and all I loved, I loved alone

The room is slowly growing darker with every minute you spend inside, the cozy decorations around the small space with its carved woodland creatures, lace doilies and fluttering curtains are nothing but a mockery to you and what’s gnawing in your head. Their shadows loom over the walls, shapes cageing you in.

It’s quiet inside the familiar bathroom, what was once held a fond memory for you is now marred by the recent memory of James begging for you to shoot him. You can still hear his cries, pleading, begging for you to end him to keep you and your baby safe. The way his hands shook, cradling the bleeding bite and how his voice gurgled in his own blood, and yet he still smiled at you towards the end. Even then he was trying to comfort you.

Your protruding stomach bops up and down in the water, belly button peeking through the mix of blood and soap. You haven’t let out a single tear since Hobie helped you inside the tub, hoping that a warm bath will help. When all it did was numb you.

Gazing at the ceiling, mold dotted along the wood, your eyes sting as you tilt your head down, face half submerged in the water. Waves lapping at the sides of your face. You miss James, he was your companion, a friend that helped you survive the first days of the apocalypse. He was your anchor through it all, the voice of reason when all you wanted was to run outside and look for your lost love. It’s ironic, compared to before the world ended, you and the rest of the band were the ones holding him by the scruff of his neck.

As you run your palm over your stomach, the pinky ring shines atop it, you promise to yourself that you’ll live on so that his sacrifice wouldn’t be in vain. He would’ve wanted you to do just that, but that doesn’t make it alright. You have no idea how to tell Yuri and Ned that their best mate is dead, and that you killed him.

What if his parents are still alive? How would you tell them that their only child is dead? That he died protecting you while holding out hope that he would find them?

The door creaks open, and Hobie peeks through the crack. His cheeks are coated in dirt, and there’s soil underneath his fingernails as he knocks softly. He looks the same as you remember before you had to leave him in the car with hopes of coming back for him. You did come back for him, but he was nowhere to be seen. For three months you wonder where he was, if he’s eating, or if he’s even alive. Now that he’s here, standing in the same room as you, breathing the same air as you, your heart feels like it’s beating once again. Albeit cracked, but alive, thumping quietly as it keeps you and your baby breathing.

“Love,” his voice seeps with fatigue. “You’ll turn into a prune.”

“You like prunes.” You answer softly, tone as tired as his. “Come sit with me please?”

“I’m all dirty,” His boots thump against the floor mats, tracking mud and dirt. His hand clamps over his eyes playfully. “and you’re all naked.”

You manage a small smile. “How do you think I got this?” Gesturing around your stomach, he peeks through his fingers.

“A stork?”

“Nope, birds and the bees, Hobs.” Opening your palms, you gesture for him to join you.

“Yeah, I think I remember that in biology.” Kneeling down, knees creaking in protest, he places his arm over the rim of the bathtub, chin resting on his elbow. “How do you feel?”

“Like sun dried shit.” Your attempt at a half assed joke.

He manages a smile. “The baby?” His eyes gaze gently down, worry etched on his brows.

“I think the baby’s fine. I’m not at the stage where the baby could start kicking like a horse yet. But everything feels fine, considering.” Sniffing, you lean against his arm, a cold cheek pressed on his warm skin. “I really wanted to tell you… I really did.”

Hobie’s free hand reaches to cup your chin, turning you gently to face him. “I know, lovie.” He sighs, thumb brushing along your damp skin. “When did you know?”

“At the party, with Yuri.” The mere mention of her has your heart squeezing in your chest. The same feeling is clear on his face too. “We got a bunch of tests after I got sick all over the bathroom floor.”

“Is that what you wanted to tell me? Before…everythin’?”

“Yeah, I still have the test, kept it just in case.”

His eyes flick over to your growing stomach, belly button protruding above the surface like a buoy. “Well, I believe you, proof or no proof.”

You manage a small chuckle. “I’m way past doubting it. The morning sickness was the worst, and my feet are swollen.” Lifting a foot above the water to show him, Hobie’s brows knit in worry, it looks painful. You look like you’re in pain. He then sees the scar on your leg, a long scar tissue that is still red around the edges of skin. He doesn’t ask how it came to be when he doesn’t want to upset you even more.

He feels sorry that he wasn’t there, that he wasn’t there from the start, holding you, making you feel better. He should’ve been there, he should’ve been here before you. Maybe, just maybe, James would still be alive, that he would hear the muffled shuffling of the undead behind the closet door, and end it before it started. And he would welcome you both inside with a relieved smile.

“My boots would fit you now.” Hobie stifles his hurt, eyes glancing away from swollen feet before staring at the same pain in your eyes.

“Maybe, I’m going to need maternity clothes soon.” Inhaling, you purse your lips together. “I’m going to wear all those old lady dresses with the plain daisies and bland colours. You won’t think I’m fit anymore.” Your knuckles brush alongside his arm.

“Nah, you’re still peng in my eyes, lovie. Even if you dress up as Yuri’s grandma.” Taking your hand, he twists it gently to hold onto you better. Water mixing with soil.

“Remember when she used to make us all those sugar cookies during band practice?”

“Yeah, I’ve gained weight durin’ that.”

“We all did, Hobie.” You gently smile, squeezing him once. After a beat, your smile fades. “Is it horrible of me to think that it’s a good thing that she’s already gone before all this shit happened?”

“No, love.” His thumb runs along your palm. “I wouldn’t wish this on anyone.”

The back of your eyes stings, heat behind them as you swallow thickly. “I should’ve— I should’ve come looking for you. When I came back to the car, you weren’t there anymore.” You fight the tears from spilling. “And then we ran to the docks, and the houseboat wasn’t there either. I’m sorry, I should’ve tried harder. I could’ve tried harder.”

“Just the thought of you comin’ to look for me is enough.” With a gentle hand, he moves a damp strand of hair away from your face. “I’m jus’ glad you weren’t alone.”

Your eyes fall on his fingers, the dirt digs into his nailbeds, darkened by mud and soil. “Yeah, I wouldn’t have survived this long without him.” Your nail scrapes at the dirt, trying to get it clean. And he lets you. “You should’ve seen him, Hobie, he was…he’s great.” Vision glistening, you stifle a sob.

“I think he was a scout when he was a kid.” A smile curls in the corner of his lips at the image of James wearing those uniforms when he was just a boy. Green and khaki complete with a beret and sash filled with patches. Hobie beats himself up for not remembering if James really was a scout. “I know he was great, lovie, jus’ seein’ you here is proof enough.”

“He went full on survivor. We were stuck at his parent’s condo for a bit until we ran out of supplies and the electricity in the city was shut off.” Your palm is pruning, but you’re afraid of leaving the comfort of the tub. “I got a baby book though.”

“Yeah? Like the one with baby names?”

He wants to tell you what happened to him in those three months, how he struggled, how he longed to see you alive, how he was seeing you in his visions. And what he saw, what he had to do to get back to you. You know that the houseboat is gone from his expression alone, if it wasn’t you two would’ve sailed out of the town before the blood dried on the floor.

You gently shake your head, water sloshing softly. “No, the kind that has instructions on home births.” Voice wavering, you hold onto him tightly, realizing what he has to do when the time comes. “I’m scared, Hobie.” Your throat betrays you, closing up as you let out a sob. “What if something happens to the baby? There’s no hospitals or doctors anymore—”

Hobie brings your face to his chest, shushing you tenderly as he rubs at your back. Despite the water drenching his sleeve, he still holds onto you as waves of tears flow out of you. He’s scared too, afraid to lose the baby, afraid to lose you. For ten years, he has loved you, and for those ten years, he never once thought of a day without you in it. He can’t lose you when he needs to love you for the rest of his life.

“It’s alright, we can do it, yeah?” He feels you nod against him as you shiver in his arms. “We’ve watched enough hospital dramas to know all about givin’ birth.” Joking, Hobie kisses the crown of your damp head as you manage a chortle.

“That’s reassuring.”

“I’ve got you and the baby. I promise that you two will be safe and sound.” Leaning away to cradle your face, he meets with your shining eyes, tears still clinging to your lashes. “I promise you.” Even if it kills him.

“Okay.” Inhaling deeply, you grasp at his wrist, a firm yet affectionate hold. “And I’ll watch your back, like always.”

Hobie smiles, the kind that reminds you of the days where he would play on stage, giving you that same reassuring smile as the lights flicker on his handsome face. “To start off, let’s get you dry and warm before you catch a cold.”

—

When you pictured saying goodbye to one of your friends, you never envisioned burying them at an age where they shouldn’t be six feet under. That it’ll just be you and Hobie, staring at the freshly packed ground right in front of you with a crudely made headstone. James doesn’t deserve one that is made out of a broken window panel, he deserved a headstone that is carved out of marble, where his name would remain etched on it forever. Not like how you wrote his name on the wood with a sharpie.

His father’s hunting vest feels rough in your hands. Dried blood staining the very same fabric that James once wore. You’ve been told that his father wasn’t the best, but the vest brought him comfort throughout his survival, a reminder, his fuel to continue living. Now it remains in your trembling hands, fingers digging into the dark blood.

“D’you want to say a few words?” Hobie utters softly amidst the strong wind as trees rustle nearby. If he thinks hard enough, he can imagine that his best mate doesn’t lie six feet under him. That he didn’t bury him there with his bare hands.

You shake your head, chest aching, eyes heavy and hot with unshed tears. No words could ever stifle your grief, there are no words in the world that makes this right, no worthy words to describe how great a man James was.

He understands your grief and your guilt, he knows you well to know what’s rushing inside your head. His eyes wander towards your shaking hands, and the façade he built to keep you steady and anchored almost crumbles.

“J–James Jameson,” his tone cracks, fists shaking, nails leaving crescent shapes on his palms. “You’re the best damn drummer I know, save us a spot up there, yeah?”

You heave, tears streaming down your face as you take a careful step forward. With your heart in your stomach, you kneel before the headstone, laying the vest around it, imagining that you’re putting it on him for the last time. “You’ve done well, James.” Your words are carried by the wind, palm placed atop the fresh soil, where his head could lie underneath.

Hobie’s arm curls around you, chin resting atop your head as he faces the grey sky.

—

The days have gone by with silence. The surrounding woods let out a whisper of leaves and a howl at night. But inside the cabin, grief lingers in the air, staining the wooden walls, slithering on the floorboards.

James’ presence weighs heavy between the two of you. Even though Hobie never said that he blames you for it, you still beat yourself up for what happened. If only you were quicker, that you didn’t hesitate before pulling the trigger. Every day Hobie lets you know that he doesn’t, for one moment, blame you for James’ demise. Through his actions, taking care of you, making sure that you’ve eaten, slept, taken your prenatal vitamins, and his touch, he lets you know that he loves you, that the world hasn’t ended for him because you’re still by his side.

The two of you have just been surviving on sparse supplies, and the water taken from a well behind the house that he has to boil before letting you take a drink. But the quiet, and the stifling air inside the space makes it more unbearable. You’ve tried to turn on the telly when the solar panels on the roof have recharged, but you’re only met with static. Not even the radio plays crappy music anymore, just an incessant buzzing. It’s as if you’re the only people left in the world.

