Well…yes.

You, his former classmate and someone he hadn’t reconnected with until ten years after graduation, had managed it. His friend, one of the few classmates at Hogwarts he tolerated, who had been there for his trials and triumphs, who still made time for him despite their nearly opposite schedules, managed to chip away at the ice and severity he projected towards those he was wary of. His mask. His protection.

And beneath it, he was a certified yearner.

It felt like an invisible, aching pull toward you when you were in the room that made his hands clench and unclench in desperation. And it drove him mad. 

His eyes would lock onto you like you were a crystal ball that could tell him all the secrets of the universe. They’d trace your face, your fingers, the curve of your clothed back, memorizing every inch of your being. The things he wanted to touch. Hold. Kiss.

But he never allowed himself the luxury so easily. That is to say, he never initiated. 

If you had ever come up behind him and wrapped your arms around him or placed a kiss on his cheek while he was making tea, then by all means, he would return it tenfold. But taking the initial step to begin with was something he never did. 

Severus had the lesson beaten, quite literally, into his head that men who showed vulnerability and a need for the softer things made them weak. Made them pathetic. That it didn’t make him a man. It was a different story with sex. Society perpetuated that demanding and taking it, as dubious as that was, attributed masculine value to him. Of course, he never exercised such brutish behavior, nor agreed with it. 

When it came to wanting your affections in general, however, the shame he had learned from a young age had always overpowered his want for it. He often suffered in silence, vibrating with the desire to swaddle you in his cloak-clad arms and litter your face and neck with kisses. So when you’d floo into his office to stay with him in the evenings and on the weekends, he felt he was forced to stand there and wait for you to give him that lovely smile, set your things down, and draw him into a hug and a kiss rather than approach you himself.

Then, it happened. 

A business excursion. 

You weren’t originally meant to go, but someone had fallen ill, and you were their substitute. You’d be gone for a week in Italy. Italy. A country where men were raised to be very demonstrative with their affections. Where you could, quite possibly, be stolen away from him by someone with well-groomed hair and sinful compliments. But there was nothing he could do about it. All he could do was see you off and murmur words of encouragement to you before he would be officially deprived of your presence for seven gruelling days.

***

The shift was immediate. 

Severus was more curt to his colleagues and harsher in his classes, his frustration mounting with every day that passed. Dumbledore had assumed something had happened between the two of you, a disagreement or fight of some kind that left him more brooding than usual. When Severus was questioned on it and answered that you were to be away in a different country for a week, the two older staff members shared a knowing look of amusement. The man was merely missing you.

Every evening, by himself, he spent in front of the fireplace, a book he would attempt to read discarded in his lap, and his head propped up on his fist, staring into the flames. You being gone forced him to think about how many moments in the span of your relationship he had wasted when he could’ve pressed his lips to yours or when you had finished organizing a cabinet, and he could’ve turned you around and slipped his arms between yours and held you close. He would never tell you this, but he missed you so badly that by day two, he had enlarged a pillow to be your size, wrapped it with one of your cloaks you had left behind that smelled strongly of you, and spooned it at night during the entirety of your absence.

On the last day of your planned trip, he had spent the entire evening after his final class pacing about his office, unnecessarily rearranging books and decorations for the millionth time, anything to keep his mind off the impatience that ate at him like termites on wood. He was acting ridiculously, and he knew it. Surely, he was not this needy, that he wasn’t creating indents in the stone floors from how intensely agitated his footfalls were. But he was at his breaking point.

Damn propriety. He needed you.

When his floo crackled with green sparks, his head snapped toward the childed masonry. There were a few more firm pops, and suddenly, WHOOSH! Green fire erupted upwards for just a second before vanishing, and in its place stood you. 

It took him no longer than two seconds to cross the room. 

You stepped out of the floo, hardly having a moment to set your suitcase down and look for your partner, before you were wrapped in warm black cloth and a pair of lips pressed firmly against yours. 

You gasped against the kiss, taken aback by the abruptness of it until you realized it was Severus, but then your brain short-circuited further, that this was also Severus initiating. You had never minded that he didn’t, as he was always receptive to you, and his nature with most other people was more reserved, but this was still a pleasant surprise. 

His mouth moved against yours passionately, his movements desperate, yet devastatingly precise in how his lips molded against yours. His arms wrapped around you tightly, one hand pressing your back and the other threading in your hair, keeping you right where he wanted for now. You melted cooperatively against him, a fact that greatly relieved Severus as you matched his mouth with pleasurable hums, arms looping around his neck. 

After a good minute or two, you just barely managed to separate from him to get a few gulps of much-needed air, pink-faced and panting the first syllable of his name before his mouth was back on yours, unwilling to separate for longer than even a moment. This time, while keeping his lips on you, his hands grabbed your waist and guided you hurriedly to the couch, where he hit the edge of the cushion and plopped down, dragging you with him, and manhandling your body to straddle his lap with your torso, pressing against his. 

You were stunned by this sudden bout of forwardness from him and subtly wondered if this would turn sexual at all, but his hands travelled no lower than your waist, and to your relief, as you were a bit tired and just wanted to relax despite missing him. 

You did your best to keep up with the way his mouth worked against yours, intoxicated by this desperate version of him that sought you without hesitation. You had noticed in the past the way he always seemed to wait for you to hug or kiss him, and not always easily; sometimes with great, visible restraint; his hands flexing at his sides were always the sign that he was trying very hard to contain the yearner in him he tried to hide deep down. But he wasn’t hiding it now. 

The next time you separated, it was he who eased you back by your shoulders. Both of you were practically heaving, pink in the face as you attempted to catch your breath. 

“That was a nice welcome home,” you chuckled breathlessly, cupping his face. It was an innocent statement, and really, just slipped out. Using humor to break the tension was always your go-to. However, it had the opposite effect.

Severus made an expression you could only label as him “clamming up.” His breath stilled, jaw tightening, and his eyes flicked down and away at some unknown point. It was the face he made when he was confronted over something he knew was his fault when the two of you argued. His throat bobbed a little, and his hands jumped from your shoulders to your waist with, you assumed, the intention of moving you off him.

Well, you weren’t going to have that.

Before he could apply any pressure, you caught him off guard and surged forward, pressing your body fully to his, your weight making him sink deeper back against the couch cushions as you tucked your head into the crook of his neck. 

He froze.

“I missed you,” you had decidedly murmured into his ear, one arm resting on his shoulder, the other looping up so your fingers travelled up the base of his skull and scratched soothingly on his scalp, a move that never failed to make him relax. 

The tension in his body from his own self-doubt began to ease somewhat, his arms coming to hesitantly wrap around you once more.

“I thought about you every day,” you continued. “And uhm…I’m sorry if you missed any of your cloaks for the week.”

Severus found his voice again. “My cloaks?”

“Yes. I…I took one from your wardrobe before I left. Just to have at night.” You blushed furiously and added far more quietly. “It was awful not being able to feel you in the bed.”

Inside, he melted at the fact that you had missed him to such a degree. That the pull toward one another was very much reciprocated. He buried his nose into your hair, sighing and tightening his hold on you.

“I missed you as well. Your absence at night was…similarly torturous.”

“Oh? Did you do anything similar to what I did?” you asked jokingly. And yet, you had felt him flinch. It was subtle, but there. Enough to tell you the truth in place of his lack of response.

You began to lean back up. “Severus, if I go to your bedroom, will I find—” Your face met his shoulder again as your head was pressed unceremoniously back into place.

“Don’t,” Severus grunted, and you could feel the heat that blazed up his neck against your forehead. He was embarrassed enough as it is. “You already know. Just…stay here,” he beseeched quietly. “Please…”

“Of course,” you whispered, with a slight laugh. “At least until my knees go numb.”

You had meant it as a joke, but Severus took such things very seriously, especially if he intended to keep you pressed against him for as long as he could. He encouraged you to sit back a little before helping you move into a more comfortable position with you sitting sideways in his lap with your head still coming to rest in the crook of his neck. Your fingers played with his hand, bringing it up to your mouth and kissing his knuckles individually. 

“I know it was torturous for you,” you said quietly. “I know you have these…reservations when you want to love up on me physically. That you feel the need to wait until I do it to you.” You kissed the back of his palm and let his hand come to rest in your grasp. “And that’s alright, if it’s nerves…or you’re just self-conscious. I get it. I still love you all the same. As long as I never make you uncomfortable with my spontaneity—”

“You don’t,” Severus muttered against your hair, placing a soft kiss on your head. “You never do. Don’t ever stop. Otherwise…” 

He leaned his chin against your head. 

You’ve been walking all night, trying to put as much space as possible between you and the blond band of freaks. You’d stumbled on the occasional Infected, but had succeeded in either swiftly killing them or avoiding their attention altogether.

Your feet are killing you, and you know you need to find a place to set up camp, even if just for a short while. An object rising from the grass in the distance catches your attention. Slowly approaching it in the hazy twilight, you realize what it is.

A car.

A four door sedan, either black or dark blue; it’s hard to tell in the dim light. You try one of the doors, yanking on the handle roughly. Although it’s rusted with age, it opens.

Thank God.

You slide in behind the wheel, tossing your rucksack on the passenger seat. You push the lock down manually behind you, then lean over to the passenger door to do the same. Finally, you awkwardly stretch your arm into the backseat, locking the back doors as well. When you’re done, you slump down in the seat and sigh.

You’re exhausted. The car is far from clean or comfortable, but with doors that lock, it’s safe. And it’s your best option right now– hell, it’s your only option. You’ll rest here for a bit until you have to keep moving. You’re not sure how far you’ve gotten from the house, but you can tell it’s not far enough.

You lean back in the seat, trying to silence your brain, but it’s no use. Your head buzzes with the events of the last day and a half. Purple Tracksuit’s sinister smile. The blood-curdling screams of the people in the house above you. The sneers and grins of the band of misfits.

Disciple.

You shudder. You click open the glove compartment and rummage through it, unsure of what you’re looking for. It was almost second nature for you to ransack any place you entered, hunting for scraps and supplies. 

You flip through some papers, the car’s instruction manual, some crumpled old napkins, a roadmap. You tuck the map into your pack and snap the door to the glove compartment closed again. Not even a stale bag of crisps. You sigh again and slump down in the tired, beat-up seat, resolved to get some shut eye before you push forward. You’re not sure how long it is before you fall asleep, but as the sun begins to crest over the horizon and dew begins to paint the tall grass, you fall into a dark, dreamless lull.

You wake with a start to the sound of hands banging on the window next to your head. Your heart is instantly thumping as a woman with bloodshot eyes shrieks and pounds on the glass, centimeters from your face. A young man in a tattered t-shirt dives across the hood of the car, clawing at the windshield. You know the Infected are strong enough to break the windows of the car; you’ve seen them force their way into buildings, crashing through locked doors and shattering panes of glass.

Your heart is pounding along with every smack of the woman’s fists on your window. The two of them might be manageable, but their screams were sure to attract more, and with your escape options already extremely limited, you couldn’t risk it. 

Another man, this one a little older, descends on the passenger side door of the car, viciously tugging on the handle. You quickly slide your machete out of your bag, trying to assess your choices. There’s no good ones; either you stay in the car, hoping they lose interest before one of them smashes their way in, or you try to leave the car, and are immediately outnumbered. Your brother’s voice rings in your head.

The only way out is through.

Your eyes dart frantically between the three screaming Infected. The woman has started pounding her head against the glass. You’re trying to decide which one you can take first when the man yanking on the door finally rips it free. You scream and swing at his outstretched arms with your machete. Suddenly, a blade plunges through his chest. You stare in horror as he sputters and gasps, and the now blood-covered blade recedes. He crumples to the ground and you’re facing Red– the girl in the blonde wig and red tracksuit. She grins at you, and you notice the scar arcing across the lower half of her face. 

Your attention is pulled forward again when the Infected clawing at the windshield suddenly screams, his blood splattering across the glass. You see Fairy Wings standing over him proudly wielding her bat. The woman on your side is also quickly dispatched, and you see the boy in Black & White grinning smugly as she collapses against the car and her limp body slides to the ground. 

Purple steps over the bloodied corpse of the Infected and plops into the passenger seat of the car with a sigh. You’re staring straight ahead in shock, hands still shaking and gripping your machete tightly.

There’s a moment of quiet between you in the car as you both stare out the windshield.

Finally, he turns to you.

“Sorry, I think we got off on the wrong foot the other day. I’m Jimmy,” he offers casually.

You turn your head only slightly, so you can see him out of the corner of your eye. The rest of your body remains frozen in place as your heart only just begins to slow down. He smiles softly at you, as if you’re not in a blood splattered car surrounded by the corpses of Infected and his cheering minions. He turns his attention to the seven of them, cleaning their weapons and chattering loudly to each other.

“An’ tha’s Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy, and–”

“Let me guess,” you croak. “Robert.”

He chuckles, and the silence falls back into the air.

He found you.

And just like the Infected, your options for escape are so limited they’re practically nonexistent. Stab him and face the seven riotous murderers. Run– be found again.

Jimmy watches your eyes dart around, watches the gears turning in your head as you try to calculate your next move.

“Ye know,” he begins, his voice tentative in the fragile space between you, as if he’s trying not to startle a small animal. “I was never too good at the maths…but I’ve a feelin’ yer odds of survivin’ are better with us.”

A bitter laugh chokes its way out of your throat.

“Surviving…with you lot…” you huff. 

“Jus’ saved yer neck, yer fuckin’ welcome,” he counters hotly.

“I’m not like you.”

Your voice is a whisper, harsh and angry as you fight back tears. You’re not sure why your eyes are hot and watery; you’re not sad. But something about the emotional intensity of the last two days, something about being in this car with him…it makes you feel like a sweater with a loose thread that someone’s yanked on. You can feel your stitching starting to unravel. 

