#daysgone

I’d had little to no contact with the outside world since, only taking in the occasional civilian or refugee, usually on their way to a camp nearby. Every one of those on their way to 'sanctuary’ would encourage me to join them, insisting that there was safety in numbers and that being a part of a community would be so much better for me. With every such statement, I’d refused adamantly; I had it good here, and I wasn’t about to risk that by joining a bunch of strangers in a post-apocalyptic world. I got by, and that was enough for me.

That was, until an Anarchist army finally stumbled across my hideaway. They’d burned it down without hesitation, and I’d barely woken in time to the smell of smoke and the sound of triumphant shouts. Sprinting away from their molotovs and sniper rifles, I’d escaped with nothing to call my own. I was alone, with no way to defend myself, and nowhere to call home.

So here I was, losing track of the days since the attack – who knew if it had been days, weeks, or more – and sleeping in bushes when I could. I was starving, scavenging berries and mushrooms that I knew to be harmless, drinking from reservoirs and praying that dysentery wouldn’t come to plague me along with the rest of the world. I knew there was a good chance I was losing my mind, but I struggled on, as if I had a fighting chance.

That was, until the day I met the Drifter.

I was searching an abandoned car, as I often did, hoping for medical supplies or something that could sustain me in any way. Clambering into the front passenger seat, I shut the door behind me, like a fool, as if it would protect me. Opening and shutting the glove box and center console, I heard the throaty screeches of freakers in the distance, but disregarded them without even glancing up, presuming that they were far off by the volume.

The sharp screech of claws on metal sounded above me, snatching my attention with a jolt. My gaze shot upwards as my heart raced in my chest, and the sight around me drew a choking sob from my throat. About a dozen freakers surrounded the vehicle, clambering to get inside to me, their grotesque bodies writhing in delight at the sight of fresh meat. Judging from the screams I’d heard earlier, there were most likely more coming, and there was no way I could hold off a horde from getting in. I’d been an idiot to think I could make it on my own, and now I was going to pay the price in the most terrifying way.

Over the howling of the freakers, I barely heard the roaring engine of a motorcycle approaching, drawing the gaze of about half of the swarm. I stole a glance over my shoulder and caught sight of a lone figure approaching on his battered vehicle, a pistol in one hand, which he was lining up to the closest creature. I winced as he fired, and didn’t quite catch his wisecrack as he slid off the bike and ran into the midst of the throng. He grabbed a baseball bat covered in nails from a collection of weapons strapped to his back, and swung it in all directions, giving a war cry with each kill.

One particularly burly freaker grabbed him from behind, stopping him in his warpath. His shouts of pain awoke me from my reverie, and I scrambled around in search of some kind of weapon. Scouring each compartment, I found an old flashlight in the driver’s side door, and turned back to my door, ready to assist.

Another freaker stood at my window staring me down, its blood-red eyes gazing down at me hungrily. It shrieked, temporarily deafening me, but before I could freeze up in panic, I grabbed the door handle. As I yanked it, I booted the door open with all my might, throwing the freaker back with a yelp. I clambered out of the car, gripping the flashlight tightly and heading for the Drifter and his attacker. Standing up to my full height, I swung the makeshift weapon at the freaker’s head, momentarily dazing him long enough for the drifter to get free and swing his bat round, carefully avoiding me. Clocking the hefty monster, he breathed a sigh of relief as it fell to the ground with a loud thump.

“Good riddance, motherfuckers,” he murmured to himself, before turning his attention to me. His voice was deep, somewhat husky, and now that I could fully take in his features, I was somewhat taken aback. He was roguishly handsome, a half-unkempt beard lining his round jawline. His hazel eyes were softer now that he wasn’t on guard, and his dark hair was covered by a backwards cap. He looked down at me, checking me for injury; a rather awkward task given his height. “Are you alright?” he asked gruffly. “You shouldn’t be alone out here in the shit.”

I blinked at this, the memories of the last few days hitting me like a brick wall. The anxiety I’d felt at being alone and unprotected slowly dissipated; this Drifter felt safe, trustworthy. I wondered if he’d let me stay with him.

“Um...” He stepped awkwardly from one foot to another, and I realized I’d been gazing at him in awe and avoiding the question.

“Oh, yeah, I’m fine,” I stammered. “Just a little shaken. I know I shouldn’t be, but...” I hung a hand from my neck shyly. “I kinda have nowhere else to go.”

“Listen, there are plenty of camps nearby that’ll take you in,” he explained, and I bit my lip at the familiar spiel. Given my circumstances, however, it was suddenly sounding a lot more appealing. “I can give you directions to any of them, but, you’d have to promise me you’ll go.”

I raised an eyebrow at this, squinting up at him. “Why so serious?”

It was his turn to raise an eyebrow. “I’m sorry, do you not remember what happened just five minutes ago, when I came across you, helpless and alone and about to become freaker feed?”

I allowed myself a chuckle at this, and while he didn’t laugh, his eyes softened even more and the corners of his lips turned upwards in a cocky half-smile.

“Alright, alright, I promise,” I assured him, nodding in resignation. “Where’s the nearest one?”

“That’d be Lost Lake, about half a mile south of here,” he replied, gesturing vaguely in the direction. He hesitated before shuffling again on his feet. “I was actually on my way there myself, if you’d want a ride. Unless,” he waved his hands around dramatically, “you’re afraid of stranger danger and all that.”

“I wouldn’t say we’re strangers when you just saved my life,” I pointed out. “Besides, I’ve been walking non-stop for the last little while. My legs could use a break.”

I couldn’t believe those words had just come out of my mouth with such confidence. It was true, the Drifter seemed to pose the very opposite of a threat, but getting on a bike with a man I’d just met, and who I felt increasingly drawn to, did seem-

“Alright then, let’s get on the road,” he replied without hesitation, strolling back over to his bike and waving me over. I followed tentatively, glancing his bike over as if I knew anything about motor vehicle safety. It looked fairly sturdy. To my very limited knowledge.

He straddled the bike, settling down in the seat and raising his eyebrows as he looked up at me, waiting. His biceps flexed slightly as he gripped the handlebars, and I jerked my gaze away, a little too obvious, I assumed from his resultant small smirk. I climbed on behind him, and after he glanced back at me, wrapped my arms around his waist, my forearms pressed against his toned torso. I gulped back any possible accidental comments or vocal reactions and did my best to relax as he started up the engine.

“I never even asked,” he yelled as he kicked into gear and accelerated, “what’s your name?”

The wind began whipping my hair in my face as we sped up, and I introduced myself in as loud a voice as I could muster. “What about you?”

“Deacon St. John,” he replied, skidding around a corner and leading me to hold on to him tighter. “You can call me Deacon.”