The books and board games on the shelf meant for guests are gathering dust. You’d rather spend your days studying the baby book, every word memorized and carved in your head. Hobie made himself the handyman of the house, he fixed the holes on the front door where your bullets hit it, and he has reinforced all the windows with planks of wood he found in the tool shed. In case a shambler comes too close to the perimeter he set up that he agrees is abysmal when he only has strings and cans to work with. It’s a crude version of an alarm, and he wishes he could make something better for a precaution.

Hobie barely sleeps, keeping watch at night and day, taking naps in between when his body shuts down. When you see him dozing off on the couch, you sit beside him and he’s immediately magnetized to your side. You always tug his head down on your lap, letting him sleep there as your old cardigan that he managed to save from the houseboat is draped on his shoulders. Sometimes you see him reading the same baby book, folding the edges of the important pages when it’s your turn to keep watch. You miss him, even though you two sleep on the same bed with his arms wrapped protectively around you. But the easy conversations, the laughter, you miss those. This isn’t a way of living anymore.

You can’t help it when your eyes wander towards the spot where you held James one last time. No matter how much you scrub at the walls and floor, the stain stays. A macabre reminder of that day amidst the comfortable cottage decorations placed by the same dead man resting beside James’ grave.

The bowl of canned chicken noodle soup in front of you warms your cheeks as Hobie’s palm leaves your shoulder with a squeeze. Your eyes dart towards his side of the table, noticing that he doesn’t have supper, only a glass of room temperature water.

“Hobie?” Clearing your throat, your hand rubs at your stomach. Your shirt has gotten smaller, making you pull it down occasionally over your swollen belly.

He sighs in relief just from hearing your voice, pausing by the counter tops, hands reaching above the cabinets. “Yeah, love? Feelin’ alright?”

“Where’s your soup?” Craning your neck, you see the opened cabinets, seeing it nearly empty, save for a can of chocolate pudding, and a pack of dried beef jerky that’s still unopened. Just by the look in his eyes, he doesn’t need to say it out loud. “We need to go into town.”

“I need to go into town.” He leans on the counter, arms on his side as the dark circles under his eyes are illuminated by the electric lamp that was recharged by the solar. “Before you say anythin’, I’ll be quick.”

“And alone. You need someone to watch your back. We’ve got two guns for a reason.”

“Sure, I’ll jus’ ask one of the woodland creatures to come with me.”

“I don’t want to fight, Hobie.” Standing up, hand braced under your stomach, you close the small distance towards the kitchen. The cabin used to carry good memories, now it only bears agony. “Please, let’s not argue.” Hands rubbing his arms, you gaze at him softly. “I’m still not that far along, I can still run if we need to.” You don’t want to tell him that your scarred leg aches when you run.

You feel all the heaviness that James left in your heart, but you can’t let it hinder you forever when you’ve got Hobie and the baby to think about. They’re now your reason to survive, just like how James held on because of the baby and in hopes of finding his best mates and his parents.

Hobie avoids your eyes, sighing as he takes your hands in his. He feels the small indents from the scars that you told him about after another night of crying. He doesn’t want to look at it when it only makes his heart break at the thought of you getting hurt. So he keeps his eyes on the promised ring around your pinky instead, the same one he saved for months just to get it for you.

“What if we see those things? Or worse, run into people?”

“We hide or run, and if need be, we fight.” You look at him with determination and with untapped bravery he hasn’t seen yet. “I don’t want you to starve yourself. Or for you to die when I’m stuck here waiting for you to come home when I don’t know if you’ll ever be back.” Reaching over him as his hand falls on your hips, you take the beef jerky and the lone can of chocolate pudding. “So which one will it be for tonight?” With a small smile, you weigh both in your hands. “I need you full of energy tomorrow.”

Chuckling, Hobie takes the beef jerky and then takes your chin daintily in his hand. “The last time you told me that was before a concert.”

“I remember.” Sunlight passes by your eyes. “You killed it that night.”

His eyes wander behind you where his guitar case is tucked in-between an armchair and the telly. He still hasn’t opened it. “You follow me, yeah? When I tell you to run, you run, when I tell you to leave me behind, you do just that.”

You take a second before nodding.

“Let’s share the puddin’” Throwing his arm over your shoulder, and a peck to your temple, he leads you back to the table.

Kissing his cheek, you giggle, the very first genuine laugh you’ve let out in a couple of weeks. “That’s what I like to hear.”

—

Hobie hesitated before taking the car into town. The engine could draw unwanted attention, or it could break down in the middle of a drive. But he can’t exactly make you walk for miles on end when you’re almost four months pregnant. If only he had a bicycle on hand, and go on a ride with you like when you were teenagers sneaking out to go wherever you please.

“I hope we find a shoe place.” Your mumbling gets his attention, hand reaching towards your thigh as he keeps his eyes on the road. You place your hand atop his, squeezing once as you smile fondly at him. It reminds you of a similar memory when the two of you were driving in his old car to a gig or a date at the park. Not driving towards what could be a dead town filled with rotting corpses. “Some new trainers would be good for my sasquatch feet.”

His piercings catch the light, glinting from the sun shining on them. Hobie looks incredibly handsome, you’ve always said that the sunlight suits him more, and he would always say that the moonlight fits you best. His locks are tied into a ponytail that you helped him with. He desperately needs a haircut when his curls are starting to cover his eyes that you always have to move them away, covering a new scar he got from the car crash right on his forehead. It’s not because you think it makes him look awful, but you hate the fact that he got hurt, that he had to tend to his wounds himself. Your guilt refuses to let you look at the scar.

Hobie snorts, noticing your lighter demeanour now that you’re out of the cabin. “I’ll keep a look out.” Thumb drawing circles over your jeans, he squeezes again. “And your feet aren’t that big, love. I’ve seen bigger.”

Pinching the back of his hand, he lets out a chuckle. “Yeah, yours.” Your eyes warn him before he could even smirk. “And don’t say it.”

“Wasn’t gonna.” From his smirk alone, you could tell that he was in fact ‘gonna.’

Smiling, for a moment you forgot that the world ended, that James isn’t laying six feet underground just beside the living room window.

Hobie senses the negative shift in your demeanor. From all his reading on the baby book you brought, he has read that when the mother is in good spirits, and not stressed, the baby will turn out healthy and happy. He has made it his mission that you and the baby remain in okay spirits, impossible to make it better on account of the things around you, but he still wants to try. After James and everything else, something as small as new trainers could help brighten you up. He’s even contemplating that the cabin might not be the best environment for you, but where would he bring you that is safer than a cabin in the middle of the woods?

“I’ve been thinkin’” Clearing his throat, he shifts in his seat with the town now in sight.

“A lot, I imagine.”

He glances at you with a small smile. “Yeah, too much.” Sighing, he slows down the car once the town’s faded banner greets him. The place doesn’t look any better like before, but it doesn’t look worse either. “What if we look for other places we could stay? Somewhere safer, quieter and away from cities for when the baby is born.”

“The cabin is already all of that.”

“Yeah, I mean…somewhere that doesn’t remind you of what happened.”

Your eyes cast down at your lap, index mindlessly picking at a hang nail as you gaze at your ring instead. “I don’t know, Hobie, James is there, he’d be alone.”

“He’ll understand, love.” Sighing, he parks the car on the side of the silent fishing town. “We don’t have to make a decision now, jus’ think ‘bout it, yeah?” With a hand on your thigh, he squeezes you reassuringly, and you smile right back at him with the same kind of comfort. “I see a cobbler over there, maybe someone didn’t pick up their shoes.”

Like always, he helps with your seatbelt gently, even avoiding grazing your stomach with his hand. Maybe it’s him being careful with you, but it’s as if he’s afraid to really hold onto your stomach, afraid to face the baby that could possibly end your life.

He smells faintly of the watered down minty shampoo and a coconut body wash that the last renter left at the cabin. While you probably smell of the milk formula for mothers that you’ve been rationing since you left the condo with James. Even then, Hobie pecks your temple sweetly.

“There, you ready?”

Taking his hand, you place his palm with apprehension on top of your stomach, letting his warmth ebb through your skin. “I’ve read that babies tend to already know their parents in the womb, but you haven’t been there the first months so I want them to get to know you more. Is that alright?”

His lips tug into a smile, chuckling softly as he feels around freely. “Yeah, ‘m the dad, love, of course it’s alright.”

You match his grin. “Just checking.”

Kissing your cheek, his lips linger for a moment before pulling away. He looks around with bated breath, making sure that there aren’t any surprises lurking around the corner shops. The town is quiet, eerily quiet, like in one of those apocalyptic shows Yuri pestered them into watching with her.

Cars are left on the road, some doors still open as the wind and rain ravage the leather seats. From the pink and yellow banners around, and the wilted flowers all tied with a pretty ribbon around the lampposts and shop windows, he’d think there was some celebration happening before the world ended. A flyer fluttering by gets stuck in the windshield wiper, it answers his question.

“‘Happy Mother’s day.’” You read solemnly. “Fuck me that’s ironic.”

Hobie scoffs a laugh, patting your stomach gingerly as he inhales deeply.

He doesn’t see any movement from the streets, no rustling, just some trash getting carried by the wind. But he spots something in the corner of his eye, a flash of movement inside the cobbler’s store, a quick shadow darting in between shelves of shoes.

“What is it?” You ask, brows furrowed as you feel his trepidation. “You okay?”

“We should move on.” Hobie starts the car again, as something gnaws at the back of his mind, telling him to move, telling him, ‘not here, there’s death lingering here.’

“I thought…” you don’t argue, trusting his instincts. “Okay. Maybe a house would be better.”

The car jolts to life as Hobie keeps his steely gaze on the road. “Yeah, the neighborhood is probably better to look through.”

The two of you drive around in silence, the fear sits between the two of you, heavy and permeating as the car rolls into a suburban area with white picket fences and blue windowsills. The place looks normal, still pristine and untouched by the dead and survivors.

Hobie looks around, car slowing down as he spots a two story home that he has probably seen dozens of times in his life. It looks fine, no blood on the walls, no corpses laying around, just an overgrown lawn and dusty windows.

“This is the one?” Your eyes narrow as the sunshine reflects onto the car windows and onto your eyes. It was a gloomy day when you went out, but the sun wanted to be seen for a moment. It’s a good reprieve from all the grey and darkness in your mind.

“Got your gear?” Hobie clicks his seatbelt off and then over to yours in a swift calculated movement.

“Yep,” you inhale deeply, taking his helping hand as you get out of the car. There’s a small ache on the pit of your stomach, and you chalk it up as nerves. You fix the hold on the backpack, a hand feeling for the kitchen knife on your belt and the gun hidden underneath your coat and tucked into your jeans. “Yours?”

“Ready,” Hobie shows you his backpack and the shotgun strapped on his shoulder, he then pats the hammer dangling on his belt before nudging your hand, resisting the urge to hold it instead. He needs his hands free to protect you. “Food and water first.” He instructs. “I’ll keep a lookout for shoes.”

“If we find the stuff we need for the home birth should we grab it? Or should we save space for food and toiletries?” You’re careful where you place your feet as you both walk onto what was probably a pristine lawn before the dead walked around.

“If we still have space in our packs, I don’t see why not.” Hobie keeps a careful eye around, making sure his hand never leaves the handle of the machete. And that you’re within his vision at all times.

“Maybe we’ll find some strings for your guitar too. They’re small, so it’ll fit my pockets.”

Hobie falters for a moment before stopping in front of the door. “You opened my guitar case?”