“Yer not?” he asks, feigning innocence.

“I could never do– what you do– what you did…those people…at the house…”

His brows shoot up in surprise. You were there.

“Oh, right…right, but those zombie fuckers on the playground–” he starts, challenge in his voice.

“That’s different,” you retort firmly.

“How?” he pushes back. “Oh, we’re so fuckin’ evil, but you can stab those wee shites through the heart, slash their fuckin’ throats–”

“That’s different. The Infected–”

“No, I donnae think so,” he cuts you off sharply. The silence falls over you again as he watches you, studies your face as your lip quivers. He sighs, then turns his attention back through the windshield, watching the Jimmys play through the blood smeared glass.

“Ye see them?” he asks finally. “Every single one of ‘em joined my Fist because I saw somethin’ in ‘em. A hunger, a fire…an anger.”

He turns back to you.

“The same anger I saw in you.”

You press your eyes closed and feel hot tears stinging your eyes and streaking down your cheeks. You’re tired. No, you’re fucking exhausted.

Not exhausted from a lack of sleep. You’re exhausted from twenty-eight years of survival. Twenty-eight years of scraping by, roaming from one decimated place to another. Twenty-eight years of hiding, running, fighting, crying in empty houses, on barren rooftops in the dark. Twenty-eight years of wondering if this was all worth it. If this was all your life would be.

You are angry. And that’s what scares you. 

You would be lying if you said there wasn’t some sick part of you, buried deep inside of your chest, that enjoyed killing the Infected. As much as you hated to admit it, as much as you did still see them as people, human beings with a disease…the feeling of your machete slicing through their flesh was the closest you ever got to catharsis. 

The rage that boils in their blood…you sometimes wonder if it simmers in yours, too.

Your eyes flick open and you huff out a breath, turning away from him and wiping your cheeks. He continues to watch you, examining your face, your body language.

“Sometimes I worry about you, kid.”

“Wha’d’ya mean?”

“All that fire in you…”

“Hey, that fire’s kept us alive so far!”

“I know, I know…just…don’t let it burn you, too.”

“That…anger…” Jimmy continues, his voice oddly soft. He turns his attention back to his flock, watching Jimmima jump on Jones’s back, shrieking in delight as they go stumbling forward. “It has a home here.”

You turn back to him, eyes scanning his face, expecting to see a glimmer of something– an ulterior motive, a scheme, something that tells you he’s lying.

All you see is sincerity.

You face forward, following his gaze, and watch the Jimmys. The same freaks that pulled those screams out of those people in the house are now laughing, smiling, playing together. Orange runs forward with Fairy Wings on their back, while Blue stumbles forward, holding Red & Black. Green stands a distance away, arms outstretched. When Orange and Fairy Wings reach him, Fairy Wings slaps his outstretched hand, then hoists her own fists in victory. Blue and Red & Black tumble to the ground, and the others laugh.

It has a home here.

You have a home here.

You assess your odds one more time.

Finally, you look back to Jimmy. His eyes dart over to meet yours and he gives you a small smile. He holds his hand out, his rings glinting in the bright afternoon light.

You take it, and shake.

A home.

You’re walking through the woods now, all nine of you, and you can’t believe these fools have lasted as long as they have out here.

They’re so loud. You’d learned that any noise was a risk; the Infected had an especially keen sense of hearing, and in the early days of Infection, you and Lachlan had trained yourselves to step carefully, avoid twigs and branches, breathe quietly, communicate with hand signals, and read each other’s lips.

The Jimmys crash through the foliage, shouting and hurling insults at one another the whole way. Your instincts keep you from joining in the romp.

Red trudges along at your side, leading the pack. Jimmy brings up the rear, keeping his eye on you.

“So…the root cellar. Good hidin’ place,” she offers after several moments of sustained silence.

You halt in your tracks, staring at her. She chuckles softly at you before tilting her head forward.

“C’mon,” she smiles. “Trust me, y’don’t want any’a those nosy cunts eavesdroppin’.”

You force your feet to keep going and fall back in step with her.

“That was you,” you reply, dumbfounded. “Pulling on the doors.”

She nods, stepping over a large gnarled tree root.

“Why did you let me go?” you ask in a small voice. She surely could’ve broken the door, or alerted the others.

“Dunno,” Red says simply. 

You examine her face, your eye once again drawn to the scar that runs from her cheekbone across her lip, down to her chin. She’s rolled up the sleeves of her tracksuit, the zipper resting about halfway up her torso, and you look her up and down, noting all the tattoos decorating her neck, her forearms, the backs of her hands. You remember her name now: Jimmy Ink. She glances over at you and you snap forward again, embarrassed to be caught staring.

Suddenly, several of the others prance up, flanking your sides. They’re all eager to play with their newest toy.

“Boy, can I pick ‘em or what?” Black & Red announces smugly. 

“Shut up, Fox,” Ink grumbles. 

“I dunno,” Fairy Wings taunts in a sing-song voice. “Seems a little soft to me.”

“Soft?” Ink laughs. “Yeah, that’s why she fuckin’ beat you to the punch the other day, right?”

“Fuck off,” Fairy Wings scowls, then turns her attention back on you. You avoid her eye. “Why’s she get to be Finger without a fight, hm?”

“She’s not a fuckin’ Finger, stupid,” Fox leers. “She’s a pet, remember?”

“Shut up, Fox,” Ink repeats. “So fuckin’ annoyin’.”

“Oooh, someone’s gone a bit sweet on Sir Jimmy’s disciple, huh?” he taunts her, his voice dripping with the same teasing tone that Lachlan had often turned on you.

“Fuck off, both of you,” Ink huffs. “Like you’re one to fuckin’ talk.”

That shuts him up.

“Jus’ sayin’,” Fairy Wings counters. “If she’s so fuckin’ important, dontcha think she needs to prove herself to Old Nick?”

You lift your boot high enough to step over a fallen branch. Fairy Wings skips over it, landing gracefully without breaking her stride, as if her wings are more than just tattered nylon stretched over a wire frame.

“Sir Jimmy said Old Nick told ‘im about his plans for ‘er,” Ink protests. “If Sir Jimmy says it, isn’t that good enough for you, Jimmima?”

Jimmima frowns again, but she doesn’t have a retort. You’re still learning their names, and try your best to internalize hers.

Ink stops in a small clearing, looking around. The ground is level enough to set up camp, and mostly free of any large debris. The groundcover in the area has receded, leaving some of the damp soil of the forest floor exposed. She turns toward the sun, now getting low in the sky. You’ve been walking for longer than you realize.

“We should stop here,” she calls back to Jimmy. Again, her volume makes you wince. 

The others linger in the clearing as they catch up. When Jimmy finally steps through the trees, he looks around briefly before giving Ink a small, firm nod.

“Aye,” he says. “We’ll set up here for th’ night.”

The full moon casts a little light through the trees, and you stare up at it through the branches over your head.

Snake and Jones have taken over the far corner of the tiny camp, and share a blanket draped across both of their chests. Shite, Fox, and Jimmy Jimmy– whom you’d learned the others often called ‘JJ’ to save time– occupy another small footprint of the campsite. Jimmima had laid out a blanket between Jimmy and Ink, and you’d opted to lie down on Ink’s other side.

You twist in your bedroll, unable to find comfort on the cold forest floor. The damp smell of the dirt below your head soothes you, but the cold chill in the air cuts you to the bone. You shiver.

Despite Ink and Jimmima sleeping soundly between you, Jimmy’s dreaming about choking you with his cock until you pass out.

You hear him tossing and turning, the gentle rustling of his makeshift bedding echoing in the otherwise quiet night. You finally hear him sit up and sigh.

Jimmy rubs at the back of his neck. He stares at you, your back to him, curled up in your sleep. Well, what he assumes is sleep.

He pushes himself to his feet and quietly walks over to your place, stepping over a sleeping Jimmima and Ink. Ink stirs slightly as he passes, but the others remain still. Jimmy stands over your unmoving body, unaware of the fact that you’re awake and holding your breath under his gaze. You keep your eyes shut, but you can feel your heart pounding. You swallow and your jaw tenses. You listen to his steady breathing as he watches you.

Jimmy runs his eyes along your outline, watching your chest expand with every breath, your tits rising and falling. He shoves a hand down the front of his track pants and grips himself, slowly stroking his length. He stares at you, you, lying quietly underneath him at last. He shudders at the lazy stimulation of his hand on his cock and pumps faster.

He imagines pulling himself out and painting your face and hair while you sleep.

You can hear his breath stuttering through his lungs.

He imagines the others waking up and watching him cum all over you, claiming you as his own, and bites back a moan. His cock twitches in his hand and he pants, trying his best to stay quiet. 

You can hear him moving, breathing, but you have no idea what’s going on just above your head.

Jimmy lets a shaky breath escape his lungs as he takes his hand off himself and turns away from you. He runs his hand through his hair, trying to relax. When he turns back to you, he shoves a fist against his teeth, too worked up to be this close to you. He’s still painfully hard, his erection tenting the velour of his track pants. Jimmy wraps his hand around his base once more, squeezing gently.

“Fuck,” he whispers through gritted teeth, his breath feather-light on the air. You shift slightly, finally hearing him speak. Jimmy freezes. He grumbles and pulls his hand away again. 

Not yet.

He turns away from you, scrubbing a hand against his jaw, desperately trying to steady his breath. He walks back towards his bed, then turns again, restlessly pacing. His eyes fall back on you. He knows he won’t sleep.

Finally, he turns and slinks down the hill the way you came. Maybe a walk will clear his head.

When you hear Jimmy walk off, you carefully roll over, your eyes still closed, imitating sleep. You gently open them, squinting through the darkness. He’s gone.

Ink is twisted up in her own blanket. Her face is so much more delicate like this, lost in a gentle slumber. You stare at her scar again and wonder where it came from. An Infected? One of these creeps? Jimmima’s voice from earlier still rings through your head.

Why’s she get to be Finger without a fight?

Your eyes drift from her face to her neck, her pulse fluttering softly under the skin adorned with a large tattoo. At first you thought it was just meant to look like a choker, but now you can see the details. It’s a man with his arms outstretched, an enormous pair of wings sprouting from his back and stretching around Ink’s neck. The man has something on his chest, but in the low light, you can’t make it out.

You study her face again. The splatter of freckles across her skin rivals that of the stars over your head. But she has the same trademark as the others: an inverted cross, carved into her forehead between her eyebrows.

Dontcha think she needs to prove herself to Old Nick?

You finally tear your eyes away from Ink, landing them instead on your knapsack. You have enough supplies to stay on the move for a few days; if you make a dash for it now, you can put 30 kilometers between you and them before sunrise, easy. You quietly fold back the top cover of your bed roll, not bothering to try and repack it. It’s not worth the risk of waking the others. 

You shoulder your pack and carefully step around Ink and Jimmima. You walk a few paces, and when you’re satisfied that you’re far enough not to be heard, you run.

You run until you’re at the small creek you’d crossed earlier in the evening. Ink is clearly the one guiding the group; not just leading them, but obviously tracking you. The way she surveyed the campsite, the fact that she knew you were in the root cellar…she thinks like Lachlan. He was always your north star. You would’ve followed him anywhere.

Ink’s keen instincts were just like your brother’s; luckily, that meant you could predict her moves. And you knew she would wake in the morning and assume that you had run east, towards the coast. Which is exactly why you ran directly back the way you came. Lachlan always believed the answer to any given question or problem was in front of you, and if you could just keep going, just keep moving, you’d find it. Ink had the same look in her eyes that told you she was sick of looking backwards. She’d never think to backtrack to find you.

As you approach the creek, you can hear a sound floating above the steady flow of the water. It sounds like a person, but you can’t tell if it’s an Infected or not. All you can make out is the ragged, rushed sound of breathing. As you approach the riverband, you catch a glimpse of the source and quickly duck behind the base of a wide tree, your knee gently landing in the soft dirt as you sink down.

It’s Jimmy.

Fuck.

You peek around the trunk of the tree and watch him. He’s about 15 meters from you, standing hunched over, one hand braced against the tree in front of him. Your eyes drift down towards his other hand.

He’s jerking off.

You quickly twist back around the tree, pressing your back into the trunk and a hand over your mouth.

“Fuck, jus’ like that, angel, c’mon,” he grunts. The slick, disgusting sound of his hand on his cock makes bile rise in the back of your throat and the sound of your heartbeat floods your ears.

You need to get back to camp. But you’re frozen in place, listening to him.

Jimmy’s hand works over his length, gently twisting and squeezing in all the right places as he teases himself.

He imagines you laying underneath him again, so soft and gentle and pliable. He wants to make you cry and beg and claw at his chest while he ruins you.

“Fuck, fuck,” he pants. You hear your name tumble past his lips in an obscene groan. It makes your blood run cold.

You’re calculating odds again in your head, but you don’t see a way out of this one. At least, not in any way that ends well for you.

Fox rolls over to the sound of gentle rustling and groggily forces his eyes open. Jimmima’s quietly walking off, away from the campsite. Fox, fully awake now, props himself up on an elbow and stops Jimmima with a quick low whistle. She abruptly turns back and sees Fox raise his hands in a what the fuck are you doing gesture. She clicks her tongue softly in annoyance, then waves him over.

Fox quietly rises from his makeshift bed and scurries over.

“Fuck ‘re you goin’?” Fox whispers harshly. “He’s gonna be fuckin’ pissed.”

“He’s fuckin’ gone,” Jimmima whispers, nodding at Sir Jimmy’s empty cot. “And so’s she.” She nods at your similarly unoccupied place. 

“So?” Fox counters.

“So…something’s fucking up. Why’s Sir Jimmy lettin’ ‘er travel with us if she hasn’t fucking proved herself to Old Nick?” Jimmima continues. Ink gently shifts in her sleeping bag, and Jimmima drops her voice a bit. “Somethin’s fuckin’ goin’ on.”

