#a;stephen

“Pre-apocalypse didn’t prepare me for consistent servings of cold beans.” Disgust is lining his expression. May as well be force-feeding him dog stool at this point because that’s what it feels like. He’s going to eat it - there’s not a chance he’d allow his rations to go to waste, especially in a world like this. But no one said he’d have to enjoy it.

There’s a distant sound of the dead tearing through the silence. It’s a disruption he’s unable to adjust to, despite any efforts given (not to say that he’s ever given any. These creatures didn’t deserve that sort of attention). Arms are rested upon aged bricks, feet holding their ground on cemented rooftops. He’s fought for so long; his body felt like it had been dragged through wars, and he was on the losing side. There’s a shift through the corner of his eye, and he turns on instinct. It’s one that has kept him breathing. “Jesus ‘Fal. Do you want to get shot?”