“Yeah,” you say as you cup your hands around a foggy window whilst you try to take a peek inside. When you’re met with silence, you lean away to look at him. “Am I not supposed to? I’m sorry, I got curious.”

“No, love, it’s alright.” His pinky brushes along the back of your hand. “It’s jus’ that I haven’t opened it since the houseboat broke down.”

“Oh, well, it’s fine, just that the stings are a bit fucked. No water got in or even a scratch on it.”

“That’s good.” With a relieved sigh, he gently taps the glass window to double check that there aren’t any shamblers hiding inside.

The two of you wait for a bit, but when a minute passes by without the sound of a pained groan or movement inside, Hobie grips the door handle.

He sees a wind chime a second earlier before he could open the door. With his height, he easily stops the chiming before it could chime out with a hand. Hobie then yanks it out, and gently places it on the ground.

“Good eye.”

“Thanks—” he’s about to push the door open, until your hand catches his wrist.

“Alarm.” You mutter with a shaky tone, pointing at the sign hidden behind the tall grass of the overgrown lawn. ‘This house is protected by Octavius security.’ It reads in big bold letters.

“Fuck me.” Slowly, he lets go of the door knob. “What are the chances that they don’t have power either?”

“I don’t know, but we can’t risk it.” You swallow thickly, a hand brushing along your stomach for comfort. Pursing your lips, you remember a conversation you had with James on one warm evening, warm enough that he made popsicles for you both. Yours was mango because he said that fruit was better for the baby, and he had chocolate instead. You’ve been craving mangoes nowadays, but can’t say anything to Hobie to add more to his stress. “I’ve got an idea, follow me.”

Slowly, with a hand on your knife, you carefully tread the lawn and over to the side of the house. Hobie follows closely behind, too afraid to lag behind you, afraid that you’ll get lost in the tall grass, or get snatched by one of the dead.

There’s a fallen kid’s bicycle on the ground, half buried in grass and dirt. Once upon a time a kid rode that up and down the neighborhood, now it lays there, rotting, slowly rusting, like the world around you.

“Here.” Clearing your throat, you both make it to the back door without a hitch. So far so good. “Okay, let’s hope that—” you begin to bend down, but Hobie stops you halfway with a hand on your chest.

“Let me. What are you looking for?” Crouching, Hobie looks up at you as the grey clouds start to obscure the sun behind your head, covering the halo around you.

“A key under the welcome mat.”

“Lovie, I don’t think…” and yet he still lifts the dirty mat, only to find a single key under it. “Well, fuck me sideways.”

“Already did that.” You cheekily joke, helping him stand up with a hand wrapped around his lean bicep.

Hobie smiles, really smiles, the kind of smile he would flash at you during lazy mornings where you two have nowhere to be that day. “You offerin’?”

Chuckling, you snatch the key from him as you insert it inside the lock. “Maybe if you find me some shoes.”

“Promise?” His lips curl into a mischievous smile, one that you’re incredibly familiar with.

“Yes,” biting your lip with a stifled laugh, you take a step back for him. “Could you please open the door?”

“How’d you know that the key would be there?”

“James’ dad owns a security company, and he told me that some people would usually forget their codes, or are afraid that when there’s no power they won’t be able to go inside because the system automatically locks the house. So sometimes they’d ask to not have an alarm at the back door, for big houses that is. For the key, well,” you shrug smugly. “I just applied common sense.”

He smiles proudly at you. “I keep forgettin’ that his dad had his hand in a lot of pies.”

“Just open the bloody door, Hobs.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He mocks a salute, unlocking the door slowly as the door creaks. Hobie peeks through the gap, waiting for any shamblers to appear. Tapping his blade on the door, once, twice, he waits some more, a precaution. Whilst you keep watch of the surroundings, heart beating loudly in your chest. “I think we’re good, lovie. Just need you to stay close to me, yeah?”

You nod, mouth feeling dry as you grip at the hilt of the kitchen knife. Your feet feel like you’re standing on warm sand, and your belly does somersaults, the baby could probably feel the tremors in your body as you enter the home with Hobie right in front of you.

This time, you’re making sure that you see the threat before it happens. The two of you sweep the kitchen first, the pantry has some food left but no monsters lurking in it. He finds the laundry room, same thing, no dead nor a soul inside.

You breathe a little better, and Hobie gives you a reassuring look, nudging your arm in a simple, ‘we’re okay,’ gesture.

While you keep watch, Hobie ransacks the pantry.

One thing has caught your eye though, on the counter, there is an empty flower vase with yellowing water, and beside it is a wilted and long dried up bouquet of roses. You take a peek inside the card, and it reads, ‘happy mother’s day!’ Scrawled by tiny hands written in crayon.

He loads up the duffle bag with food first, canned foods are the priority as he avoids the perishables. You wanted to check the fridge whilst he’s doing that but he can’t, or won’t let you out of his sight. You did promise to watch his back, so you did with your hand on the pistol right on your waist as he stacks cans upon cans of food.

Then he sees the biscuits, chocolate coated ones that he knows you like the most. He takes a box of those, checking the expiration date wouldn’t have meant anything when he has lost track of the date already. But if it doesn’t smell or isn’t covered in mold, it could still be good, so he packs it instead of another can of peas. He grabs a few seasonings too, and what’s left of the rice they had. He read that rice is good for the baby, so he takes it even though it weighs a ton.

The duffel bag is filled to the brim already when he finishes packing.

“Love.” He can’t help but smile, turning around to face you. “We’re not goin’ to starve.”

Chortling, you give him a quick yet loving peck on his shoulder. “Thank you.”

“There’s more in the fridge, and there are still jugs of water in here.” He whispers, in case there are lurkers upstairs.

“We also need soap.” Your eyes glances over to the laundry room. “What do we do?”

Pursing his lips, his eyes darts from the fridge, where there are magnet souvenirs and family photos on it, then over to the laundry room. He really needs clean clothes too. “We load this up in the trunk, dump it all in there then come back here.”

“Greedy, but I agree. I can’t sleep for another day in those sheets.”

With your approval, and a squeeze to your hand, the two of you trek back to the car, and carefully dump the canned goods inside the trunk of James’ car.

“I’ve never asked.” Hobie starts, a hand clasped around a can of peaches. “What happened to the window?” Glancing at the missing window at the back that was hastily wrapped in tarp and taped by duct tape, you follow his gaze.

“A horde got to us when we were leaving the condo building.” The stacking pauses on his end. “We were okay, we made it out by using molotov cocktails.”

He smiles fondly as something swims in his eyes, pride perhaps? Or perhaps jealousy. “You learned from the best.”

“We did, Hobie.” You tap the back of his knee with your foot as you finish your side. “I hope we find deodorant.”

Nodding, Hobie shuts the trunk as quietly as he could as he takes the empty duffel bag in his hand. “You smell great, love.”

“It’s because your brain started blocking the smell.” Giggling, you start your trek back again with him in tow. The steps are lighter, less careful now that you know what to expect.

“Nah, I think it’s your pheromones, you smell fit.”

“Never say that word ever again, Hobie.” That earns a kiss from him as he steals one from behind, right on your nape, before stepping around you to get to the laundry room before you could.

It goes like that for an hour, when the bags get full, he dumps it into the car and goes back again. It’s routine for the two of you, one that he refuses to go in and out alone when he can’t bear to leave you outside or inside the house for that matter. Even though it was tedious, going back and forth, he would still do it if it meant never straying too far from your side. He lost you once, he’s not planning on losing you ever again.

Both of you have cleared out the first floor, you found laundry detergents, food and water, now you’re on a mission to get some new clothes or maybe some pillows and blankets while it’s still light outside.

The walls of the house have grown familiar for you, the pictures on the walls of an unknown family, all strangers, and yet you found a connection to them. Somewhere in between taking their supplies, you wonder about them. Did they prefer beef over chicken when everything you found in their freezer was beef? Did their son ask for snacks before dinner like every kid does? How were they living now? Did they escape together? Or perhaps they’re shambling somewhere together with the rest of the dead.

Brows furrowed, your feet are on fire as you take a breather on the steps, taking hold of the bannister as you inhale through your nose and exhale out of your mouth. A breathing exercise that you read in your book.

“Love?” Hobie calls your name with worry. “You good?”

“Yeah, it’s just that…my feet are really fucking swolen and it kind of hurts. And I sort of need to pee.” Wincing, you give him an apologetic smile.

“Alright.” He sighs in relief, almost smiling. “I’ll take you to the loo.”

Hobie does a quick sweep of every room, there are only two bedrooms upstairs, and one office that is under lock and key. Every room is quiet and pristine, except for an odd smell coming from the master bedroom. Once he deems it safe, he helps you into the bathroom, keeping watch just outside the closed door.

Hand on his weapon, he keeps finding himself looking at the nursery right in front of him. It has light blue walls, powder blue like the sky on a good day in London, and it’s painted with fluttering birds and flowers. There’s a crib in there too, pristine, probably newly bought when there is still plastic wrapped around it. On the other side of the room is a small bed, meant for a toddler with rocketship bed sheets and glow in the dark stars tacked on the ceiling. In between them is an old rocking chair, oak and probably older than Hobie. And sitting on top of it is a box of trainers, with a neat pink bow on the lid. It’s from the brand that he knows you have been saving up for before the dead started walking.

He glances at the closed bathroom door, hearing you shuffle on the other side. The door is closed, and he didn’t find any undead inside the whole house. The place is safe and the nursery faces the loo where he could still keep an eye on you, so he takes a step away from the door and over to the rocking chair.

Hobie makes his strides quick and quiet, crossing the short distance over to the box as he takes it. He opens the lid, finding the same soft blue inside, the shoes seem to be larger than your usual size, but it would now fit you.

Grinning, his mission is accomplished. He shoves the pair inside the duffel bag, turning around with a triumphant smile on his face. “Love.” He shows you the box just as you exit the bathroom. “Look.”

The sheer happiness on your face makes his chest warm. He hasn’t seen you have that expression in a long while, it’s as if he’s a thirsty wanderer who finally found an oasis. For the first time ever since the party, he grins widely, the unabashed carefree smile that tugs at the corner of his lips first, right next to the piercing, a lopsided smile that never fails to turn your legs into jelly.

“Please tell me it’s my size.” Your hands reach for the box, squealing giddily once you see the size on the side.

“Open it.” His stomach thrums with excitement.

“Yes, new—!” Your face falls at the emptiness, and once you turn to look at the father of your unborn child, his cheeks are puffed, trying and failing to stifle a guffaw. “You wanker.”

“I couldn’t help it, lovie.” Tossing the box away that lands into the crib with a thump, he leads you to the rocking chair as you scowl at him like back when he accidentally ate your cheesecake in the fridge that you were saving for the end of the day. Hands on your shoulders, he’s still smiling at you, crouching down as he retrieves the shoes from the duffel bag. “‘m not evil.”

Your expression melts from annoyance to giddiness once again. “It’s blue.” You utter softly, lashes batting as Hobie slowly unlaces the old dirty shoes you have on.

“It is.” Chuckling fondly, he gently takes off your shoes, palm carefully cupping your heel, a thumb brushing along the hill of skin before slipping the new shoes on you. “Brand new too, we hit the jackpot.”

“I think it’s the exact same one I was saving for.” You still remember the road to and from work, where a shoe place is situated right on the road home, where you always look at the display longingly, waiting for the shoe to go on sale. “Just in blue.”