She turns back towards the woods. She’s not sure which way you’ve gone, but she trusts her sense of hearing enough to know that she’ll find you.

“Y’comin’?” she asks Fox at last. 

His eyes are narrowed in thought. He looks back at your empty place, then to Jimmy’s. She’s right– something’s up. He gives Jimmima a quick nod and the two of them take off into the night.

Ink wakes to harsh whispers just a few paces away from her sleeping bag.

Somethin’s fuckin’ goin’ on. Y’comin’?

When she hears the footsteps disappear into the brush, she tentatively opens her eyes and sits up. Snake, Jones, Shite, and JJ are still sleeping soundly. It would take a stampede of Infected to wake Jones; Ink recalls a morning where Jimmy had to practically kick them in the stomach to get them up. Snake usually got up first and would shake them awake at the last possible moment. But Ink’s attention is now drawn to the empty places around the campsite: Jimmima, Fox, Jimmy, and you are all missing. She notices that your knapsack is gone, too. The whispers were right. Something’s fucking going on. And whatever it is, it can’t be good. 

Ink tosses back the top of her sleeping bag and silently follows the direction of the voices.

“Listen–!”

“Wha’, I don’t hear anythin’?”

“This way!”

It’s Fox and Jimmima. They’re looking for you. Ink quietly steps through the foliage, careful not to rustle too many leaves or step on any twigs. She just hopes she can find you before they do.

Back at the riverbank, you’re still frozen behind the tree, listening to Jimmy pant and whine your name.

“Fuck, tha’s it, tha’s fuckin’ it, good fuckin’ girl,” he hisses.

It’s so vile, you feel like you could throw up. But a part of you feels the shameful heat rise in your cheeks and blossom between your thighs. You squeeze your legs together as your stomach twists.

It’s been so long since you’ve felt someone’s hands on you. There was a man you traveled with some years ago, from a nearby island, who’d stopped on the mainland to hunt. You lived and worked together for a few weeks before you were separated during an attack. He was handsome and strong, and he could work your body like you were an instrument. 

You don’t feel the same way about Jimmy; you felt something with the man from your past that you could almost call love. You found a tiny stone cottage with a door that locked and windows that let in light. You spent many lazy sunlit mornings lying in the bed that was too small to be comfortable when you shared it, his hands on your waist, your chest, your jaw. In those moments it felt like the world was paused, the way you remember freezing a tape in the television as a child. Everything holding still, halted in place, while he whispered in your ear, promises of marriage, of taking you back to his island, making you a mother.

It had been years since he’d disappeared. And there wasn’t a good way to meet people in the zombie apocalypse. A quick glance at a young man living on a farm that was willing to shelter you for a night or two. But usually you were on your own.

“Take it so well, angel,” Jimmy mutters, still lost in his bliss. “Y’wan’ it? Fuck, want it down yer fuckin’ throat?”

You hear his breath accelerating, matching your own. You swallow thickly.

You stumble to your feet. You’re never going to make it past him; your best bet is to make it back to camp before one of the others realizes you’re gone. You start back up the hill towards the smell of lingering smoke from your campfire, hopeful that the other Jimmys are still sound asleep, and this can fade into an awkward memory that lives in a dark corner of your mind.

Until you hear the sound of low bickering voices and rusting leaves.

“She went fuckin’ this way!”

“How could you possibly fuckin’ know that?”

“I heard something, shut up!”

“You heard somethin’, how’d’ye know it’s not a fuckin’ animal? Or a fuckin’ zombie, ohhh….!”

“Fuck off, she went this way!”

You’re too late. Fox and Jimmima are on your trail, and close, by the sounds of it. Your mind is going a mile a minute. You quickly slide your pack off your shoulder and toss it aside. If they hadn’t already noticed it was missing from the campsite, you might be able to play this off. 

Your pack lands with a louder thump than you’d meant it to, and you hear Jimmima and Fox freeze. You do the same. Their pace quickens, and you’re already wracking your brain for your excuse when they finally reach you.

“Well…” Fox begins. “Lookae wha’ we ‘ave ‘ere.”

“Oh dear,” Jimmima smiles. “Did you get lost?”

“I-I was just goin’ to the bathroom–” you stutter on the lie. Shit.

“Sure…” Jimmima sneers. “Y’know, you’re not even s’posed to be here.”

“I know, I was just heading back,” you reply, a little more confidence in your voice this time. You take a step forward, and they each step closer together, blocking your path.

“No,” she corrects you firmly. “You’re not supposed to be here. With us.”

No fucking shit, you think.

“What’re you talking about?” you say instead, trying to play at casual.

“Everyone has to prove themselves to Old Nick,” she spits. “So why not you?”

“I don’t know, ask Jimm–”

“Sir Jimmy,” Fox barks at you.

“Ask Sir Jimmy,” you correct, eyes darting back and forth between the two of them.

Fox shoots a glance towards Jimmima. The corner of her lip quirks up ever so slightly before they both turn back to you. 

“Well, Sir Jimmy always says that everyone has’ta prove themselves to Old Nick,” Jimmima starts innocently. Fox smirks and circles around you. “We could help you…”

Fox grabs your wrist and twists your right arm behind your back. You wince in pain, your hand clawing for the small knife tucked into your waistband.

“Ah, ah,” Fox chides, snatching the knife for himself. He grabs your left wrist, knife still in hand, and twists again, effectively pinning you. Jimmima takes a step towards you.

“Wha’dya think, Fox? My knife, or hers?”

Fox grins wickedly and tosses Jimmima your knife. When his hand leaves your wrist, you struggle to break free, but he’s quick to adjust his grip and pulls you back into position. Jimmima catches your knife by the handle– impressive, even you have to admit– and inspects the blade.

“Stop–please, you don’t have to do this–” you pant, your heartbeat thundering in your chest.

“Oh, but we do,” she murmurs. She presses your knife to the side of your neck, the cool metal meeting your hot skin. “Y’gotta prove that you deserve to be here, isn’t that right, Fox?”

Fox tugs on your arms, pulling your back into his chest. He leans up into your ear, his breath hot and revolting.

“Yeah…” he sneers. “Gotta prove you can fuckin’ hang.”

Jimmima presses the blade into your neck, stinging your flesh. You can feel the sharp edge digging into your skin slightly and you whimper. Jimmima laughs.

“Listen t’that, Fox. Got her fuckin’ cryin’ already!”

Suddenly, Jimmima lands on the ground with a scream. Ink is on top of her, pinning her wrists into the dirt above her head.

“Fuck ‘re you doing?” she hisses. Jimmima squirms underneath her, but Ink’s knees straddling her tiny frame keep her in place. Fox tightens his grip on you, but you can tell he’s surprised– he doesn’t know whether to let you go and help Jimmima, or finish you off himself.

“Fuck off!” Jimmima squeals. “She’s mine!” 

“Yeah right, she’s fuckin’ yours!” Ink shouts. “And how’s Sir Jimmy gonna feel, knowin’ you fuckin’ killed ‘er?”

“She has to–mmph–she doesn’t fuckin’ deserve to be a Finger!” Jimmima whines. Your heart is still racing, but you think you see tears streaking down her dirt-covered temples.

“She’s not a Finger,” a new voice looms through the darkness.

Your eyes turn toward the source. Jimmy stands just meters away from you, staring at Ink and Jimmima on the ground. Fox quickly drops your wrists, and you stumble out of his grip. You trip and your hands land on the soft dirt, catching yourself as you catch your breath.

“What about that is so hard f’you stupid cunts to understand?” he asks cooly. The way his voice freezes the air around you chills you to the bone. You can feel the way they respond to him with complete reverence.

Ink slowly stands, releasing Jimmima. Jimmima stands. The three of them look like misbehaving children caught by a stern parent, eyes cast downward, avoiding his gaze. You lean back on your haunches, the knees of your trousers collecting the dampness of the dirt below you. You look up at him. His eyes dart from each of them back to you.

Jimmy stares at you, panting, on your knees in front of him, and bites the inside of his cheek.

“Someone wannae tell me what the fuck was goin’ on?” he asks again, his tone sharper than the blade that was digging into your neck. You absentmindedly rub a hand over your neck, checking for injury. When you pull your fingers back, they’re painted with the faintest sheen of red. She got you, but not enough to do much damage.

“We were–” Fox stammers, then swallows hard when Jimmy’s eyes land on him, “we were…just…she’s gotta prove ‘erself, Sir.”

“She’s gottae prove herself…” Jimmy repeats thoughtfully. “To who?”

“Old Nick,” Jimmima mutters weakly. Jimmy turns his gaze on her. “Sir,” she adds.

He looks at Ink. He raises his brow at her. That what happened? Their silent language.

“Fox were holdin’ her, Jimmima had the knife,” Ink confirms.

Jimmy clicks his tongue in disapproval. You examine his face, trying to read him for his next move as he looks back and forth between Jimmima and Fox. The moonlight dances through the trees as a gentle breeze waves the branches around you. 

“Ye know,” Jimmy starts. “Fightin’...when not for the glory of Old Nick…is an offense, Fingers.”

“Yes, Sir Jimmy,” Jimmima and Fox answer in unison. His control amazes you. The two aggressive fighters who were just about to kill you are now turned to bashful, obedient followers.

“Shall I ask Old Nick what yer punishment should be?” Jimmy continues. “For breakin’ the fuckin’ rules?” 

The vitriol in his voice scares you. Your head is pounding in time with your heart as you watch Fox and Jimmima share a worried look. Jimmy raises two of his fingers to his right temple.

“No!” you shout.

You don’t know why. They were trying to kill you. Your odds of survival would certainly be better without them– either or both of them– around. 

Jimmy pauses and looks at you.

“Wha’ was that?”

You swallow.

“N-no,” you repeat, a little quieter.

“No?” he repeats.

Ink’s eyes dart nervously between you and Jimmy. She knows Jimmy has some kind of plan for you, but defiance of any sort was a sure way to activate his rage. She’d seen his rage; she didn’t want you on the receiving end of it.

“No…Sir…” you correct. Hearing his title on your lips makes Jimmy swallow hard, tensing his jaw. Your head is spinning, working fast to craft a lie that will let the events of the night evaporate into nothingness. “No, Sir. Old Nick…he already told me…he said they should be forgiven.”

Jimmy stares down at you, a question in his eyes that even Ink can’t read. You don’t break his gaze, silently praying that he believes the lie.

Listen to her, Jimmy. She is my disciple. I speak through her.

Jimmy’s eyes flutter shut as he listens to his Father. He releases a breath. You’re still holding yours.

Finally, he opens his eyes. He holds your gaze a moment longer, staring into your pleading eyes.

You can hear Him, too.

He looks from you, to Ink, to Jimmima, to Fox. No one moves.

“Very well, Fingers,” Jimmy says at last, flashing his decaying smile. “Ye heard the girl. Old Nick says…forgiveness.”

You release your breath, your chest quietly heaving. Ink eyes you. Jimmima and Fox stare at Jimmy in disbelief. He gently kicks your knife towards you with the toe of one of his trainers. You pick it up and tuck it back into your belt.

Jimmy starts back up the hill towards the campsite. The rest of you stay frozen in place, staring at the spot he once occupied. You can feel the tension in the air slowly dissipate, like air being released from a balloon.

Jimmy pauses, his back still to you.

“Jus’ don’t fuck it up this time.”

You’ve been walking all night, trying to put as much space as possible between you and the blond band of freaks. You’d stumbled on the occasional Infected, but had succeeded in either swiftly killing them or avoiding their attention altogether.

Your feet are killing you, and you know you need to find a place to set up camp, even if just for a short while. An object rising from the grass in the distance catches your attention. Slowly approaching it in the hazy twilight, you realize what it is.

A car.

A four door sedan, either black or dark blue; it’s hard to tell in the dim light. You try one of the doors, yanking on the handle roughly. Although it’s rusted with age, it opens.

Thank God.

You slide in behind the wheel, tossing your rucksack on the passenger seat. You push the lock down manually behind you, then lean over to the passenger door to do the same. Finally, you awkwardly stretch your arm into the backseat, locking the back doors as well. When you’re done, you slump down in the seat and sigh.

You’re exhausted. The car is far from clean or comfortable, but with doors that lock, it’s safe. And it’s your best option right now– hell, it’s your only option. You’ll rest here for a bit until you have to keep moving. You’re not sure how far you’ve gotten from the house, but you can tell it’s not far enough.

You lean back in the seat, trying to silence your brain, but it’s no use. Your head buzzes with the events of the last day and a half. Purple Tracksuit’s sinister smile. The blood-curdling screams of the people in the house above you. The sneers and grins of the band of misfits.

Disciple.

You shudder. You click open the glove compartment and rummage through it, unsure of what you’re looking for. It was almost second nature for you to ransack any place you entered, hunting for scraps and supplies. 

You flip through some papers, the car’s instruction manual, some crumpled old napkins, a roadmap. You tuck the map into your pack and snap the door to the glove compartment closed again. Not even a stale bag of crisps. You sigh again and slump down in the tired, beat-up seat, resolved to get some shut eye before you push forward. You’re not sure how long it is before you fall asleep, but as the sun begins to crest over the horizon and dew begins to paint the tall grass, you fall into a dark, dreamless lull.

You wake with a start to the sound of hands banging on the window next to your head. Your heart is instantly thumping as a woman with bloodshot eyes shrieks and pounds on the glass, centimeters from your face. A young man in a tattered t-shirt dives across the hood of the car, clawing at the windshield. You know the Infected are strong enough to break the windows of the car; you’ve seen them force their way into buildings, crashing through locked doors and shattering panes of glass.

Your heart is pounding along with every smack of the woman’s fists on your window. The two of them might be manageable, but their screams were sure to attract more, and with your escape options already extremely limited, you couldn’t risk it. 

Another man, this one a little older, descends on the passenger side door of the car, viciously tugging on the handle. You quickly slide your machete out of your bag, trying to assess your choices. There’s no good ones; either you stay in the car, hoping they lose interest before one of them smashes their way in, or you try to leave the car, and are immediately outnumbered. Your brother’s voice rings in your head.

The only way out is through.

Your eyes dart frantically between the three screaming Infected. The woman has started pounding her head against the glass. You’re trying to decide which one you can take first when the man yanking on the door finally rips it free. You scream and swing at his outstretched arms with your machete. Suddenly, a blade plunges through his chest. You stare in horror as he sputters and gasps, and the now blood-covered blade recedes. He crumples to the ground and you’re facing Red– the girl in the blonde wig and red tracksuit. She grins at you, and you notice the scar arcing across the lower half of her face. 

Your attention is pulled forward again when the Infected clawing at the windshield suddenly screams, his blood splattering across the glass. You see Fairy Wings standing over him proudly wielding her bat. The woman on your side is also quickly dispatched, and you see the boy in Black & White grinning smugly as she collapses against the car and her limp body slides to the ground. 

Purple steps over the bloodied corpse of the Infected and plops into the passenger seat of the car with a sigh. You’re staring straight ahead in shock, hands still shaking and gripping your machete tightly.

There’s a moment of quiet between you in the car as you both stare out the windshield.

Finally, he turns to you.

“Sorry, I think we got off on the wrong foot the other day. I’m Jimmy,” he offers casually.

You turn your head only slightly, so you can see him out of the corner of your eye. The rest of your body remains frozen in place as your heart only just begins to slow down. He smiles softly at you, as if you’re not in a blood splattered car surrounded by the corpses of Infected and his cheering minions. He turns his attention to the seven of them, cleaning their weapons and chattering loudly to each other.

“An’ tha’s Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy, and–”

“Let me guess,” you croak. “Robert.”

He chuckles, and the silence falls back into the air.

He found you.

And just like the Infected, your options for escape are so limited they’re practically nonexistent. Stab him and face the seven riotous murderers. Run– be found again.

Jimmy watches your eyes dart around, watches the gears turning in your head as you try to calculate your next move.

“Ye know,” he begins, his voice tentative in the fragile space between you, as if he’s trying not to startle a small animal. “I was never too good at the maths…but I’ve a feelin’ yer odds of survivin’ are better with us.”

A bitter laugh chokes its way out of your throat.

“Surviving…with you lot…” you huff. 

“Jus’ saved yer neck, yer fuckin’ welcome,” he counters hotly.

“I’m not like you.”

Your voice is a whisper, harsh and angry as you fight back tears. You’re not sure why your eyes are hot and watery; you’re not sad. But something about the emotional intensity of the last two days, something about being in this car with him…it makes you feel like a sweater with a loose thread that someone’s yanked on. You can feel your stitching starting to unravel. 

“Yer not?” he asks, feigning innocence.

“I could never do– what you do– what you did…those people…at the house…”

His brows shoot up in surprise. You were there.

“Oh, right…right, but those zombie fuckers on the playground–” he starts, challenge in his voice.

“That’s different,” you retort firmly.

“How?” he pushes back. “Oh, we’re so fuckin’ evil, but you can stab those wee shites through the heart, slash their fuckin’ throats–”

“That’s different. The Infected–”

“No, I donnae think so,” he cuts you off sharply. The silence falls over you again as he watches you, studies your face as your lip quivers. He sighs, then turns his attention back through the windshield, watching the Jimmys play through the blood smeared glass.

“Ye see them?” he asks finally. “Every single one of ‘em joined my Fist because I saw somethin’ in ‘em. A hunger, a fire…an anger.”

He turns back to you.

“The same anger I saw in you.”

You press your eyes closed and feel hot tears stinging your eyes and streaking down your cheeks. You’re tired. No, you’re fucking exhausted.

Not exhausted from a lack of sleep. You’re exhausted from twenty-eight years of survival. Twenty-eight years of scraping by, roaming from one decimated place to another. Twenty-eight years of hiding, running, fighting, crying in empty houses, on barren rooftops in the dark. Twenty-eight years of wondering if this was all worth it. If this was all your life would be.

You are angry. And that’s what scares you. 

You would be lying if you said there wasn’t some sick part of you, buried deep inside of your chest, that enjoyed killing the Infected. As much as you hated to admit it, as much as you did still see them as people, human beings with a disease…the feeling of your machete slicing through their flesh was the closest you ever got to catharsis. 

The rage that boils in their blood…you sometimes wonder if it simmers in yours, too.

Your eyes flick open and you huff out a breath, turning away from him and wiping your cheeks. He continues to watch you, examining your face, your body language.

“Sometimes I worry about you, kid.”

“Wha’d’ya mean?”

“All that fire in you…”

“Hey, that fire’s kept us alive so far!”

“I know, I know…just…don’t let it burn you, too.”

“That…anger…” Jimmy continues, his voice oddly soft. He turns his attention back to his flock, watching Jimmima jump on Jones’s back, shrieking in delight as they go stumbling forward. “It has a home here.”

You turn back to him, eyes scanning his face, expecting to see a glimmer of something– an ulterior motive, a scheme, something that tells you he’s lying.

All you see is sincerity.

You face forward, following his gaze, and watch the Jimmys. The same freaks that pulled those screams out of those people in the house are now laughing, smiling, playing together. Orange runs forward with Fairy Wings on their back, while Blue stumbles forward, holding Red & Black. Green stands a distance away, arms outstretched. When Orange and Fairy Wings reach him, Fairy Wings slaps his outstretched hand, then hoists her own fists in victory. Blue and Red & Black tumble to the ground, and the others laugh.

It has a home here.

You have a home here.

You assess your odds one more time.

Finally, you look back to Jimmy. His eyes dart over to meet yours and he gives you a small smile. He holds his hand out, his rings glinting in the bright afternoon light.

You take it, and shake.

A home.

You’re walking through the woods now, all nine of you, and you can’t believe these fools have lasted as long as they have out here.

They’re so loud. You’d learned that any noise was a risk; the Infected had an especially keen sense of hearing, and in the early days of Infection, you and Lachlan had trained yourselves to step carefully, avoid twigs and branches, breathe quietly, communicate with hand signals, and read each other’s lips.

The Jimmys crash through the foliage, shouting and hurling insults at one another the whole way. Your instincts keep you from joining in the romp.

Red trudges along at your side, leading the pack. Jimmy brings up the rear, keeping his eye on you.

“So…the root cellar. Good hidin’ place,” she offers after several moments of sustained silence.

You halt in your tracks, staring at her. She chuckles softly at you before tilting her head forward.

“C’mon,” she smiles. “Trust me, y’don’t want any’a those nosy cunts eavesdroppin’.”

You force your feet to keep going and fall back in step with her.

“That was you,” you reply, dumbfounded. “Pulling on the doors.”

She nods, stepping over a large gnarled tree root.

“Why did you let me go?” you ask in a small voice. She surely could’ve broken the door, or alerted the others.

“Dunno,” Red says simply. 

You examine her face, your eye once again drawn to the scar that runs from her cheekbone across her lip, down to her chin. She’s rolled up the sleeves of her tracksuit, the zipper resting about halfway up her torso, and you look her up and down, noting all the tattoos decorating her neck, her forearms, the backs of her hands. You remember her name now: Jimmy Ink. She glances over at you and you snap forward again, embarrassed to be caught staring.

Suddenly, several of the others prance up, flanking your sides. They’re all eager to play with their newest toy.

“Boy, can I pick ‘em or what?” Black & Red announces smugly. 

“Shut up, Fox,” Ink grumbles. 

“I dunno,” Fairy Wings taunts in a sing-song voice. “Seems a little soft to me.”

“Soft?” Ink laughs. “Yeah, that’s why she fuckin’ beat you to the punch the other day, right?”

“Fuck off,” Fairy Wings scowls, then turns her attention back on you. You avoid her eye. “Why’s she get to be Finger without a fight, hm?”

“She’s not a fuckin’ Finger, stupid,” Fox leers. “She’s a pet, remember?”

“Shut up, Fox,” Ink repeats. “So fuckin’ annoyin’.”

“Oooh, someone’s gone a bit sweet on Sir Jimmy’s disciple, huh?” he taunts her, his voice dripping with the same teasing tone that Lachlan had often turned on you.

“Fuck off, both of you,” Ink huffs. “Like you’re one to fuckin’ talk.”

That shuts him up.

“Jus’ sayin’,” Fairy Wings counters. “If she’s so fuckin’ important, dontcha think she needs to prove herself to Old Nick?”

You lift your boot high enough to step over a fallen branch. Fairy Wings skips over it, landing gracefully without breaking her stride, as if her wings are more than just tattered nylon stretched over a wire frame.

“Sir Jimmy said Old Nick told ‘im about his plans for ‘er,” Ink protests. “If Sir Jimmy says it, isn’t that good enough for you, Jimmima?”

Jimmima frowns again, but she doesn’t have a retort. You’re still learning their names, and try your best to internalize hers.

Ink stops in a small clearing, looking around. The ground is level enough to set up camp, and mostly free of any large debris. The groundcover in the area has receded, leaving some of the damp soil of the forest floor exposed. She turns toward the sun, now getting low in the sky. You’ve been walking for longer than you realize.

“We should stop here,” she calls back to Jimmy. Again, her volume makes you wince. 

The others linger in the clearing as they catch up. When Jimmy finally steps through the trees, he looks around briefly before giving Ink a small, firm nod.

“Aye,” he says. “We’ll set up here for th’ night.”

The full moon casts a little light through the trees, and you stare up at it through the branches over your head.

Snake and Jones have taken over the far corner of the tiny camp, and share a blanket draped across both of their chests. Shite, Fox, and Jimmy Jimmy– whom you’d learned the others often called ‘JJ’ to save time– occupy another small footprint of the campsite. Jimmima had laid out a blanket between Jimmy and Ink, and you’d opted to lie down on Ink’s other side.

You twist in your bedroll, unable to find comfort on the cold forest floor. The damp smell of the dirt below your head soothes you, but the cold chill in the air cuts you to the bone. You shiver.

Despite Ink and Jimmima sleeping soundly between you, Jimmy’s dreaming about choking you with his cock until you pass out.

You hear him tossing and turning, the gentle rustling of his makeshift bedding echoing in the otherwise quiet night. You finally hear him sit up and sigh.

Jimmy rubs at the back of his neck. He stares at you, your back to him, curled up in your sleep. Well, what he assumes is sleep.

He pushes himself to his feet and quietly walks over to your place, stepping over a sleeping Jimmima and Ink. Ink stirs slightly as he passes, but the others remain still. Jimmy stands over your unmoving body, unaware of the fact that you’re awake and holding your breath under his gaze. You keep your eyes shut, but you can feel your heart pounding. You swallow and your jaw tenses. You listen to his steady breathing as he watches you.

Jimmy runs his eyes along your outline, watching your chest expand with every breath, your tits rising and falling. He shoves a hand down the front of his track pants and grips himself, slowly stroking his length. He stares at you, you, lying quietly underneath him at last. He shudders at the lazy stimulation of his hand on his cock and pumps faster.

He imagines pulling himself out and painting your face and hair while you sleep.

You can hear his breath stuttering through his lungs.

He imagines the others waking up and watching him cum all over you, claiming you as his own, and bites back a moan. His cock twitches in his hand and he pants, trying his best to stay quiet. 

You can hear him moving, breathing, but you have no idea what’s going on just above your head.

Jimmy lets a shaky breath escape his lungs as he takes his hand off himself and turns away from you. He runs his hand through his hair, trying to relax. When he turns back to you, he shoves a fist against his teeth, too worked up to be this close to you. He’s still painfully hard, his erection tenting the velour of his track pants. Jimmy wraps his hand around his base once more, squeezing gently.

“Fuck,” he whispers through gritted teeth, his breath feather-light on the air. You shift slightly, finally hearing him speak. Jimmy freezes. He grumbles and pulls his hand away again. 

Not yet.

He turns away from you, scrubbing a hand against his jaw, desperately trying to steady his breath. He walks back towards his bed, then turns again, restlessly pacing. His eyes fall back on you. He knows he won’t sleep.

Finally, he turns and slinks down the hill the way you came. Maybe a walk will clear his head.

When you hear Jimmy walk off, you carefully roll over, your eyes still closed, imitating sleep. You gently open them, squinting through the darkness. He’s gone.

Ink is twisted up in her own blanket. Her face is so much more delicate like this, lost in a gentle slumber. You stare at her scar again and wonder where it came from. An Infected? One of these creeps? Jimmima’s voice from earlier still rings through your head.

Why’s she get to be Finger without a fight?

Your eyes drift from her face to her neck, her pulse fluttering softly under the skin adorned with a large tattoo. At first you thought it was just meant to look like a choker, but now you can see the details. It’s a man with his arms outstretched, an enormous pair of wings sprouting from his back and stretching around Ink’s neck. The man has something on his chest, but in the low light, you can’t make it out.

You study her face again. The splatter of freckles across her skin rivals that of the stars over your head. But she has the same trademark as the others: an inverted cross, carved into her forehead between her eyebrows.

Dontcha think she needs to prove herself to Old Nick?

You finally tear your eyes away from Ink, landing them instead on your knapsack. You have enough supplies to stay on the move for a few days; if you make a dash for it now, you can put 30 kilometers between you and them before sunrise, easy. You quietly fold back the top cover of your bed roll, not bothering to try and repack it. It’s not worth the risk of waking the others. 

You shoulder your pack and carefully step around Ink and Jimmima. You walk a few paces, and when you’re satisfied that you’re far enough not to be heard, you run.