“What was the colour you wanted?” He slips the next one on your other foot, tying it twice, making sure that the laces won’t suddenly untie and make you trip and fall.

“Black,” you admire the shoes on you as you wiggle your feet about. “Easier to pair with my clothes.”

“Either one suits you.” Taking both feet, he taps the heels together playfully. “They fit you perfectly.”

“Thank you, Hobie.” You follow his smiling eyes as he stands up, a hand perched on the armrest of the rocking chair as his knees creak.

“Thank the bloke who got it.” His head tilts to gesture at the room. He wonders if the man who lived here got the shoes for his wife on mother’s day, or just because he wanted to show his love for her. Hobie knows he would do the same for you.

The irony doesn’t escape you when you find yourself sitting in the middle of a nursery. Maybe in another life, you and Hobie are refurbishing the spare room in his houseboat, the room you both use as a workspace slash art room slash library. It was littered with trinkets from you and Hobie the last time you saw it. You don’t remember much what was on the shelves when it’s been so long but you do remember the feeling whenever you spent a whole lazy afternoon with him in there.

The soft rocking of the boat would lull you to sleep whilst you read on an old lazyboy you two found abandoned on a street corner, the same one you had to call in James and Yuri to help haul it in the van. You would read and Hobie would tinker with his gadgets, sometimes taking odd fixing jobs from friends, fixing an antique clock, a radio, or a fan. The sound of the tinkling metal, the curses under his breath, and the water splashing against the side of the boat, it felt like home. It was warm and cozy, but it was colder in the winter when the space heater doesn’t help much with the chill. Those were the days where Hobie would huddle close to you on the armchair underneath all the blankets even when you both don’t fit in the chair. You miss those soft days, the peaceful days where you don’t have to be careful where you step, where the stench of death and decay doesn’t stick to your nostrils. It was just living, now all you know is surviving. Surviving to see Hobie for another day. Surviving to see the day your baby is born.

“Love,” he senses your heavy thoughts, hand reaching out to your chin, lifting it with his knuckle softly. Hobie doesn’t have the right words to comfort you, maybe there are no right words that will ever comfort you, but he tries, the only way he knows how, the only way that could get your mind out of the plague that is your mind. “You wanna take a look around? Maybe they’ve got something we could use for the baby.”

“We’re in a nursery, Hobs,” you say with a teasing tone. “I’m sure there’s baby stuff here we could use.”

Hobie chuckles, exhaling through his nose as he helps you off the rocking chair. He wonders if he could fit the chair in the car, the baby would love it, you would love it. The cabin already has a rocking chair but it’s old and weathered, looking like it’ll keel over once someone sits on it.

“I’ll check if they have books on giving birth.” His hand lingers on your hip before turning to the bookshelf with colourful children’s books.

“I’ll raid the closet.” Your hand instinctively brushes along your stomach, feeling the heaviness weigh you down.

You didn’t plan to get pregnant, moreso get pregnant during the end of the world where society has collapsed. You always knew from the moment you saw those two red lines that it wouldn’t be easy for the two of you, but now, you just feel regret and shame. Regret that this happened so soon in your life. Ashamed that you can’t be of any help to Hobie as the months go by. And when the inevitable comes, you could die, and you don’t want to leave the love of your life all alone in this world with a newborn to take care of. Or worse, you both don’t survive, and Hobie’s truly left alone.

You’re tired, exhausted already from carrying the extra weight on you. Bones aching on a microscopic level, as if you have a sack of cement on the small of your back. If you feel this tired just after a few months in your pregnancy, you fear for the coming months. What if you end up being bedridden? You’ve heard countless horror stories from women in your family at how terrifying it is to give birth. They said that when you’re giving birth, you have one foot buried in the ground. But they had doctors and medicine, while you have a book from the 90’s about childcare. You might die in front of Hobie while covered in blood and screaming in pain. You don’t want that to be the last thing he remembers of you.

Fists clenching, you feel the indents left on your palms. You take deep breaths, reminding yourself that stress isn’t good for the baby. So you start to distract yourself instead. You stare at the adorable clothes on the rack, all colour coded, from dinosaur onesies to tiny coats and matching beanies, you have the urge to take it all. The owners of the house have great taste, and you feel guilty for even being inside.

Taking a red and white plaid onesie that has matching socks, you turn to show Hobie.

“Lovie, look.”

“Hobs, look.”

You simultaneously turn to face the other.

You smile as he mirrors your expression. “‘Oh, the places you’ll go,’ really?”

“It’s a good read.” Shrugging, he shoves it in the dufflebag. “But look, baby names.”

You’re supposed to be happy, to smile at the book and imagine the names you could name the bundle born out of love, but you can’t find that happiness as you feel a lump on your throat form. Baby names are the last thing on your mind right now.

“That’s great, Hobs.”

“Couldn’t find any books about births, though.” Placing it inside the bag, right beside a teddy bear he nicked from the crib, Hobie smiles at the small pile he gathered. If he noticed your faltering expression, he doesn’t say anything about it. “What’d you find?”

“It looks kind of punk, doesn’t it?” Lifting the onesie, you peek over it, trying to hide your wobbly expression.

“Lovie…” taking the fabric in your hands, he grins fondly at the onesie. It’s so small, barely the size of his forearm, and he can’t help but imagine a little version of you wearing it. “This is the most fuckin’ adorable thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Take it?”

“Absolutely.” Peeking behind you, he sees more, eyes going wide at the swaddling cloths, tiny booties and the cutest bear onesie he has ever seen. “I say take ‘em all.”

You snort, backing away as he helps himself to the baby clothes. “That’s greedy, Hobie.” Despite your words, you help him shovel in the small socks and cute bibs. “Take some towels too, I read that they drool a lot.”

A laugh escapes his throat, barely contained as he almost forgets where he is, what might be lurking in the dark corners of the house. “Love, look at this one.”

He lifts up a plain yellow shirt with the bold pink letters that reads, ‘Daddy’s favorite.’ You clamp your mouth shut, before spluttering out a giggle.

“D’you think they have an adult sized version of this?” His eyes sparkle with playfulness. “For you, I mean.”

“Fuck, you’re so annoying.” And yet you shove the tiny shirt inside the bag with your cheeks aflame and a laugh bubbling in your throat.

“Love you too.” Pecking your temple, he moves away from the closet. “C’mon, we gotta move on to the bedroom.”

Your brows raise to your hairline, heat blossoming in the pit of your stomach. “What, right now?” You haven’t done that in a while, fuck, you just now realized that you haven’t done it since you found out about the baby. Your hands are suddenly at the hem of his shirt, desire filling your chest.

Hobie’s brows furrows for a moment before realization flickers on his expression. Eyes drifting down at your pawing, and then back over to your half lidded eyes. “Fuckin’ hell, love, not that. We need sheets and new clothes. Although that’s temptin’.” He pecks your pouting lips, giving you a sly smirk through the kiss. “Maybe later if you play your cards right, hm?” Now he’s in the mood too. It just crossed his mind when all he thought about recently was how to survive and finding you alive.

If your cheeks weren’t searing before then it’s fiery now. “I can’t believe I let you fuck me.” Groaning, head tilted back to hide your flustered expression, you walk past him towards the master’s bedroom.

“C’mon, lovie, that’s the reason why you’re pregnant.”

You flip him the bird on your way out that makes him smile even more. For a moment there he felt normal, that everything was back to normal and he’s at home with you while the houseboat rocks gently.

The two of you make it to the bedroom, and the smell hits you before he gets a whiff of it. It’s dank, like mold clinging to the damp walls, like the smell of wilted flowers downstairs, only stronger, more prominent.

“God, what is that smell?” Plugging your nose, you wince. “It kind of smells like teeth at the dentist. I’m gonna hurl if we stay here long.”

“Don’t know, but I don’t like it.” Hobie moves you aside gently before treading the dry carpet to open a window. The sun is beginning to set outside, and worry gnaws at his chest. Soon this place would be crawling with the undead. “We need to hurry, this is our last run before we head out.”

“Yeah, gotcha.” You don’t argue as you hastily grab everything you need. Some clothes that might not fit either of you perfectly, even a few maternity clothes you found, a couple of thick coats, and the sheets you’ve been eyeing.

The bags are almost full when you finish grabbing the things you needed, and Hobie even managed to find a couple of camping backpacks to fill it with two pillows and more blankets. He’s ready to leave when you remember the towels.

“Shit, Hobie, we need towels.”

“Love, we can wash the ones we already have.” Fixing his hold on the bags, he checks the ticking clock on the wall and the sun setting in the horizon that paints the sky a deep bloody orange.

“Those are threadbare, Hobie, I could the count strings on it. I’ll be quick, promise.” You’re already at the bathroom door, opening it as it creaks, the sound echoing through the hallway.

“Lovie, wait, let me—”

The stench permeates through the bedroom from the bathroom, stinking up the whole place, the same wilted flower smell. Teeth, it wasn’t just teeth, it’s bones.

“Fuck…” The bile rising up your throat and the spit filling your mouth almost made you retch. But the sight of the bodies hugging in the bathtub, surrounded by dead flowers makes your heart fall to your stomach.

The door is shut before you could let out a sound. Hobie holds you in his arms, and you stay there, frozen, still staring at the door, as if you could still see them decaying inside the tub.

“C’mon, love, we need to go.” Hobie whispers in your ear, gentle and reassuring as his hand rubs up and down your arm. He calls your name with the same gentleness, honeyed and saccharine, trying to get you to move.

Once you blink away the blurriness in your eyes, you turn to Hobie with an unreadable expression. There were three of them in there, no, four, a family, one still in the mother’s cleaved open belly. Their skin has turned to leather, sun dried, stretched over blanched bones.

“Love?” His thumb traces the length of your jaw, grounding you to the present. “We need to go.”

“Yeah, let’s go—”

There’s a shadow in the doorway.

It hunches in the dark, breathing, watching.

You act first, grabbing the shotgun from Hobie’s back as you aim.

Hobie exhales, eyes wide, before yanking at the barrel, pulling it up and away from the figure.

The shot rings out through the house and out of the opened window.

Pieces of the ceiling fall on the carpet, paint and wood cracking and splintered, falling upon the stranger like raindrops.

The figure now crouches, grasping at its ear, while a hand, a wrinkly old palm stretches at you, surrendering.

Your ears ring, a shrill deaf tone that rattles your teeth inside your mouth whilst Hobie nurses his singed hand.

“Fuck!” You yell, but you don’t hear your own voice.

The sounds are muffled in your ears as Hobie grabs the gun from your hands.

“What are you doing?!” His voice fades in and out in your hearing. His eyes are wide, frantic as he points at the crouched figure. “He’s alive!”

The words strike you like a fist.

“What?” You ask, befuddled, heaving heavily as you stare wide eyed at the stranger in the doorway.

“I’m s–sorry…” a trembling voice says, spluttering and weeping on the floor. “I’m sorry, I–I didn’t mean to—” he chokes on air, coughing as he desperately tries to clear his throat.

Narrowing your gaze, honing in to make out the man’s face, you see an old man cowering from your stare. Guilt gnaws at your conscience.

“Oh, fuck, I’m sorry. I didn’t—” you wipe your hands at your jeans, as if it’ll clean the gunpowder on your skin. As if it’ll undo what you have done. “I didn’t know, I thought you were one of them.”