You run until you’re at the small creek you’d crossed earlier in the evening. Ink is clearly the one guiding the group; not just leading them, but obviously tracking you. The way she surveyed the campsite, the fact that she knew you were in the root cellar…she thinks like Lachlan. He was always your north star. You would’ve followed him anywhere.

Ink’s keen instincts were just like your brother’s; luckily, that meant you could predict her moves. And you knew she would wake in the morning and assume that you had run east, towards the coast. Which is exactly why you ran directly back the way you came. Lachlan always believed the answer to any given question or problem was in front of you, and if you could just keep going, just keep moving, you’d find it. Ink had the same look in her eyes that told you she was sick of looking backwards. She’d never think to backtrack to find you.

As you approach the creek, you can hear a sound floating above the steady flow of the water. It sounds like a person, but you can’t tell if it’s an Infected or not. All you can make out is the ragged, rushed sound of breathing. As you approach the riverband, you catch a glimpse of the source and quickly duck behind the base of a wide tree, your knee gently landing in the soft dirt as you sink down.

It’s Jimmy.

Fuck.

You peek around the trunk of the tree and watch him. He’s about 15 meters from you, standing hunched over, one hand braced against the tree in front of him. Your eyes drift down towards his other hand.

He’s jerking off.

You quickly twist back around the tree, pressing your back into the trunk and a hand over your mouth.

“Fuck, jus’ like that, angel, c’mon,” he grunts. The slick, disgusting sound of his hand on his cock makes bile rise in the back of your throat and the sound of your heartbeat floods your ears.

You need to get back to camp. But you’re frozen in place, listening to him.

Jimmy’s hand works over his length, gently twisting and squeezing in all the right places as he teases himself.

He imagines you laying underneath him again, so soft and gentle and pliable. He wants to make you cry and beg and claw at his chest while he ruins you.

“Fuck, fuck,” he pants. You hear your name tumble past his lips in an obscene groan. It makes your blood run cold.

You’re calculating odds again in your head, but you don’t see a way out of this one. At least, not in any way that ends well for you.

Fox rolls over to the sound of gentle rustling and groggily forces his eyes open. Jimmima’s quietly walking off, away from the campsite. Fox, fully awake now, props himself up on an elbow and stops Jimmima with a quick low whistle. She abruptly turns back and sees Fox raise his hands in a what the fuck are you doing gesture. She clicks her tongue softly in annoyance, then waves him over.

Fox quietly rises from his makeshift bed and scurries over.

“Fuck ‘re you goin’?” Fox whispers harshly. “He’s gonna be fuckin’ pissed.”

“He’s fuckin’ gone,” Jimmima whispers, nodding at Sir Jimmy’s empty cot. “And so’s she.” She nods at your similarly unoccupied place. 

“So?” Fox counters.

“So…something’s fucking up. Why’s Sir Jimmy lettin’ ‘er travel with us if she hasn’t fucking proved herself to Old Nick?” Jimmima continues. Ink gently shifts in her sleeping bag, and Jimmima drops her voice a bit. “Somethin’s fuckin’ goin’ on.”

She turns back towards the woods. She’s not sure which way you’ve gone, but she trusts her sense of hearing enough to know that she’ll find you.

“Y’comin’?” she asks Fox at last. 

His eyes are narrowed in thought. He looks back at your empty place, then to Jimmy’s. She’s right– something’s up. He gives Jimmima a quick nod and the two of them take off into the night.

Ink wakes to harsh whispers just a few paces away from her sleeping bag.

Somethin’s fuckin’ goin’ on. Y’comin’?

When she hears the footsteps disappear into the brush, she tentatively opens her eyes and sits up. Snake, Jones, Shite, and JJ are still sleeping soundly. It would take a stampede of Infected to wake Jones; Ink recalls a morning where Jimmy had to practically kick them in the stomach to get them up. Snake usually got up first and would shake them awake at the last possible moment. But Ink’s attention is now drawn to the empty places around the campsite: Jimmima, Fox, Jimmy, and you are all missing. She notices that your knapsack is gone, too. The whispers were right. Something’s fucking going on. And whatever it is, it can’t be good. 

Ink tosses back the top of her sleeping bag and silently follows the direction of the voices.

“Listen–!”

“Wha’, I don’t hear anythin’?”

“This way!”

It’s Fox and Jimmima. They’re looking for you. Ink quietly steps through the foliage, careful not to rustle too many leaves or step on any twigs. She just hopes she can find you before they do.

Back at the riverbank, you’re still frozen behind the tree, listening to Jimmy pant and whine your name.

“Fuck, tha’s it, tha’s fuckin’ it, good fuckin’ girl,” he hisses.

It’s so vile, you feel like you could throw up. But a part of you feels the shameful heat rise in your cheeks and blossom between your thighs. You squeeze your legs together as your stomach twists.

It’s been so long since you’ve felt someone’s hands on you. There was a man you traveled with some years ago, from a nearby island, who’d stopped on the mainland to hunt. You lived and worked together for a few weeks before you were separated during an attack. He was handsome and strong, and he could work your body like you were an instrument. 

You don’t feel the same way about Jimmy; you felt something with the man from your past that you could almost call love. You found a tiny stone cottage with a door that locked and windows that let in light. You spent many lazy sunlit mornings lying in the bed that was too small to be comfortable when you shared it, his hands on your waist, your chest, your jaw. In those moments it felt like the world was paused, the way you remember freezing a tape in the television as a child. Everything holding still, halted in place, while he whispered in your ear, promises of marriage, of taking you back to his island, making you a mother.

It had been years since he’d disappeared. And there wasn’t a good way to meet people in the zombie apocalypse. A quick glance at a young man living on a farm that was willing to shelter you for a night or two. But usually you were on your own.

“Take it so well, angel,” Jimmy mutters, still lost in his bliss. “Y’wan’ it? Fuck, want it down yer fuckin’ throat?”

You hear his breath accelerating, matching your own. You swallow thickly.

You stumble to your feet. You’re never going to make it past him; your best bet is to make it back to camp before one of the others realizes you’re gone. You start back up the hill towards the smell of lingering smoke from your campfire, hopeful that the other Jimmys are still sound asleep, and this can fade into an awkward memory that lives in a dark corner of your mind.

Until you hear the sound of low bickering voices and rusting leaves.

“She went fuckin’ this way!”

“How could you possibly fuckin’ know that?”

“I heard something, shut up!”

“You heard somethin’, how’d’ye know it’s not a fuckin’ animal? Or a fuckin’ zombie, ohhh….!”

“Fuck off, she went this way!”

You’re too late. Fox and Jimmima are on your trail, and close, by the sounds of it. Your mind is going a mile a minute. You quickly slide your pack off your shoulder and toss it aside. If they hadn’t already noticed it was missing from the campsite, you might be able to play this off. 

Your pack lands with a louder thump than you’d meant it to, and you hear Jimmima and Fox freeze. You do the same. Their pace quickens, and you’re already wracking your brain for your excuse when they finally reach you.

“Well…” Fox begins. “Lookae wha’ we ‘ave ‘ere.”

“Oh dear,” Jimmima smiles. “Did you get lost?”

“I-I was just goin’ to the bathroom–” you stutter on the lie. Shit.

“Sure…” Jimmima sneers. “Y’know, you’re not even s’posed to be here.”

“I know, I was just heading back,” you reply, a little more confidence in your voice this time. You take a step forward, and they each step closer together, blocking your path.

“No,” she corrects you firmly. “You’re not supposed to be here. With us.”

No fucking shit, you think.

“What’re you talking about?” you say instead, trying to play at casual.

“Everyone has to prove themselves to Old Nick,” she spits. “So why not you?”

“I don’t know, ask Jimm–”

“Sir Jimmy,” Fox barks at you.

“Ask Sir Jimmy,” you correct, eyes darting back and forth between the two of them.

Fox shoots a glance towards Jimmima. The corner of her lip quirks up ever so slightly before they both turn back to you. 

“Well, Sir Jimmy always says that everyone has’ta prove themselves to Old Nick,” Jimmima starts innocently. Fox smirks and circles around you. “We could help you…”

Fox grabs your wrist and twists your right arm behind your back. You wince in pain, your hand clawing for the small knife tucked into your waistband.

“Ah, ah,” Fox chides, snatching the knife for himself. He grabs your left wrist, knife still in hand, and twists again, effectively pinning you. Jimmima takes a step towards you.

“Wha’dya think, Fox? My knife, or hers?”

Fox grins wickedly and tosses Jimmima your knife. When his hand leaves your wrist, you struggle to break free, but he’s quick to adjust his grip and pulls you back into position. Jimmima catches your knife by the handle– impressive, even you have to admit– and inspects the blade.

“Stop–please, you don’t have to do this–” you pant, your heartbeat thundering in your chest.

“Oh, but we do,” she murmurs. She presses your knife to the side of your neck, the cool metal meeting your hot skin. “Y’gotta prove that you deserve to be here, isn’t that right, Fox?”

Fox tugs on your arms, pulling your back into his chest. He leans up into your ear, his breath hot and revolting.

“Yeah…” he sneers. “Gotta prove you can fuckin’ hang.”

Jimmima presses the blade into your neck, stinging your flesh. You can feel the sharp edge digging into your skin slightly and you whimper. Jimmima laughs.

“Listen t’that, Fox. Got her fuckin’ cryin’ already!”

Suddenly, Jimmima lands on the ground with a scream. Ink is on top of her, pinning her wrists into the dirt above her head.

“Fuck ‘re you doing?” she hisses. Jimmima squirms underneath her, but Ink’s knees straddling her tiny frame keep her in place. Fox tightens his grip on you, but you can tell he’s surprised– he doesn’t know whether to let you go and help Jimmima, or finish you off himself.

“Fuck off!” Jimmima squeals. “She’s mine!” 

“Yeah right, she’s fuckin’ yours!” Ink shouts. “And how’s Sir Jimmy gonna feel, knowin’ you fuckin’ killed ‘er?”

“She has to–mmph–she doesn’t fuckin’ deserve to be a Finger!” Jimmima whines. Your heart is still racing, but you think you see tears streaking down her dirt-covered temples.

“She’s not a Finger,” a new voice looms through the darkness.

Your eyes turn toward the source. Jimmy stands just meters away from you, staring at Ink and Jimmima on the ground. Fox quickly drops your wrists, and you stumble out of his grip. You trip and your hands land on the soft dirt, catching yourself as you catch your breath.

“What about that is so hard f’you stupid cunts to understand?” he asks cooly. The way his voice freezes the air around you chills you to the bone. You can feel the way they respond to him with complete reverence.

Ink slowly stands, releasing Jimmima. Jimmima stands. The three of them look like misbehaving children caught by a stern parent, eyes cast downward, avoiding his gaze. You lean back on your haunches, the knees of your trousers collecting the dampness of the dirt below you. You look up at him. His eyes dart from each of them back to you.

Jimmy stares at you, panting, on your knees in front of him, and bites the inside of his cheek.

“Someone wannae tell me what the fuck was goin’ on?” he asks again, his tone sharper than the blade that was digging into your neck. You absentmindedly rub a hand over your neck, checking for injury. When you pull your fingers back, they’re painted with the faintest sheen of red. She got you, but not enough to do much damage.

“We were–” Fox stammers, then swallows hard when Jimmy’s eyes land on him, “we were…just…she’s gotta prove ‘erself, Sir.”

“She’s gottae prove herself…” Jimmy repeats thoughtfully. “To who?”

“Old Nick,” Jimmima mutters weakly. Jimmy turns his gaze on her. “Sir,” she adds.

He looks at Ink. He raises his brow at her. That what happened? Their silent language.

“Fox were holdin’ her, Jimmima had the knife,” Ink confirms.

Jimmy clicks his tongue in disapproval. You examine his face, trying to read him for his next move as he looks back and forth between Jimmima and Fox. The moonlight dances through the trees as a gentle breeze waves the branches around you. 

“Ye know,” Jimmy starts. “Fightin’...when not for the glory of Old Nick…is an offense, Fingers.”

“Yes, Sir Jimmy,” Jimmima and Fox answer in unison. His control amazes you. The two aggressive fighters who were just about to kill you are now turned to bashful, obedient followers.

“Shall I ask Old Nick what yer punishment should be?” Jimmy continues. “For breakin’ the fuckin’ rules?” 

The vitriol in his voice scares you. Your head is pounding in time with your heart as you watch Fox and Jimmima share a worried look. Jimmy raises two of his fingers to his right temple.

“No!” you shout.

You don’t know why. They were trying to kill you. Your odds of survival would certainly be better without them– either or both of them– around. 

Jimmy pauses and looks at you.

“Wha’ was that?”

You swallow.

“N-no,” you repeat, a little quieter.

“No?” he repeats.

Ink’s eyes dart nervously between you and Jimmy. She knows Jimmy has some kind of plan for you, but defiance of any sort was a sure way to activate his rage. She’d seen his rage; she didn’t want you on the receiving end of it.

“No…Sir…” you correct. Hearing his title on your lips makes Jimmy swallow hard, tensing his jaw. Your head is spinning, working fast to craft a lie that will let the events of the night evaporate into nothingness. “No, Sir. Old Nick…he already told me…he said they should be forgiven.”

Jimmy stares down at you, a question in his eyes that even Ink can’t read. You don’t break his gaze, silently praying that he believes the lie.

Listen to her, Jimmy. She is my disciple. I speak through her.

Jimmy’s eyes flutter shut as he listens to his Father. He releases a breath. You’re still holding yours.

Finally, he opens his eyes. He holds your gaze a moment longer, staring into your pleading eyes.

You can hear Him, too.

He looks from you, to Ink, to Jimmima, to Fox. No one moves.

“Very well, Fingers,” Jimmy says at last, flashing his decaying smile. “Ye heard the girl. Old Nick says…forgiveness.”