“Mate,” Hobie’s words feel dry on his tongue. “Who are you, how’d you get in here?” If the man was dead, he wouldn’t be so afraid, as he eyes you underneath his bucket hat. If he was, he wouldn’t have wasted time staring in the doorway instead of devouring you. Hobie’s wary as he stands in front of you protectively. He might’ve saved the stranger’s life, but he doesn’t know him and what he’s capable of. “You can stand up, we’re not goin’ to hurt you if you don’t try anythin’.”

You stand still, breathing heavily as you keep your weapon close while your hand shields your stomach.

The stranger is old, trembling as he stands up as instructed, back hunched, and messy hair untrimmed; his dirty blonde hair is matted under his hat. He looks frail, and you could easily outrun him, but you’ve learned never to underestimate anyone in this world.

“My—” his voice is crackly at the edges, tongue trying to wet his dry lips. “My name is Norman, I’ve been here since…since I don’t know.” His tone is weak and rough like someone who has a cold. “My son, he has a place here, but—but I forgot where it was, and I got lost. He…he said that he’ll meet me here in town.”

“Old man,” Hobie takes a step closer, while his free hand holds onto your wrist, keeping you close, all the while his other hand grasps at the weapon on his hip. “We’re not ‘ere to fight, but if you could jus’ move away from the stairs. We need to get out of ‘ere before any of the dead come.”

“I– I don’t know where I am.” His lips wobble, sniffing as his big brown eyes fill with unshed tears. “I’m sorry, who…who are you, lad?”

Hobie slowly inches towards the door as you hold onto his shoulder, blade at the ready as you peek over him.

Something in you pities the man. He reminds you of Yuri’s grandmother when she got sick, when there were days she wasn’t herself. You recognize the same condition in the man, how in the world has he survived this long all alone?

“Hobie, I think he’s unwell.” You whisper to him, feet feeling the dry carpet below you, the sky outside is going dark, and the automatic lights inside the hallways open. There’s power, and you could see the office door that was locked is now wide open.

“I know, love. We jus’ need to get out of ‘ere.”

The old man’s eyes pleads you for help. His face is gaunt underneath his salt and pepper beard, the skin around his eyes are darkened, and eyes beady. His nails are awfully long, curved and yellowed at the end. He has been surviving on his own whilst his own mind attacked him.

“He needs help.” Your grip on Hobie’s shoulder tightens desperately.

James would’ve helped him. Just like he helped you.

“Love.” The protest is on the edge of his tongue. But when Hobie turns to the man and his raggedy clothes, and the gaunt of his cheek, skin blemished and blanched, it reminds him of the people he would meet at the soup kitchen he volunteered at. The same place where he used to come to when he was struggling. “Norman, right?”

The old man reluctantly nods, as if he’s trying to recall his own name.

“C’mon, before the dead get ‘ere. They would’ve heard the shot.” Hobie grabs the fallen bags from the floor, glancing at you briefly as your expression is a mix of regret, relief, and pity. “Lovie, stay close. You too, Norm.”

“I haven’t heard that name in awhile.” He mutters under his breath, nodding along to his instructions.

Hobie lets him walk first, keeping a close eye on him, in case he is bitten. If he followed behind you, his mind wouldn’t be at peace if that was the case.

The whole house is lit up the moment the sun faded from the horizon. In the warm yellow lights, the place doesn’t feel so eerie. In another world he would have a place like this with you and the baby, maybe have the kid grow up in a nice house like this. It was near impossible before the world collapsed, now it’s just wishful thinking. Like how one would imagine winning the lottery.

“Where did you two come from?” Norman asks, arms curled around himself for comfort.

“The woods, we’ve got a cabin there.” Hobie adjusts his hold onto the bags, crossing the threshold towards the kitchen and to the back door where you two entered. Where he propped a can of peas on the door to keep it ajar just in case.

You watch as Norman’s face furrows, as if he’s trying to recall something deep in his mind.

“We have to hurry—”

Hobie sees it happen in slow motion, Norman’s hand wrapped around the door knob of the front entrance, tugging at it out of instinct.

“Norman, no!” You scream, but it’s too late.

The alarm blares around the house, echoing throughout the neighborhood. If the shot didn’t gather the dead’s attention, the alarm would.

There are rushed bare footsteps slapping against concrete outside.

“Run!” Hobie grabs you harshly, yanking and pulling you towards the back door as you reach your free hand over to Norman.

He takes your hand desperately. In his addled mind, he recognizes danger, and it makes him sprint behind you.

Hobie lugs the bags around his back and arms, whilst leading you outside. The same carefulness when you two arrived is out of the window the moment he heard gurgled groaning.

He turns his head towards the cul-de-sac, and he sees a gaggle of the shambling dead run at break neck speed towards him.

Their limbs flail right behind them without a care, they’re caked in blood, jaws unhinged, claws raised up as the wall of rotting stench follows them. Blood drips from their eyes, gnashing their teeth in the air as if they’re tasting him on their blackened tongues.

He makes it to the car, throwing the bags into the backseat and helps you inside the passenger seat before going around the hood to the driver’s side and hops in quickly. Thank fuck he had the foresight to not lock the doors. It was a horrible decision back then when there was danger of getting the car nicked, but he figured that you two were the only survivors in the whole town. He thought so at least.

“Love!” He yells your name, whilst you frantically put on your seatbelt. He could see the corpses run in the reflection of the side mirror.

“Norman!” You scream, waking the stranger from his terrified stupor, frozen just beside the car. “Get the fuck inside!”

The old man scrambles inside, tossing his whole body in the car whilst Hobie doesn’t waste time in starting the car, or even waits for Norman to shut the door.

The engine splutters weakly.

“Fuck you! C’mon you stupid, cu—!”

The pained shrieks of the dead come close as the car roars to life.

Exhaust fumes exit out of the car as Hobie steps on the gas. The wheels screech on the cement, leaving tire tracks as he drives quickly out of there.

A can of peaches rolls out of the backseat and onto the street just before the opened door beside Norman slams shut as Hobie turns a corner, watching the corpses fade in the rearview mirror.

“Holy fuck.” Panting, bad leg aching, you turn to Hobie with wide eyes. “Are you okay?” Your hand squeezes his trembling arm.

“Yeah, yeah…” Hobie swallows the bile in his throat, utterly relieved to be out of there. He takes your hand, and presses a heavy kiss on your knuckles whilst keeping an eye on the road. “You?”

“I’m good.” Smiling and chuckling, knees wobbly, you turn to Noman, who is still laying on the pile of canned goods and bags you got from the house. “You okay, Norm?”

The man’s lips stretches into an easy smile, “yes, thank you.”

You rub Hobie’s bicep, giving him a quick loving peck. “Let’s go home, Hobie.”

He has been so busy and hyper focused on his work that the mere five hours without having him hold you has him in shambles. He guesses you are too since you haven't left the radioactive side of the opened microwave. It’s worse that you've just been around the house boat the entire time, not bothering him because you're such a sweetheart. He can handle being away from your touch during long hours in spider society and patrols around the city because he can't see you in his peripheral being all mopey and frowny. Five hours in the same place without a word from him must've been torture for you. Now he feels all guilty that he didn't even have lunch with you, or cook something together for dinner like usual.

Sauntering over to you, Hobie slowly slides his arm around your waist, closing the microwave door with his other hand— revealing his remorseful yet handsome face.

“Hi, love. Fancy seein’ you ‘ere.”

You sigh, smile curling around your lips at the sight of him. Your fingers are inching closer to the hem of his shirt. “Hello, are you hungry? I'll heat up a plate for you.” Your voice is soft, eyes gazing off to his hand resting on your hip. Something tells him you need attention, screaming at him more like.

“How ‘bout we cook somethin’ together, yeah?”

You smile, nodding, but the want in your heart stays. Hobie feels it in his chest, your need to hold him close, closer than you are now even though you're already hip to hip.

“What do you want, huh, pretty girl?” His knuckles rub along the small of your back, gentle and caring. “I think we've got beef in the freezer.”

“I thought we've got beef.”

“Do we have beef with each other?” He leans a bit further, smiling teasingly.

“I don't know, Hobie, do we?” You mirror his smile, copying his movements. His hand prevents you from moving further away though.

“We don't, love,” you raise an eyebrow at him, it's like your arms are magnetized to his side, you fight from embracing him for he might not want you to. He notices your apprehension. “D’you want me to prove it to you?”

You chuckle, “and how would you prove it, hm?”

“Do you want a hug, lovie?”

You crumble, shoulders sagging, relief in your tone. “Oh thank fuck, yes please.” Hobie laughs against your neck as you collide with him. “What's so funny?” You move your neck away, eyes narrowed.

His hand cups the back of your head, pushing you on him the second you leaned away. “Nothin,’ love, stay for me would you? I'm not done absorbing you yet.”

It's your turn to laugh against his skin as he peppers the side of your face with a million (much needed) kisses.

The room is slowly growing darker with every minute you spend inside, the cozy decorations around the small space with its carved woodland creatures, lace doilies and fluttering curtains are nothing but a mockery to you and what’s gnawing in your head. Their shadows loom over the walls, shapes cageing you in.

It’s quiet inside the familiar bathroom, what was once held a fond memory for you is now marred by the recent memory of James begging for you to shoot him. You can still hear his cries, pleading, begging for you to end him to keep you and your baby safe. The way his hands shook, cradling the bleeding bite and how his voice gurgled in his own blood, and yet he still smiled at you towards the end. Even then he was trying to comfort you.

Your protruding stomach bops up and down in the water, belly button peeking through the mix of blood and soap. You haven’t let out a single tear since Hobie helped you inside the tub, hoping that a warm bath will help. When all it did was numb you.

Gazing at the ceiling, mold dotted along the wood, your eyes sting as you tilt your head down, face half submerged in the water. Waves lapping at the sides of your face. You miss James, he was your companion, a friend that helped you survive the first days of the apocalypse. He was your anchor through it all, the voice of reason when all you wanted was to run outside and look for your lost love. It’s ironic, compared to before the world ended, you and the rest of the band were the ones holding him by the scruff of his neck.

As you run your palm over your stomach, the pinky ring shines atop it, you promise to yourself that you’ll live on so that his sacrifice wouldn’t be in vain. He would’ve wanted you to do just that, but that doesn’t make it alright. You have no idea how to tell Yuri and Ned that their best mate is dead, and that you killed him.

What if his parents are still alive? How would you tell them that their only child is dead? That he died protecting you while holding out hope that he would find them?

The door creaks open, and Hobie peeks through the crack. His cheeks are coated in dirt, and there’s soil underneath his fingernails as he knocks softly. He looks the same as you remember before you had to leave him in the car with hopes of coming back for him. You did come back for him, but he was nowhere to be seen. For three months you wonder where he was, if he’s eating, or if he’s even alive. Now that he’s here, standing in the same room as you, breathing the same air as you, your heart feels like it’s beating once again. Albeit cracked, but alive, thumping quietly as it keeps you and your baby breathing.

“Love,” his voice seeps with fatigue. “You’ll turn into a prune.”

“You like prunes.” You answer softly, tone as tired as his. “Come sit with me please?”

“I’m all dirty,” His boots thump against the floor mats, tracking mud and dirt. His hand clamps over his eyes playfully. “and you’re all naked.”

You manage a small smile. “How do you think I got this?” Gesturing around your stomach, he peeks through his fingers.

“A stork?”

“Nope, birds and the bees, Hobs.” Opening your palms, you gesture for him to join you.

“Yeah, I think I remember that in biology.” Kneeling down, knees creaking in protest, he places his arm over the rim of the bathtub, chin resting on his elbow. “How do you feel?”

“Like sun dried shit.” Your attempt at a half assed joke.

He manages a smile. “The baby?” His eyes gaze gently down, worry etched on his brows.

“I think the baby’s fine. I’m not at the stage where the baby could start kicking like a horse yet. But everything feels fine, considering.” Sniffing, you lean against his arm, a cold cheek pressed on his warm skin. “I really wanted to tell you… I really did.”

Hobie’s free hand reaches to cup your chin, turning you gently to face him. “I know, lovie.” He sighs, thumb brushing along your damp skin. “When did you know?”

“At the party, with Yuri.” The mere mention of her has your heart squeezing in your chest. The same feeling is clear on his face too. “We got a bunch of tests after I got sick all over the bathroom floor.”

“Is that what you wanted to tell me? Before…everythin’?”

“Yeah, I still have the test, kept it just in case.”

His eyes flick over to your growing stomach, belly button protruding above the surface like a buoy. “Well, I believe you, proof or no proof.”

You manage a small chuckle. “I’m way past doubting it. The morning sickness was the worst, and my feet are swollen.” Lifting a foot above the water to show him, Hobie’s brows knit in worry, it looks painful. You look like you’re in pain. He then sees the scar on your leg, a long scar tissue that is still red around the edges of skin. He doesn’t ask how it came to be when he doesn’t want to upset you even more.

He feels sorry that he wasn’t there, that he wasn’t there from the start, holding you, making you feel better. He should’ve been there, he should’ve been here before you. Maybe, just maybe, James would still be alive, that he would hear the muffled shuffling of the undead behind the closet door, and end it before it started. And he would welcome you both inside with a relieved smile.

“My boots would fit you now.” Hobie stifles his hurt, eyes glancing away from swollen feet before staring at the same pain in your eyes.

“Maybe, I’m going to need maternity clothes soon.” Inhaling, you purse your lips together. “I’m going to wear all those old lady dresses with the plain daisies and bland colours. You won’t think I’m fit anymore.” Your knuckles brush alongside his arm.

“Nah, you’re still peng in my eyes, lovie. Even if you dress up as Yuri’s grandma.” Taking your hand, he twists it gently to hold onto you better. Water mixing with soil.

“Remember when she used to make us all those sugar cookies during band practice?”

“Yeah, I’ve gained weight durin’ that.”

“We all did, Hobie.” You gently smile, squeezing him once. After a beat, your smile fades. “Is it horrible of me to think that it’s a good thing that she’s already gone before all this shit happened?”

“No, love.” His thumb runs along your palm. “I wouldn’t wish this on anyone.”

The back of your eyes stings, heat behind them as you swallow thickly. “I should’ve— I should’ve come looking for you. When I came back to the car, you weren’t there anymore.” You fight the tears from spilling. “And then we ran to the docks, and the houseboat wasn’t there either. I’m sorry, I should’ve tried harder. I could’ve tried harder.”

“Just the thought of you comin’ to look for me is enough.” With a gentle hand, he moves a damp strand of hair away from your face. “I’m jus’ glad you weren’t alone.”

Your eyes fall on his fingers, the dirt digs into his nailbeds, darkened by mud and soil. “Yeah, I wouldn’t have survived this long without him.” Your nail scrapes at the dirt, trying to get it clean. And he lets you. “You should’ve seen him, Hobie, he was…he’s great.” Vision glistening, you stifle a sob.

“I think he was a scout when he was a kid.” A smile curls in the corner of his lips at the image of James wearing those uniforms when he was just a boy. Green and khaki complete with a beret and sash filled with patches. Hobie beats himself up for not remembering if James really was a scout. “I know he was great, lovie, jus’ seein’ you here is proof enough.”

“He went full on survivor. We were stuck at his parent’s condo for a bit until we ran out of supplies and the electricity in the city was shut off.” Your palm is pruning, but you’re afraid of leaving the comfort of the tub. “I got a baby book though.”

“Yeah? Like the one with baby names?”

He wants to tell you what happened to him in those three months, how he struggled, how he longed to see you alive, how he was seeing you in his visions. And what he saw, what he had to do to get back to you. You know that the houseboat is gone from his expression alone, if it wasn’t you two would’ve sailed out of the town before the blood dried on the floor.

You gently shake your head, water sloshing softly. “No, the kind that has instructions on home births.” Voice wavering, you hold onto him tightly, realizing what he has to do when the time comes. “I’m scared, Hobie.” Your throat betrays you, closing up as you let out a sob. “What if something happens to the baby? There’s no hospitals or doctors anymore—”

Hobie brings your face to his chest, shushing you tenderly as he rubs at your back. Despite the water drenching his sleeve, he still holds onto you as waves of tears flow out of you. He’s scared too, afraid to lose the baby, afraid to lose you. For ten years, he has loved you, and for those ten years, he never once thought of a day without you in it. He can’t lose you when he needs to love you for the rest of his life.

“It’s alright, we can do it, yeah?” He feels you nod against him as you shiver in his arms. “We’ve watched enough hospital dramas to know all about givin’ birth.” Joking, Hobie kisses the crown of your damp head as you manage a chortle.

“That’s reassuring.”

“I’ve got you and the baby. I promise that you two will be safe and sound.” Leaning away to cradle your face, he meets with your shining eyes, tears still clinging to your lashes. “I promise you.” Even if it kills him.

“Okay.” Inhaling deeply, you grasp at his wrist, a firm yet affectionate hold. “And I’ll watch your back, like always.”

Hobie smiles, the kind that reminds you of the days where he would play on stage, giving you that same reassuring smile as the lights flicker on his handsome face. “To start off, let’s get you dry and warm before you catch a cold.”

—

When you pictured saying goodbye to one of your friends, you never envisioned burying them at an age where they shouldn’t be six feet under. That it’ll just be you and Hobie, staring at the freshly packed ground right in front of you with a crudely made headstone. James doesn’t deserve one that is made out of a broken window panel, he deserved a headstone that is carved out of marble, where his name would remain etched on it forever. Not like how you wrote his name on the wood with a sharpie.

His father’s hunting vest feels rough in your hands. Dried blood staining the very same fabric that James once wore. You’ve been told that his father wasn’t the best, but the vest brought him comfort throughout his survival, a reminder, his fuel to continue living. Now it remains in your trembling hands, fingers digging into the dark blood.

“D’you want to say a few words?” Hobie utters softly amidst the strong wind as trees rustle nearby. If he thinks hard enough, he can imagine that his best mate doesn’t lie six feet under him. That he didn’t bury him there with his bare hands.

You shake your head, chest aching, eyes heavy and hot with unshed tears. No words could ever stifle your grief, there are no words in the world that makes this right, no worthy words to describe how great a man James was.

He understands your grief and your guilt, he knows you well to know what’s rushing inside your head. His eyes wander towards your shaking hands, and the façade he built to keep you steady and anchored almost crumbles.

“J–James Jameson,” his tone cracks, fists shaking, nails leaving crescent shapes on his palms. “You’re the best damn drummer I know, save us a spot up there, yeah?”

You heave, tears streaming down your face as you take a careful step forward. With your heart in your stomach, you kneel before the headstone, laying the vest around it, imagining that you’re putting it on him for the last time. “You’ve done well, James.” Your words are carried by the wind, palm placed atop the fresh soil, where his head could lie underneath.

Hobie’s arm curls around you, chin resting atop your head as he faces the grey sky.

—

The days have gone by with silence. The surrounding woods let out a whisper of leaves and a howl at night. But inside the cabin, grief lingers in the air, staining the wooden walls, slithering on the floorboards.

James’ presence weighs heavy between the two of you. Even though Hobie never said that he blames you for it, you still beat yourself up for what happened. If only you were quicker, that you didn’t hesitate before pulling the trigger. Every day Hobie lets you know that he doesn’t, for one moment, blame you for James’ demise. Through his actions, taking care of you, making sure that you’ve eaten, slept, taken your prenatal vitamins, and his touch, he lets you know that he loves you, that the world hasn’t ended for him because you’re still by his side.

The two of you have just been surviving on sparse supplies, and the water taken from a well behind the house that he has to boil before letting you take a drink. But the quiet, and the stifling air inside the space makes it more unbearable. You’ve tried to turn on the telly when the solar panels on the roof have recharged, but you’re only met with static. Not even the radio plays crappy music anymore, just an incessant buzzing. It’s as if you’re the only people left in the world.

The books and board games on the shelf meant for guests are gathering dust. You’d rather spend your days studying the baby book, every word memorized and carved in your head. Hobie made himself the handyman of the house, he fixed the holes on the front door where your bullets hit it, and he has reinforced all the windows with planks of wood he found in the tool shed. In case a shambler comes too close to the perimeter he set up that he agrees is abysmal when he only has strings and cans to work with. It’s a crude version of an alarm, and he wishes he could make something better for a precaution.

Hobie barely sleeps, keeping watch at night and day, taking naps in between when his body shuts down. When you see him dozing off on the couch, you sit beside him and he’s immediately magnetized to your side. You always tug his head down on your lap, letting him sleep there as your old cardigan that he managed to save from the houseboat is draped on his shoulders. Sometimes you see him reading the same baby book, folding the edges of the important pages when it’s your turn to keep watch. You miss him, even though you two sleep on the same bed with his arms wrapped protectively around you. But the easy conversations, the laughter, you miss those. This isn’t a way of living anymore.

You can’t help it when your eyes wander towards the spot where you held James one last time. No matter how much you scrub at the walls and floor, the stain stays. A macabre reminder of that day amidst the comfortable cottage decorations placed by the same dead man resting beside James’ grave.

The bowl of canned chicken noodle soup in front of you warms your cheeks as Hobie’s palm leaves your shoulder with a squeeze. Your eyes dart towards his side of the table, noticing that he doesn’t have supper, only a glass of room temperature water.

“Hobie?” Clearing your throat, your hand rubs at your stomach. Your shirt has gotten smaller, making you pull it down occasionally over your swollen belly.

He sighs in relief just from hearing your voice, pausing by the counter tops, hands reaching above the cabinets. “Yeah, love? Feelin’ alright?”

“Where’s your soup?” Craning your neck, you see the opened cabinets, seeing it nearly empty, save for a can of chocolate pudding, and a pack of dried beef jerky that’s still unopened. Just by the look in his eyes, he doesn’t need to say it out loud. “We need to go into town.”

“I need to go into town.” He leans on the counter, arms on his side as the dark circles under his eyes are illuminated by the electric lamp that was recharged by the solar. “Before you say anythin’, I’ll be quick.”

“And alone. You need someone to watch your back. We’ve got two guns for a reason.”

“Sure, I’ll jus’ ask one of the woodland creatures to come with me.”

“I don’t want to fight, Hobie.” Standing up, hand braced under your stomach, you close the small distance towards the kitchen. The cabin used to carry good memories, now it only bears agony. “Please, let’s not argue.” Hands rubbing his arms, you gaze at him softly. “I’m still not that far along, I can still run if we need to.” You don’t want to tell him that your scarred leg aches when you run.