You release your breath, your chest quietly heaving. Ink eyes you. Jimmima and Fox stare at Jimmy in disbelief. He gently kicks your knife towards you with the toe of one of his trainers. You pick it up and tuck it back into your belt.

Jimmy starts back up the hill towards the campsite. The rest of you stay frozen in place, staring at the spot he once occupied. You can feel the tension in the air slowly dissipate, like air being released from a balloon.

Jimmy pauses, his back still to you.

“Jus’ don’t fuck it up this time.”

You wake the next morning to the noisy chattering of birds outside the window and sunlight streaming through the window onto your face. You twist in the sheets, trying to shut out the world for just a little while longer. 

It’s no use.

You sit up in the bed, the ancient springs creaking under the shift of your weight. You rub at one eye, trying to pull yourself out of the sleepy haze that’s still clouding your brain. You know you can’t stay here long; you could never stay in one place too long. Infected were of course always a threat, and now you had to worry about the gang of towheaded weirdos on your trail, too. You decide to make quick use of the resources at the cottage and move on as quickly as you can.

You toss off the duvet and swing your legs out of the bed, landing your boots on the floor. You stand and cross to the old wooden dresser against the wall opposite you. Opening the top drawer, you’re ecstatic: clean clothes. You root around for something that would fit you, checking the other drawers as well. The cottage must have belonged to a man and a woman, because you find a mix of items ransacking through the dresser before turning your attention to the closet. You grab a few things and quickly change, leaving your own clothes on the floor. It feels weird to leave your clothes behind, but you know that they’ll be picturing you in that outfit while they’re looking for you. It was better for your odds to leave it behind.

You dig in the closet for a jacket, finding an old bomber jacket littered with fading patches. You pull it on over your new clothes and shove a few extra things in your rucksack: clean socks, underwear, a t-shirt. Not enough to weigh you down, but enough to get you through for a while.

You shoulder your bag and push past the door back out into the rest of the house, eager to fix yourself something to eat and raid the pantry before you move on. You stand in the small main room of the cottage, silent for a moment. Listening.

Just the birds still chirping.

Still…you know it’s best to keep your time here brief.

Ink trudges ahead, stomping through the leafy groundcover that litters the forest floor.

“Man, there’s no fuckin’ way she got this far, we’re goin’ the wrong way!” Fox shouts.

“Shut up, y’want’er t’hear ye?” Snake snaps.

“Both’a yous, shut up!” Shite barks.

“Shite, there’s no fuckin’ way–” Fox tries again.

“Shut up, Fox! We know she went this way, no one fuckin’ cares that your feet hurt!” Jimmy Jimmy snarks.

“Fuck off,” Fox retorts.

“Ooh clever!”

“Fuck you!”

“Fuck you!”

“Knock it off,” Shite growls, yanking roughly on Fox’s sleeve to tame him. “He wants us to find ‘er, let’s just fuckin’ find her and be done with it.”

Fox shoots a glance at Jimmy Jimmy before both boys silently agree to let it go. They continue, plodding through the woods. They’ve been walking all morning, having set up camp overnight. 

Jimmy walks behind the group, Jimmima by his side.

“Why’d’ye want ‘er alive?” she asks, trying not to betray her disdain for you.

“Well, she cannae be much of a fuckin’ disciple if she’s dead, now, can she?” he replies gruffly.

“But she’s a doubter…thought all doubters get Charity…”

“Old Nick has given us a precious…gift, Jimmima,” he continues. “The opportunity to offer deliverance to a lost, suffering soul.”

“But she–”

“Go get Ink f’me, yeah?”

“But–”

“Jimmy says go get Ink. Now.”

Jimmima scowls, turning away before he can see her expression. She runs ahead, gracefully jumping over rocks and fallen branches like a deer, like she was raised in the forest. And hell, she sort of was. Jimmy remembers finding her, just 12 years old, face rubbed with dirt, knees scraped and bleeding. He watches as she runs up to Ink, grabbing her shoulder. She says something to her and both girls look back at Jimmy, who flashes them his decaying smile. Ink rolls her eyes and folds her arms, staying put while the others surpass her. When Jimmy finally catches up to where she stands, they fall in step with one another immediately.

“What?” she asks.

“Where’d’ye think she’s gone?”

“How should I know?”

He glances at her. She’s staring at the ground in front of her, purposefully avoiding his eye.

“Yer the best tracker outta all these fuckers,” he grins. It’s a bit of praise, intended to endear her to him, but it’s the truth, too. 

She looks up at him. He grins, for real this time. She returns the smile before glancing away again. 

“Fuck off,” she huffs. 

“You fuck off,” he retorts, knocking her shoulder with his.

They’ve been like this for years; neither of them know exactly how long. The first Finger in his fist, Ink’s been by his side for longer than Jimmy can remember. Most of his mind is scrambled, memories showing up in fragments and jumbled pieces, but he remembers meeting Ink clearer than he remembers anything else. 

She was only 8, he was 18. He’d found an old school building that obviously hadn’t been functional in years. After hopping the fence, he found a door with hinges just rusty enough to force his way inside. Schools–any big buildings, really–were good for supplies. He rooted around in a few empty classrooms, ransacking teachers’ desks and supply closets, looking for anything he could use. The sound of footsteps on linoleum froze him in place. He listened carefully, stepping out into the hallway once more. He pulled his hunting knife out of the makeshift holster he’d tied to his belt and walked down the hall, sticking his head in each room to take a quick sweep.

In a room towards the end of the hall, what looked to be a room that might’ve been used for the year twos, there was a girl, sitting cross-legged on the small carpet in the corner, flipping the pages of a flimsy picture book. Next to her was a small shelf, piled high with books, that she had either already read or was about to read, or perhaps both. Wrappers littered the carpet on her other side– crackers and biscuits and fruit snacks, empty juice pouches and sweets.

“Are ye here to kill me?” she asked in a plain voice.

“No–no, I donnae think so,” he replied, startled by her frankness.

“I’m Kelly.”

“Jimmy.”

“D’ye wanna fruit snack, Jimmy?”

“Sure…thanks.”

He shakes the memory from his mind with a toss of his blond hair. He sees something in her face that tells him she’s doing the same.

“She’s prob’bly found a place to shack up,” Ink finally offers. “Or we’d’ve seen ‘er by now. We’re lookin’ for a buildin’, a house…some place she could stock up and hide out.”

The Jimmys ahead of them start to get louder, shouting and whooping.

“Fuck is it?” Jimmy shouts above the chaos.

“’S a cottage!” Fox shouts back.

Jimmy smiles.

The Fingers linger near the edge of the woods, allowing their leader to catch up to them. When he and Ink finally reach the clearing overlooking the small cottage, he looks down at the building.

Some place she could stock up and hide out.

“Jimmy says…go get ‘er.”

The sound of shouting catches your attention.

“’S a cottage!” you hear faintly in the distance.

Fuck.

You quickly finish pouring water into your water bottle, a nice one you took from a different abandoned house months ago– soft plastic that won’t crinkle like a disposable, with a logo that’s been scratched and scraped off, no doubt eroded by time. You strap the bottle into the side pocket of your rucksack and toss it over your shoulder. You grip the brass handles on the window at the back of the kitchen, overlooking the backyard of the property. It’s stuck, the wood clearly warped with age.

“C’mon, c’mon,” you whisper, begging the window to budge.

The shouting gets louder. They’re heading for the house.

“Fuck…don’t look at the dogs, work the lock,” you remind yourself quietly.

You wiggle the window in the frame, finally throwing it open when it finds its groove. You throw one leg out the window, then the next, landing on the soft grass. Judging by the volume of the voices approaching the front of the house, it’s too late for you to run.

A set of wooden double doors against the base of the house catches your eye. Just the sight of them is enough to make your stomach churn. But desperate times…

You throw the doors open and jump down into the tiny root cellar, pulling the doors closed behind you. You quickly scan the dark space for something, anything, to seal the doors with.

A pitchfork. 

It’s not ideal, but it’ll work.

You put the handle of the tool through the handles on the inside of the doors. If anyone tugs on the doors, they’ll have to break the solid wooden handle of the pitchfork. You’re not entirely sure that those freaks couldn’t do it, but still. Anything you can put between you and them increases your chances of survival.

You hear them knock the door open and rampage through the house upstairs, the fall of their feet on the wooden floorboards pounding above your head. Your knees are digging into the dirt in the back corner of the cellar, dampening your new cargo pants. Around you are crates, boxes, and barrels of food. You shiver at the unmistakable smell of onions and feel yourself start to gag.

It’s cold and damp down here, and you have no idea how long it’s been. The sound of screaming and wailing roars above you. 

Suddenly, it falls silent. You can hear your breath ragged in your throat, and press a hand over your mouth to quiet yourself. You’re shaking and quivering, pressing your back into the corner of the cellar.

The doors of the root cellar rattle above you as someone–something–screeches and wails.

The smell of raw onions stings your nostrils and your eyes, and you squeeze them shut as burning tears streak down your cheeks. The cacophony of rattling and screaming above you pierces your ears. You can feel your heart rapping against your ribcage, keeping time with each savage tug of the cellar doors.

Above you, the Jimmys stomp through the cottage.

“Oi, it’s fuckin’ stocked in ‘ere, check this out!” Fox shouts.

Jimmima pulls open a cupboard and digs around, finding a candy bar. Jimmy Jimmy tries to pluck it from her hand.

“Fuck off, find your own!” she squeals.

Ink rolls her eyes. She sticks her head into the tiny bedroom off the kitchen, noticing the discarded clothes on the floor. She kicks at them. These are the clothes you were wearing yesterday. She crouches down, inspecting the pile. She lifts your panties out of the heap of dirty laundry, grinning. She shoves them into the pocket of her jacket. 

She steps back out into the kitchen, looking around. She’s trying to imagine you here, where you would go, what you would grab. She notices the water splashed on the counter and the giant jugs of water under the sink. You were here, and recently.

She turns her attention to the open window. You hadn’t bothered to close it behind you. She unknowingly copies your movements from just minutes before, tossing one leg over the frame, then the other.

She lands in the grass next to the double doors of the root cellar. Ink turns to the doors slowly.

A good hiding place. Quick, subtle. And shit, none of them would have thought to check out here.

None of them except her.

She places a hand on each handle and gently tugs.

The doors rattle above you, pulled against the handle of the pitchfork. You stop a gasp as it rises in your throat, pressing a hand over your mouth. You can feel the hot tears and snot dripping down your face. Your breath is erratic, but you do everything in your power to keep it silent as it tears through your body.

The doors rattle one more time as Ink pulls a little harder.

Your mind is racing, your heart pounding. 

Ink stands, letting go of the doors.

She’s down there.

Ink remembers the look on your face as Jimmy held your chin and called you Disciple. The terror in your eyes. 

She turns from the root cellar and climbs back into the house through the window.

Jimmy stands outside the cottage, listening to and watching the others romp around. He surveys the grassy area around the cottage; it’s not huge. If Ink was right–and she often was, even he had to admit–and you’d stopped here, it would be pretty easy for you to get lost back into the woods when you were through.

“Father,” he mutters, bringing two fingers on his right hand to rest at his temple. “Are you watching?”

I am here, my son.

“Father, help us find the girl.”

Why do you seek her, my son?

“She is a Disciple to your glory, Father…” Jimmy recalls the ferocious look in your eye as you killed the Infected. “I’ve seen the heat, the anger, the rage that burns in her soul. A quick hand and a fiery heart. She will join me at my side, and exalt your name and execute your vision unto the world of man.”

You are close to what you seek, Jimmy.

Jimmy smiles and walks ahead, into the cottage.

“She ain’t here,” Shite grumbles, noticing their leader standing in the doorway.

“Too bad,” Jimmima adds in a sing-songy voice.

Jones and Snake eye each other. She’s pushing it, even they know.

Jimmy’s face drops slightly, his grin evaporating.

“Aye,” Ink  pipes up. “But she was.”

Jimmy’s eyes dart over to her.

“How d’ye reckon?”

Now they’re speaking only to each other, standing at opposite ends of the small main room of the cabin. They were always like this. Driver and shotgun. 

“Look at all this stuff, ‘s already been gone through,” she reasons. “Prob’ly stopped ‘ere f’the night and got out this mornin’.”

“How’d y’fuckin’ know it’s her?” Jimmy Jimmy.

“Fuck you,” Ink replies. “Not fuckin’ talkin’ t’you, am I?”

“Fingers,” Jimmy chides. They stand up straighter and look at him. He examines Ink’s face. There’s something she’s keeping to herself.

The sound of people in the distance makes Jimmy’s ears perk up. A small group, heading for the cottage.

“It seems Old Nick has delivered us a gift, Fingers,” he grins.

They shuffle and shift excitedly, shooting quick, eager glances at one another. Ink just watches Jimmy.

“Who would like to offer…Charity?”

You had hoped the tracksuits would move on quickly once they realized you weren’t there. As it happened, a group of survivors stumbled on the cottage, and you’d been trapped in the root cellar all day listening to their screams.

“And Old Nick saw that the world of man was corrupt,” Jimmy preaches, his feet falling gently on the wooden floor as he paces back and forth before the captives. Two men and a woman, all tied to chairs and gagged with whatever the Jimmys could find.

“And Old Nick sent forth his demons upon the world of man, that the world of man might be cleansed,” he continues. “And He told me…his favorite son…He told me…Jimmy…”

He grins, glancing around at the others, their faces enraptured with delight as they listen to his gospel.

“Jimmy, you and yer Seven Fingers shall roam the land, cleansing it of the impurities of man. To Me, offer their screams, their suffering, and their souls, and ye shall take yer place at My right hand, and My Kingdom shall be yours.”

He finishes with a flourish.

“Howzat?”