You feel all the heaviness that James left in your heart, but you can’t let it hinder you forever when you’ve got Hobie and the baby to think about. They’re now your reason to survive, just like how James held on because of the baby and in hopes of finding his best mates and his parents.

Hobie avoids your eyes, sighing as he takes your hands in his. He feels the small indents from the scars that you told him about after another night of crying. He doesn’t want to look at it when it only makes his heart break at the thought of you getting hurt. So he keeps his eyes on the promised ring around your pinky instead, the same one he saved for months just to get it for you.

“What if we see those things? Or worse, run into people?”

“We hide or run, and if need be, we fight.” You look at him with determination and with untapped bravery he hasn’t seen yet. “I don’t want you to starve yourself. Or for you to die when I’m stuck here waiting for you to come home when I don’t know if you’ll ever be back.” Reaching over him as his hand falls on your hips, you take the beef jerky and the lone can of chocolate pudding. “So which one will it be for tonight?” With a small smile, you weigh both in your hands. “I need you full of energy tomorrow.”

Chuckling, Hobie takes the beef jerky and then takes your chin daintily in his hand. “The last time you told me that was before a concert.”

“I remember.” Sunlight passes by your eyes. “You killed it that night.”

His eyes wander behind you where his guitar case is tucked in-between an armchair and the telly. He still hasn’t opened it. “You follow me, yeah? When I tell you to run, you run, when I tell you to leave me behind, you do just that.”

You take a second before nodding.

“Let’s share the puddin’” Throwing his arm over your shoulder, and a peck to your temple, he leads you back to the table.

Kissing his cheek, you giggle, the very first genuine laugh you’ve let out in a couple of weeks. “That’s what I like to hear.”

—

Hobie hesitated before taking the car into town. The engine could draw unwanted attention, or it could break down in the middle of a drive. But he can’t exactly make you walk for miles on end when you’re almost four months pregnant. If only he had a bicycle on hand, and go on a ride with you like when you were teenagers sneaking out to go wherever you please.

“I hope we find a shoe place.” Your mumbling gets his attention, hand reaching towards your thigh as he keeps his eyes on the road. You place your hand atop his, squeezing once as you smile fondly at him. It reminds you of a similar memory when the two of you were driving in his old car to a gig or a date at the park. Not driving towards what could be a dead town filled with rotting corpses. “Some new trainers would be good for my sasquatch feet.”

His piercings catch the light, glinting from the sun shining on them. Hobie looks incredibly handsome, you’ve always said that the sunlight suits him more, and he would always say that the moonlight fits you best. His locks are tied into a ponytail that you helped him with. He desperately needs a haircut when his curls are starting to cover his eyes that you always have to move them away, covering a new scar he got from the car crash right on his forehead. It’s not because you think it makes him look awful, but you hate the fact that he got hurt, that he had to tend to his wounds himself. Your guilt refuses to let you look at the scar.

Hobie snorts, noticing your lighter demeanour now that you’re out of the cabin. “I’ll keep a look out.” Thumb drawing circles over your jeans, he squeezes again. “And your feet aren’t that big, love. I’ve seen bigger.”

Pinching the back of his hand, he lets out a chuckle. “Yeah, yours.” Your eyes warn him before he could even smirk. “And don’t say it.”

“Wasn’t gonna.” From his smirk alone, you could tell that he was in fact ‘gonna.’

Smiling, for a moment you forgot that the world ended, that James isn’t laying six feet underground just beside the living room window.

Hobie senses the negative shift in your demeanor. From all his reading on the baby book you brought, he has read that when the mother is in good spirits, and not stressed, the baby will turn out healthy and happy. He has made it his mission that you and the baby remain in okay spirits, impossible to make it better on account of the things around you, but he still wants to try. After James and everything else, something as small as new trainers could help brighten you up. He’s even contemplating that the cabin might not be the best environment for you, but where would he bring you that is safer than a cabin in the middle of the woods?

“I’ve been thinkin’” Clearing his throat, he shifts in his seat with the town now in sight.

“A lot, I imagine.”

He glances at you with a small smile. “Yeah, too much.” Sighing, he slows down the car once the town’s faded banner greets him. The place doesn’t look any better like before, but it doesn’t look worse either. “What if we look for other places we could stay? Somewhere safer, quieter and away from cities for when the baby is born.”

“The cabin is already all of that.”

“Yeah, I mean…somewhere that doesn’t remind you of what happened.”

Your eyes cast down at your lap, index mindlessly picking at a hang nail as you gaze at your ring instead. “I don’t know, Hobie, James is there, he’d be alone.”

“He’ll understand, love.” Sighing, he parks the car on the side of the silent fishing town. “We don’t have to make a decision now, jus’ think ‘bout it, yeah?” With a hand on your thigh, he squeezes you reassuringly, and you smile right back at him with the same kind of comfort. “I see a cobbler over there, maybe someone didn’t pick up their shoes.”

Like always, he helps with your seatbelt gently, even avoiding grazing your stomach with his hand. Maybe it’s him being careful with you, but it’s as if he’s afraid to really hold onto your stomach, afraid to face the baby that could possibly end your life.

He smells faintly of the watered down minty shampoo and a coconut body wash that the last renter left at the cabin. While you probably smell of the milk formula for mothers that you’ve been rationing since you left the condo with James. Even then, Hobie pecks your temple sweetly.

“There, you ready?”

Taking his hand, you place his palm with apprehension on top of your stomach, letting his warmth ebb through your skin. “I’ve read that babies tend to already know their parents in the womb, but you haven’t been there the first months so I want them to get to know you more. Is that alright?”

His lips tug into a smile, chuckling softly as he feels around freely. “Yeah, ‘m the dad, love, of course it’s alright.”

You match his grin. “Just checking.”

Kissing your cheek, his lips linger for a moment before pulling away. He looks around with bated breath, making sure that there aren’t any surprises lurking around the corner shops. The town is quiet, eerily quiet, like in one of those apocalyptic shows Yuri pestered them into watching with her.

Cars are left on the road, some doors still open as the wind and rain ravage the leather seats. From the pink and yellow banners around, and the wilted flowers all tied with a pretty ribbon around the lampposts and shop windows, he’d think there was some celebration happening before the world ended. A flyer fluttering by gets stuck in the windshield wiper, it answers his question.

“‘Happy Mother’s day.’” You read solemnly. “Fuck me that’s ironic.”

Hobie scoffs a laugh, patting your stomach gingerly as he inhales deeply.

He doesn’t see any movement from the streets, no rustling, just some trash getting carried by the wind. But he spots something in the corner of his eye, a flash of movement inside the cobbler’s store, a quick shadow darting in between shelves of shoes.

“What is it?” You ask, brows furrowed as you feel his trepidation. “You okay?”

“We should move on.” Hobie starts the car again, as something gnaws at the back of his mind, telling him to move, telling him, ‘not here, there’s death lingering here.’

“I thought…” you don’t argue, trusting his instincts. “Okay. Maybe a house would be better.”

The car jolts to life as Hobie keeps his steely gaze on the road. “Yeah, the neighborhood is probably better to look through.”

The two of you drive around in silence, the fear sits between the two of you, heavy and permeating as the car rolls into a suburban area with white picket fences and blue windowsills. The place looks normal, still pristine and untouched by the dead and survivors.

Hobie looks around, car slowing down as he spots a two story home that he has probably seen dozens of times in his life. It looks fine, no blood on the walls, no corpses laying around, just an overgrown lawn and dusty windows.

“This is the one?” Your eyes narrow as the sunshine reflects onto the car windows and onto your eyes. It was a gloomy day when you went out, but the sun wanted to be seen for a moment. It’s a good reprieve from all the grey and darkness in your mind.

“Got your gear?” Hobie clicks his seatbelt off and then over to yours in a swift calculated movement.

“Yep,” you inhale deeply, taking his helping hand as you get out of the car. There’s a small ache on the pit of your stomach, and you chalk it up as nerves. You fix the hold on the backpack, a hand feeling for the kitchen knife on your belt and the gun hidden underneath your coat and tucked into your jeans. “Yours?”

“Ready,” Hobie shows you his backpack and the shotgun strapped on his shoulder, he then pats the hammer dangling on his belt before nudging your hand, resisting the urge to hold it instead. He needs his hands free to protect you. “Food and water first.” He instructs. “I’ll keep a lookout for shoes.”

“If we find the stuff we need for the home birth should we grab it? Or should we save space for food and toiletries?” You’re careful where you place your feet as you both walk onto what was probably a pristine lawn before the dead walked around.

“If we still have space in our packs, I don’t see why not.” Hobie keeps a careful eye around, making sure his hand never leaves the handle of the machete. And that you’re within his vision at all times.

“Maybe we’ll find some strings for your guitar too. They’re small, so it’ll fit my pockets.”

Hobie falters for a moment before stopping in front of the door. “You opened my guitar case?”

“Yeah,” you say as you cup your hands around a foggy window whilst you try to take a peek inside. When you’re met with silence, you lean away to look at him. “Am I not supposed to? I’m sorry, I got curious.”

“No, love, it’s alright.” His pinky brushes along the back of your hand. “It’s jus’ that I haven’t opened it since the houseboat broke down.”

“Oh, well, it’s fine, just that the stings are a bit fucked. No water got in or even a scratch on it.”

“That’s good.” With a relieved sigh, he gently taps the glass window to double check that there aren’t any shamblers hiding inside.

The two of you wait for a bit, but when a minute passes by without the sound of a pained groan or movement inside, Hobie grips the door handle.

He sees a wind chime a second earlier before he could open the door. With his height, he easily stops the chiming before it could chime out with a hand. Hobie then yanks it out, and gently places it on the ground.

“Good eye.”

“Thanks—” he’s about to push the door open, until your hand catches his wrist.

“Alarm.” You mutter with a shaky tone, pointing at the sign hidden behind the tall grass of the overgrown lawn. ‘This house is protected by Octavius security.’ It reads in big bold letters.

“Fuck me.” Slowly, he lets go of the door knob. “What are the chances that they don’t have power either?”

“I don’t know, but we can’t risk it.” You swallow thickly, a hand brushing along your stomach for comfort. Pursing your lips, you remember a conversation you had with James on one warm evening, warm enough that he made popsicles for you both. Yours was mango because he said that fruit was better for the baby, and he had chocolate instead. You’ve been craving mangoes nowadays, but can’t say anything to Hobie to add more to his stress. “I’ve got an idea, follow me.”

Slowly, with a hand on your knife, you carefully tread the lawn and over to the side of the house. Hobie follows closely behind, too afraid to lag behind you, afraid that you’ll get lost in the tall grass, or get snatched by one of the dead.

There’s a fallen kid’s bicycle on the ground, half buried in grass and dirt. Once upon a time a kid rode that up and down the neighborhood, now it lays there, rotting, slowly rusting, like the world around you.

“Here.” Clearing your throat, you both make it to the back door without a hitch. So far so good. “Okay, let’s hope that—” you begin to bend down, but Hobie stops you halfway with a hand on your chest.

“Let me. What are you looking for?” Crouching, Hobie looks up at you as the grey clouds start to obscure the sun behind your head, covering the halo around you.

“A key under the welcome mat.”

“Lovie, I don’t think…” and yet he still lifts the dirty mat, only to find a single key under it. “Well, fuck me sideways.”