“Howzat,” they all repeat monotonously. 

The woman whimpers around her gag. Jimmy rolls his eyes and roughly tugs on it, pulling it down around her neck.

“Whazzat, love? Yer gonnae have t’speak up.”

“Our Father,” she whispers. “Who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name–”

Jimmy cuts her off with a harsh laugh.

“Ye think that made up cunt’s gonnae save ye? Go on, then, go on,” he laughs. “Beg ‘im. See what he does.”

She stops praying and cries silently.

Jimmy kneels in front of her, examining her face.

“God…doesnae do shite. Look around,” he says softly. “Ye think if he cared so fuckin’ much about us–”

He cuts himself off quickly.

Ink’s eyebrows furrow as she watches him.

“Shall I call on Old Nick? Ask Him what His pleasure is for these three?”

The Jimmys cheer in delight.

“Old Nick, Old Nick,” Jimmima chants in a delighted, breathy voice as she kicks her feet from where she’s sitting on top of the small table.

Jimmy stands and pulls the gag back into the woman’s mouth as she winces and sobs again. He turns on his heel and stalks towards the open door of the cottage. He looks up at the clouds gathering overhead and presses his fingers to his temple again, gently fluttering his eyes shut. He drops his voice.

“Father…Master…Dark Lord…are you with us now?”

I am here, my son.

Jimmy smiles faintly.

“Good.”

The Jimmys snicker and smile, tossing glances to each other.

“Father, what is your command for these three souls we’ve come to offer you?”

He stands in silence for a moment, listening.

“Ah- wise choice, My Lord,” he smiles finally.

Jimmy turns back to his awaiting crowd.

“Old Nick says…baptism.”

The Jimmys snicker and lower their masks– terrifying things, fashioned out of scraps of fabric to match their tracksuits, some of them with human teeth sewn in above the mouth. The captives wriggle and strain against their binds, but it’s no use.

Fox throws open a cabinet and pulls out a large pot. Shite finds a pair of buckets sitting near the back door. Jimmima springs up from the table, brandishing her knife, and hops over to one of the men.

“You’re lucky,” she giggles. “Baptism’s a special one.”

She traces her knife along the inseam of his trousers. The man grunts in a panic around the gag.

“Not there, y’gonna kill ‘im too fast,” Jimmy Jimmy teases.

“I wasn’t gonna cut there first, idiot,” she huffs. She sits on his lap and roughly grabs the man’s sleeve, rolling it up from his forearm. “Bring me the bucket.”

Fox sets the pot beneath the arm she’s inspecting. She smiles sweetly then digs her knife into the man’s skin, pressing firmly until she sees the red liquid flowing from the incision. The man screams in pain, the other prisoners looking over to watch. His blood drips down his arm, a drop landing in the pot with a loud pang. 

It feels like hours pass. And you’re sure they do, but you have no idea how long you’re down in the root cellar, gagging on the stench of onions, listening to the screams above you.

When they finally, finally end, you peek through the slats in the wooden doors above you. The sun is getting low. They’ve been at this all fucking day. 

“Excellent work, Fingers,” Jimmy beams, looking at the bodies in front of him.

Each one, systematically drained of blood, their heads then held under the liquid collected in the buckets and pots until they started to breathe it in and choke on it. Baptism is one of Jimmy’s favorites.

“Take ‘em out,” he commands. “We’ll stay here for the night, but we’ve gottae be movin’ on in the mornin’. We can’t lose the girl.”

The Jimmys lift and drag the bodies out of the house, Jimmima and Snake grabbing the buckets and the pot to dump in the woods. As the others dispose of the mess, Ink lingers in the doorway, watching them, before she turns back into the house.

Jimmy crosses to the bedroom and flops down onto the bed.

“Where’d’ye think she’s gone now?” he calls to Ink.

She walks back through the cottage and leans her shoulder against the doorframe into the bedroom.

“Hard to say,” Ink says. “Into the woods, prob’ly. She’d try to find another house, or another camp. Maybe more people.”

Jimmy smiles, untangling his tiara from his hair.

“Perfect.”

“Got somethin’ for you,” Ink tells him. She pulls your old panties out of her jacket pocket and tosses them to Jimmy with a grin. “Told ya she was here.”

“Fuck off, ye were keepin’ these for yerself?” he chides her jokingly. “Fuckin’ pervert.”

“You’re the fuckin’ pervert, pervert,” she smiles. “Maybe if you don’t want ‘em, I’ll take ‘em back…”

“No–”

Ink chuckles.

“No, fuckin’...” he turns the fabric over in his hand before setting it down on the bed next to him. “We’re fuckin’ outta ‘ere in the mornin’, got it?”

She nods.

“Good. Make sure those cunts don’t fuckin’ kill each other, yeah?”

She chuckles, then turns back towards the front door. She sees the others, still kicking and shoving each other around in the darkness.

“Oi! Shite, Fox!! Just be done with it, yeah?!”

The others sleep on the floor, as usual. Shite had commandeered the couch, though the others found blankets or coats to prop under their heads as makeshift pillows.

Jimmy lies in bed, staring up at the ceiling. It’s been a while since he’s had a ceiling above his head. He turns his head to the side, his blond hair rubbing against the pillowcase. He can smell you on the sheets.

He catches a glimpse of your panties from where he’d left them on the small nightstand. He grabs them and brings the garment to his face, inhaling deeply.

“Fuckkkk,” he moans. To any sane person, the fabric would smell disgusting. But all he can smell is you, dancing through his mind and his senses. He pictures your face, beautiful and terrified and angry.

Jimmy traces one hand down his chest and stomach until he reaches the waistband of his trackpants. He slides his hand down, pushing past the waistband of his boxers. He grips himself firmly, tugging once, then twice as he imagines you. He sniffs your panties again, the sudden intake of you making his head swirl. He pulls his hand out of his pants and spits, swiping at the slimy drool dripping from his mouth with his thumb. He returns to his cock and gives himself a few more tugs.

“Thaa’s it, fuckin’ spit on it,” he mumbles, his eyes closed.

He moves his hand up and down, the slick, disgusting sound of flesh on flesh filling the room. He imagines you kneeling before him, staring up at him with those big eyes. 

“Ye want it? Ye fuckin’ want it?” 

Please, Jimmy, please…

“Please wha’, bitch?” he huffs.

Please…save me, Jimmy, save me…

He pumps his hand faster, feeling the heat pooling in his lower stomach.

“Ah, fuck, I’ll fuckin’ save ye, lass, donnae worry…”

He brings your panties down around his cock and uses them to jerk himself off, the idea of you all over him making his cheeks flush.

“Ye gonnae fuckin’ take it all, yeah?” he pants. “Take it all like a good girl?”

You nod your head, sticking your tongue out dutifully.

“Ye need me to save ye, then, huh?”

He imagines your response, foggy and blurry in his mind.

Yes Jimmy…save me…God has forsaken us, Jimmy. It’s only you. It’s only you.

“It’s only me,” he breathes. “Then take this fuckin’ sacrament, bitch.”

He finishes, spilling into your panties with a choked cry, imagining that he’s decorating your face.

You smile up at him through the ropes of cum that paint your skin, swallowing what landed on your tongue and sighing blissfully.

Thank you, Jimmy…thank you, Sir…

He wipes the sticky mess from his cock and brings the fabric back up to his face. He examines them, staring at the mess of his cum along the gusset. He imagines holding onto them and making you wear them when he finds you. He decides against it.

Imagine how disappointed you’d be to find that your gift wasn’t fresh. 

You forced yourself to close your eyes when you realized they were staying the night. You needed to frontload on your sleep if you were going to make it out alive.

When you finally hear silence from the house above, you know you’ve found your opening. You quickly and quietly slide the pitchfork off the double doors of the root cellar, pausing to ensure you haven’t woken any of the animals in the house. Hearing nothing, you push one door up and open, peeking around. Content that the coast is clear, you hoist yourself out of the cellar and gingerly close the door behind you.

Then you run.

You run until you’re at the treeline, then you keep running.

You don’t know what Jimmy has planned for you, and you don’t intend to find out. You don’t know where you’re going. Anywhere.

Anywhere is better than here.

thank you for reading! please reblog if you like what you read; it keeps writers engaged in fandom spaces and creating cool shit for you! check out my masterlist here.

Your feet are aching and the slash in your shoulder is still screaming from an encounter with some Infected several days ago. You haven’t seen a house or farm in over a week–not a viable one at least. A few isolated farms that had obviously been ransacked, all the supplies stripped from the kitchens, bathrooms, and bedrooms. And those that hadn’t been raided seemed to have met a worse fate; barns burned to the ground, stone crumbling from chimneys, red spray paint–and in some cases, a red hue you could tell wasn’t paint–covering siding and shingles. Messages of The Reckoning, doomsday shit. People panicking, scratching final testaments into the sides of their homes as if repentance would save them. You thought it best to keep moving. If a property looked lived-in, you’d stop, knock on the door, try your luck with whatever strangers were willing to open their doors to you. If the property looked like someone else had gotten to it first, you didn’t waste your time. As it was, it had been several days since you’d seen a mattress, cot, couch, or even a blanket that wasn’t the one you kept crammed in your rucksack, and sleeping on the forest floor has started to force the cold and damp into your bones. 

You come upon a small clearing, and cautiously scan your surroundings. Stepping out of the trees carries risks; though the grass is tall, you know you’ll still be easily visible to anyone– or anything– lurking nearby. Satisfied that the coast is clear, you emerge from the woods. You’re at the top of a small hill, and as you look down into the gulch below, your face lights up.

A playground.

Small and rusted, abandoned for 28 years, but still standing.

You bound down the hill, all caution thrown to the wind for a brief moment until your feet land on the soft woodchips with a gentle crunch. You take it in, wandering around the small area– the metal slide, the tiny structures, the climbing frame, and at the far edge of the playground, a set of two swings. You dash over to them, feeling like a child for the first time in decades. You gently touch the chain holding up the swing, miraculously not entirely decayed by rust and mildew. You quickly shrug your rucksack off and drop it into the woodchips next to the post holding up the swings. It’s so stupid, but you can’t resist. You wipe the seat of the swing with your sleeve, dampening the fabric with the bit of dew that’s collected on the black rubber. You sit down, hands holding both chains, gently push your feet against the ground underneath you, and look around.

For one second, you’re 6 years old again, playing on the swing after school while your father pushes you.

“Higher, higher!” you giggle in your joy.

“Higher, love? You’d fly right up to Heaven, little angel!” your father laughs behind you.

“Higher, dad, higher!!”

You pump your legs faster, extending them straight in front of you and quickly pulling them back when you reach peak height until you’re swinging swiftly through the air, the wind blowing in your face and stinging your eyes.

“Come along, love, it’s time to go!”

“Push me again, Daddy!”

“Come on now, angel, we’ve got to get home, Mum’s going to be mad at us…”

“One more time, Daddy, please, please!”

Your father laughs, throwing his head back, silhouetted against the setting sun.

“Just once more then, yeah? Come on darling…”

You’re so high that you’re level with the bar every time you swing back. The tears gathering in your eyes streak down your cheeks. It feels like the wind forces its way into your lungs with each swing, burning in your throat but satisfying the demands of your blood as it pounds in your veins. You pump your legs again and again, letting every care in the world, every burden that you’ve shouldered for the last 28 years, slip away behind you as your hair whips into your face and you soar above the ground, weightless.

You don’t notice them lingering near the trees.

“Whatd’ya think, Sir?”

“Aye…excellent job.”

“Charity?”

“No…not for this one. Old Nick has…other plans for her…”

When you see a group of people running down the hill towards the playground, your heart leaps in your chest. Then you realize they’re not Infected. They don’t have the chaotic, flailing sprint of the Infected. They’re calculated, moving like a pack of wolves down the side of the hill. They’re all wearing brightly colored tracksuits and matching blonde wigs. The one remaining at the top of the hill, in a deep plum tracksuit, jaunts down with a playful, gleeful bounce. Obviously the leader of the pack. The alpha.

The people spread out, two of them on each side running in a wide circle around the playground.

You start to dig your heels into the ground underneath the swing, trying to slow down and stop yourself. They’ve got you surrounded now, four of them dotted around behind you, three of them coming to stand in an arc a few feet in front of you. The alpha walks at a leisurely pace as his clones post up and stare you down. You’ve stopped swinging; you could reach for your knife, but looking at their weapons– some of them are brandishing small pocket knives, some hold machetes, one even aims at you with a slingshot– you decide against it. Better to hear them out than to provoke them.

Purple Tracksuit saunters over to the swing next to you and sits down. You stare straight ahead, refusing to look at him. The entire situation is ringing every alarm bell in your head. You’ve been at this long enough to know that the Infected aren’t the only dangerous thing in this world.

“Hello,” the alpha says in a chipper voice. His accent is thick, almost comically so. You can tell he’s from the Highlands.

“We were just…passin’ through…” he continues, his gaze fixed on you. “And couldnae help but notice a…a wee thing like you, out here all alone.”

You finally glance at him. He smiles when you meet his eye, revealing his grimy blackened teeth. He’s not Infected; none of them are. But you recognize something in him that’s almost worse.

Desperation. 

Opportunism.

Hunger.

“Now, I donnae mean to pry,” he grins. “But we,” he motions around at his minions, “are also travelers.”

He’s asking you a question without asking you.

“It must be…lonely…out here by yerself…”

You notice some of his clones glancing at each other nervously.

“I like working alone,” you say simply. The first words you’ve given him. One of his eyebrows shoots up, intrigued.

“Workin’ alone…and what, do tell, is the work that you do?”

“Same as you, I reckon. Wander about. Kill Infected. Survive.”

You kick at the dirt with the toe of your boot. 

“Infected?” he asks, his voice raising with the faintest hint of surprise and amusement. “Oh, I see…”

You watch him nervously, feeling your heart pounding in your chest. The longer he and his freaks stay, the slimmer your chances of escape seem. You’ve calculated all the possibilities in your head. You can’t fight them all; not with the types and number of weapons they’re wielding. You do notice, however, that he doesn’t seem to be carrying one. At least not one that you can see.

“Jimmy,” he crows, loud enough for all of the tracksuit wearing copycats to hear. You wish he’d shut up; any sound louder than a hushed tone carries the risk of attracting Infected.

“Jimmy, we have found…a doubter.” The last word he says quieter, turning his attention back on you.

“Ah, fuck,” you chuckle under your breath. “Don’t tell me you’re one of them religious folks, thinkin’ this is all End of Days bullshit.” 

“End of Days?” he asks, amused. “End of Days? No…no, this! This is the beginnin’!”

You wish he would fucking lower his voice. Your eyes dart around nervously, looking past his companions, scanning the treeline.

“The beginnin’…of my Father’s kingdom,” he holds his hands out, motioning to the world around him. “This is the vision He foretold to me…and Jimmy–”

He raises his voice again, and the clones all perk up. Are they all fucking named Jimmy?

“He has delivered unto me…a new vision…howzat?”

“HOWZAT!!” they all shout in glee.

Fuck. They’re being way too loud. Your breath is coming and going quicker in your lungs as your eyes scan the horizon, the way you trained yourself to do over the years. You try to block them out and listen for the snap of twigs or branches, the snarl of the Infected, but you can’t hear anything over their giggling and whispers. You notice one girl, in a blue tracksuit with raggedy blue fairy wings strapped to her back, is the only one not snickering. She’s just scowling at you.

“My Father has delivered us a doubter…a nonbeliever…”

“Told you, ‘s fuckin’ charity,” one of them hisses to another.

“Shut up,” the other replies. He’s wearing a black and white tracksuit.

“Better be fuckin’ charity,” Fairy Wings mutters. She’s holding a wooden baseball bat over one shoulder, the end of which has been chipped and dented from too many encounters with Infected. At least, you hope it’s only from Infected.

“Jimmima,” Purple Tracksuit chides. She snaps to attention, staring at him with enormous eyes. He looks around at them. “All’a yous…Jimmy says go play.”

With a tilt of his chin, he sends them bounding across the playground. You watch as some of them scamper off, running and chasing each other like children.

“It’s mine!”

“No, it’s mine!!”

“Darlings, if you can’t learn to take turns, we’ll go home…”

“No, Mum!”

“No, Mum, we’re sorry!”

“Now Lachlan, let your sister have a turn…”

Two of them– Black & White and Orange –sit atop the climbing frame, chatting. A boy in Black & Red swings from the monkey bars until he kicks another, a boy in Blue, in the stomach. Blue doubles over in momentary shock, then grabs Black & Red by the ankles and yanks him down to the ground, wrestling him. Green stands nearby, laughing.

“Children…behave yerselves,” Purple calls out, grinning wildly.

The girl in Red has climbed into one of the play structures and watches you and Purple with a somber look on her face. Fairy Wings rocks back and forth on a small horse that’s held up by a spring. She watches you too, with a different look on her face. Red looks like she’s watching Purple. Fairy Wings looks like she’s watching only you.

“You’re going to get us killed,” you tell Purple. “They’re gonna hear.”

“Oh, donnae worry about that,” he brushes away your concern. “We’re perfectly capable of keepin’ ye safe.”

“I can keep myself safe, thanks,” you retort. You go to stand and Fairy Wings stops rocking. She stands, her eyes locked on yours, mirroring your movements. You freeze, then sit back down on the swing. Purple follows your gaze to see Fairy Wings staring at you.

“Donnae mind her,” he tells you. “They were all just…so excited t’meet ye.”

“Meet me?” you ask in a whisper, your eyes returning to him again. He can see the worry in your face, the clock ticking down in your head, the gears in your mind turning, calculating every possible scenario that has the potential to unfold before you. Smart. Keen. Living in the future so you can survive the present.

He likes that.

“Yes,” he grins. “We were watchin’ ye, from up the hill,” he continues. “Looked like ye could use some company.”

You don’t respond. You look him up and down. Where the zipper of his tracksuit opens, you can see a dirty undershirt clinging to his chest. Gold chains hang loose around his neck, clinking slightly as he shifts on the swing. You can’t believe it’s taken you this long to notice the inverted crucifix attached to one of them.

“Y’see, they’re always excited to meet new people,” he tells you. “But you…ye were especially excitin’.”

“How’s that?”

He grins, and you can hear some of the others giggle and snicker from around the playground, obviously listening in.

“See, she already knows her lines,” Blue taunts Black & Red. “And I bet she’s gonna pick you, y’fuckin’ weak cunt!”

“Fuck off!” Black & Red shouts. “She’s gonna pick fuckin’ Jones, guarantee it!”

“Is not!” Orange shouts across the playground. “She’s gonna pick you, you’re fuckin’ rolled over on your back already!”

Black & Red squirms on the ground underneath Blue’s grip. He brings his knee up and connects with Blue’s groin, freeing himself and twisting, pinning Blue to the ground underneath him. He flicks out a pocket knife.

“Oi!” Purple shouts. Instantly, the boys stop fighting. “She’s not pickin’ any’a you rowdy fuckers.” 

You notice Fairy Wings deflate slightly.

“She’s not meant t’be a Finger.”

The tracksuits sit up from their places scattered around the playground. They’re watching you now, the two of you, clearly intrigued. Whatever Purple is up to, it’s obvious that even they don’t know his next move.

You’re looking around for a way out– any way out. You can tell he’s done fucking with you; he’s going to reveal why he’s here, why they’re all here, why they’re bothering with you, and then you have two options: submit or die.

“She’s meant t’be a Disciple.”

The tracksuits all stir, perking up, standing, watching. Purple turns back to you. He brings a hand adorned with gold rings to your face and grips your chin firmly in his fingers. He doesn’t have a crazed look in his eye; fuck, it would almost be comforting if you could see the insanity raging behind his irises. When he looks at you, all you can see is pure, uninterrupted…sincerity.

It makes your blood run cold.

The screeching that erupts around you snaps both of you out of the moment. Purple drops your chin and stands. You jump up and reach for your rucksack. You unzip it and grab your machete, tossing the scabbard back into the bag before slinging it over your shoulder again. The tracksuits all pick up their weapons, brandishing their blades, slingshots, and bats. 

You take a quick scan to assess the situation. There’s a group of Infected charging down the hill towards the playground. It looks like there’s around a dozen of them. For the first time since they showed up, you’re kind of grateful to be surrounded by eight feral freaks with weapons.

“Hold,” Purple commands, a sick smile spreads across his face. You snap your head towards him in disbelief. They’re not seriously going to listen to him?

Yet they do. 

They’re frozen, watching the Infected running towards them. You know your odds are better in a group, but everything in you is screaming to run. Run away, run into the battle, same fucking difference, but run.

And yet they stand.

“Hold,” he repeats, his voice even and measured. He watches the Infected barrelling towards you, snarling and hissing. He listens to your breath as it puffs in and out of your lungs. 

The Infected reach the base of the hill. It’s seconds before they’ll be on the woodchips, lunging at you. You grip the machete firmly in your fist. You roll your injured shoulder once, wincing in pain. His eyes flick over to you. He can see every muscle in your face betraying your anxiety, your desire to jump into action. But there’s something else there, too. The same look a hunting dog gets before it chases a fox.

He grins. You listened.

“Fucking go.”

The tracksuits charge at the Infected. Fairy Wings runs at one with her bat, swinging wildly and sending it to the ground. She bashes its skull in with the wood until you can hear the disgusting squish of the bat connecting with soft tissue. You charge forward into the fray, machete leading your way. Red is shoving her knife into the chest of a decaying woman, still wearing jeans and a sweater, obviously recently turned. Younger Infected were more likely to attack in packs like this, unable to hunt for themselves yet.

Another Infected runs at Red from the side and you step in, plunging your machete through his ribcage. He gurgles as blood leaks from his mouth, and you kick him in the hip to push him off of your blade. He’s a middle aged man, his hair only just starting to grey.

“I fuckin’ had it,” Red hisses at you.

“Fuck you,” you spit before running at another Infected.

Jimmy’s face lights up in delight as he watches you.

“Oooh, gonnae haveta be quicker’n that, Jimmy!” he shouts gleefully.

Red rolls her eyes and turns to another Infected, seemingly bored with the task.

“He was mine, you cunt!” Fairy Wings screeches at you when you stab another zombie, tossing the now twice-killed corpse to the side.

“Then why didn’t you fuckin’ kill ‘im?” you taunt her.

“Ohhoohoo!!” Jimmy giggles, clapping. “Beautiful work!”

The boys are still finishing off two Infected.

“Anytime ye care t’finish up there, lads, by all means, take yer time,” Purple quips, pretending to yawn.

Your eyes dart from the tracksuits back to him. He’s distracted, watching his clones gather around the final skirmish, cheering and laughing to each other, blonde wigs now smattered with blood.

It’s now or never.

You turn and run, the tall grass whipping against your skin and stinging. But you can’t slow down. You charge towards the trees, the same trees the Infected just emerged from, and fuck, there could be more running towards you right now. But you can’t slow down.

You race through the trees, dodging gnarled roots and rocks. Your lungs are screaming and your heart is pounding so loud you’re not even sure you’d hear any Infected around you. You run until you can’t run anymore, and then you keep running.

Running.

Running.

Running.

You can see an Infected in the distance, running towards you, hissing. You don’t break your stride. You hold your machete firmly and swing as you barrel forward, feeling the head of the Infected come off in one clean swoop as you pass. It lands against the forest floor with a loud thunk.

Tears sting your eyes and your lungs don’t feel like they’re part of your body anymore.

You run until you’re through the woods and in another clearing of tall grass. And just in the distance, you see it: a small stone cottage.

You could sob if you still had air in your lungs. As it is, you just run until you reach the front door. You pound on the wood, rattling the old door around in its frame.

“Hello!” you croak. “Hello, please let me in!”

You jiggle the knob. It’s sticky, but it rotates just barely in your grip. You resist the instinct to shove your shoulder into the wood, mindful of the pain still stinging your muscle. You bring a boot to the bottom of the door, kicking it roughly and throwing it open.

You tumble inside and slam the door closed behind you. You sink to the floor, your legs and feet burning. Your machete clatters against the wood floorboards as you drop it, your hand still clenched in a distorted claw shape. You’re shaking and sobbing quietly, the fear in your chest still lighting up every nerve in your body. You sit like that, you have no idea how long, just shaking, crying, huddled on the floor.

“Stay down here, lovey, chain the door after me.”

“But Dad–”

“Stay put! Darling, I love you so much–”

“Dad, please–”

“Chain it up! I love you!!”

The sounds of your soft cries and shaking breaths dissolve into the floorboards beneath you. It’s dark in the cottage.

It’s empty.

You try to gather your thoughts, re-order your mind. 

The cottage is empty.

Slowly, you push yourself up and to your feet. You drag your aching feet into the kitchen, throwing open cupboards. They’re filled with canned goods, properly stocked. You turn to the sink and open the cabinet beneath the ceramic basin. Giant jugs, the blue ones you’ve seen in pictures in old magazines, sitting upside down on a pedestal while men in suits stand around smiling, sit beneath the sink. Filled with water. 

You almost can’t believe it.

You shuffle through the house until you find the tiny bedroom. It’s not much; a small bed, a nightstand, a radio. But holy shit, it’s a bed. 

You collapse onto the bed, unable to bear your own weight on your feet any longer. The sheets are soft, threadbare in a few patches. You crawl under the duvet, boots still laced up. The feeling of a pillow under your head makes you want to cry again.

It’s only seconds before you drift off.

Back on the playground, in the afternoon light, the Jimmys stand around the final fallen Infected. They laugh, cheer, slap each other on the shoulder, their congratulatory shoving quickly turning into roughhousing. Jimmy approaches them, grinning widely. He stops quickly in his tracks, watching them. They all snap to attention, staring at him with crazed eyes and delirious smiles.

Jimmy pops up one foot and flicks his wrists up, standing in a playful ninja’s pose he remembers from a show on the telly ages ago.

“Howzat?” he teases.

“HOWZAAAAAAT!!!!” the Jimmys shriek in response, copying his pose before devolving into more whooping and cheering.

Jimmy scans over his flock. Seven.

He quietly holds up the two fingers on his right hand. The Jimmys stop their chaotic celebration and watch their leader dutifully, aware of his signal to call their attention.

“Fingers…where is the girl?” he asks them plainly.

The seven blonde heads twist and turn in confusion, each looking around the playground and the surrounding area, until they realize.

“She’s gone,” Jimmy Jimmy says, more stupidly and out loud to himself than to any of the others.

“I can see tha’ she’s gone,” Jimmy grits through a forced smile. “Do ya think it would please Old Nick, to find tha’ you stupid cunts lost the first Disciple of his only son?”

His voice is amplified in his anger; not necessarily louder, but bigger. Sharper.

“No, Sir Jimmy,” they reply in shambled unison.

“No…I donnae think so, either,” he assures them, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “So here’s what you lazy fuckers are gonnae do.”

“Can we kill ‘er?” Jimmima asks sweetly, swaying her hips from side to side, bloodied bat still dragging at her side.

“No,” Jimmy replies. “No, you cunts…fuckin’ find her…and bring her to me. Alive.”

Jimmy looks over their faces, dull and obedient. Jimmima is pouting at the prospect of not being able to kill you on sight. Shite has a disgusting smile plastered on his face. One corner of Jimmy’s lip darts up. 

You’ll turn up.

You listened the first time.

Jimmy smiles.

“Howzat?”

“HOWZAT!”