“Already did that.” You cheekily joke, helping him stand up with a hand wrapped around his lean bicep.

Hobie smiles, really smiles, the kind of smile he would flash at you during lazy mornings where you two have nowhere to be that day. “You offerin’?”

Chuckling, you snatch the key from him as you insert it inside the lock. “Maybe if you find me some shoes.”

“Promise?” His lips curl into a mischievous smile, one that you’re incredibly familiar with.

“Yes,” biting your lip with a stifled laugh, you take a step back for him. “Could you please open the door?”

“How’d you know that the key would be there?”

“James’ dad owns a security company, and he told me that some people would usually forget their codes, or are afraid that when there’s no power they won’t be able to go inside because the system automatically locks the house. So sometimes they’d ask to not have an alarm at the back door, for big houses that is. For the key, well,” you shrug smugly. “I just applied common sense.”

He smiles proudly at you. “I keep forgettin’ that his dad had his hand in a lot of pies.”

“Just open the bloody door, Hobs.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He mocks a salute, unlocking the door slowly as the door creaks. Hobie peeks through the gap, waiting for any shamblers to appear. Tapping his blade on the door, once, twice, he waits some more, a precaution. Whilst you keep watch of the surroundings, heart beating loudly in your chest. “I think we’re good, lovie. Just need you to stay close to me, yeah?”

You nod, mouth feeling dry as you grip at the hilt of the kitchen knife. Your feet feel like you’re standing on warm sand, and your belly does somersaults, the baby could probably feel the tremors in your body as you enter the home with Hobie right in front of you.

This time, you’re making sure that you see the threat before it happens. The two of you sweep the kitchen first, the pantry has some food left but no monsters lurking in it. He finds the laundry room, same thing, no dead nor a soul inside.

You breathe a little better, and Hobie gives you a reassuring look, nudging your arm in a simple, ‘we’re okay,’ gesture.

While you keep watch, Hobie ransacks the pantry.

One thing has caught your eye though, on the counter, there is an empty flower vase with yellowing water, and beside it is a wilted and long dried up bouquet of roses. You take a peek inside the card, and it reads, ‘happy mother’s day!’ Scrawled by tiny hands written in crayon.

He loads up the duffle bag with food first, canned foods are the priority as he avoids the perishables. You wanted to check the fridge whilst he’s doing that but he can’t, or won’t let you out of his sight. You did promise to watch his back, so you did with your hand on the pistol right on your waist as he stacks cans upon cans of food.

Then he sees the biscuits, chocolate coated ones that he knows you like the most. He takes a box of those, checking the expiration date wouldn’t have meant anything when he has lost track of the date already. But if it doesn’t smell or isn’t covered in mold, it could still be good, so he packs it instead of another can of peas. He grabs a few seasonings too, and what’s left of the rice they had. He read that rice is good for the baby, so he takes it even though it weighs a ton.

The duffel bag is filled to the brim already when he finishes packing.

“Love.” He can’t help but smile, turning around to face you. “We’re not goin’ to starve.”

Chortling, you give him a quick yet loving peck on his shoulder. “Thank you.”

“There’s more in the fridge, and there are still jugs of water in here.” He whispers, in case there are lurkers upstairs.

“We also need soap.” Your eyes glances over to the laundry room. “What do we do?”

Pursing his lips, his eyes darts from the fridge, where there are magnet souvenirs and family photos on it, then over to the laundry room. He really needs clean clothes too. “We load this up in the trunk, dump it all in there then come back here.”

“Greedy, but I agree. I can’t sleep for another day in those sheets.”

With your approval, and a squeeze to your hand, the two of you trek back to the car, and carefully dump the canned goods inside the trunk of James’ car.

“I’ve never asked.” Hobie starts, a hand clasped around a can of peaches. “What happened to the window?” Glancing at the missing window at the back that was hastily wrapped in tarp and taped by duct tape, you follow his gaze.

“A horde got to us when we were leaving the condo building.” The stacking pauses on his end. “We were okay, we made it out by using molotov cocktails.”

He smiles fondly as something swims in his eyes, pride perhaps? Or perhaps jealousy. “You learned from the best.”

“We did, Hobie.” You tap the back of his knee with your foot as you finish your side. “I hope we find deodorant.”

Nodding, Hobie shuts the trunk as quietly as he could as he takes the empty duffel bag in his hand. “You smell great, love.”

“It’s because your brain started blocking the smell.” Giggling, you start your trek back again with him in tow. The steps are lighter, less careful now that you know what to expect.

“Nah, I think it’s your pheromones, you smell fit.”

“Never say that word ever again, Hobie.” That earns a kiss from him as he steals one from behind, right on your nape, before stepping around you to get to the laundry room before you could.

It goes like that for an hour, when the bags get full, he dumps it into the car and goes back again. It’s routine for the two of you, one that he refuses to go in and out alone when he can’t bear to leave you outside or inside the house for that matter. Even though it was tedious, going back and forth, he would still do it if it meant never straying too far from your side. He lost you once, he’s not planning on losing you ever again.

Both of you have cleared out the first floor, you found laundry detergents, food and water, now you’re on a mission to get some new clothes or maybe some pillows and blankets while it’s still light outside.

The walls of the house have grown familiar for you, the pictures on the walls of an unknown family, all strangers, and yet you found a connection to them. Somewhere in between taking their supplies, you wonder about them. Did they prefer beef over chicken when everything you found in their freezer was beef? Did their son ask for snacks before dinner like every kid does? How were they living now? Did they escape together? Or perhaps they’re shambling somewhere together with the rest of the dead.

Brows furrowed, your feet are on fire as you take a breather on the steps, taking hold of the bannister as you inhale through your nose and exhale out of your mouth. A breathing exercise that you read in your book.

“Love?” Hobie calls your name with worry. “You good?”

“Yeah, it’s just that…my feet are really fucking swolen and it kind of hurts. And I sort of need to pee.” Wincing, you give him an apologetic smile.

“Alright.” He sighs in relief, almost smiling. “I’ll take you to the loo.”

Hobie does a quick sweep of every room, there are only two bedrooms upstairs, and one office that is under lock and key. Every room is quiet and pristine, except for an odd smell coming from the master bedroom. Once he deems it safe, he helps you into the bathroom, keeping watch just outside the closed door.

Hand on his weapon, he keeps finding himself looking at the nursery right in front of him. It has light blue walls, powder blue like the sky on a good day in London, and it’s painted with fluttering birds and flowers. There’s a crib in there too, pristine, probably newly bought when there is still plastic wrapped around it. On the other side of the room is a small bed, meant for a toddler with rocketship bed sheets and glow in the dark stars tacked on the ceiling. In between them is an old rocking chair, oak and probably older than Hobie. And sitting on top of it is a box of trainers, with a neat pink bow on the lid. It’s from the brand that he knows you have been saving up for before the dead started walking.

He glances at the closed bathroom door, hearing you shuffle on the other side. The door is closed, and he didn’t find any undead inside the whole house. The place is safe and the nursery faces the loo where he could still keep an eye on you, so he takes a step away from the door and over to the rocking chair.

Hobie makes his strides quick and quiet, crossing the short distance over to the box as he takes it. He opens the lid, finding the same soft blue inside, the shoes seem to be larger than your usual size, but it would now fit you.

Grinning, his mission is accomplished. He shoves the pair inside the duffel bag, turning around with a triumphant smile on his face. “Love.” He shows you the box just as you exit the bathroom. “Look.”

The sheer happiness on your face makes his chest warm. He hasn’t seen you have that expression in a long while, it’s as if he’s a thirsty wanderer who finally found an oasis. For the first time ever since the party, he grins widely, the unabashed carefree smile that tugs at the corner of his lips first, right next to the piercing, a lopsided smile that never fails to turn your legs into jelly.

“Please tell me it’s my size.” Your hands reach for the box, squealing giddily once you see the size on the side.

“Open it.” His stomach thrums with excitement.

“Yes, new—!” Your face falls at the emptiness, and once you turn to look at the father of your unborn child, his cheeks are puffed, trying and failing to stifle a guffaw. “You wanker.”

“I couldn’t help it, lovie.” Tossing the box away that lands into the crib with a thump, he leads you to the rocking chair as you scowl at him like back when he accidentally ate your cheesecake in the fridge that you were saving for the end of the day. Hands on your shoulders, he’s still smiling at you, crouching down as he retrieves the shoes from the duffel bag. “‘m not evil.”

Your expression melts from annoyance to giddiness once again. “It’s blue.” You utter softly, lashes batting as Hobie slowly unlaces the old dirty shoes you have on.

“It is.” Chuckling fondly, he gently takes off your shoes, palm carefully cupping your heel, a thumb brushing along the hill of skin before slipping the new shoes on you. “Brand new too, we hit the jackpot.”

“I think it’s the exact same one I was saving for.” You still remember the road to and from work, where a shoe place is situated right on the road home, where you always look at the display longingly, waiting for the shoe to go on sale. “Just in blue.”

“What was the colour you wanted?” He slips the next one on your other foot, tying it twice, making sure that the laces won’t suddenly untie and make you trip and fall.

“Black,” you admire the shoes on you as you wiggle your feet about. “Easier to pair with my clothes.”

“Either one suits you.” Taking both feet, he taps the heels together playfully. “They fit you perfectly.”

“Thank you, Hobie.” You follow his smiling eyes as he stands up, a hand perched on the armrest of the rocking chair as his knees creak.

“Thank the bloke who got it.” His head tilts to gesture at the room. He wonders if the man who lived here got the shoes for his wife on mother’s day, or just because he wanted to show his love for her. Hobie knows he would do the same for you.

The irony doesn’t escape you when you find yourself sitting in the middle of a nursery. Maybe in another life, you and Hobie are refurbishing the spare room in his houseboat, the room you both use as a workspace slash art room slash library. It was littered with trinkets from you and Hobie the last time you saw it. You don’t remember much what was on the shelves when it’s been so long but you do remember the feeling whenever you spent a whole lazy afternoon with him in there.

The soft rocking of the boat would lull you to sleep whilst you read on an old lazyboy you two found abandoned on a street corner, the same one you had to call in James and Yuri to help haul it in the van. You would read and Hobie would tinker with his gadgets, sometimes taking odd fixing jobs from friends, fixing an antique clock, a radio, or a fan. The sound of the tinkling metal, the curses under his breath, and the water splashing against the side of the boat, it felt like home. It was warm and cozy, but it was colder in the winter when the space heater doesn’t help much with the chill. Those were the days where Hobie would huddle close to you on the armchair underneath all the blankets even when you both don’t fit in the chair. You miss those soft days, the peaceful days where you don’t have to be careful where you step, where the stench of death and decay doesn’t stick to your nostrils. It was just living, now all you know is surviving. Surviving to see Hobie for another day. Surviving to see the day your baby is born.

“Love,” he senses your heavy thoughts, hand reaching out to your chin, lifting it with his knuckle softly. Hobie doesn’t have the right words to comfort you, maybe there are no right words that will ever comfort you, but he tries, the only way he knows how, the only way that could get your mind out of the plague that is your mind. “You wanna take a look around? Maybe they’ve got something we could use for the baby.”

“We’re in a nursery, Hobs,” you say with a teasing tone. “I’m sure there’s baby stuff here we could use.”

Hobie chuckles, exhaling through his nose as he helps you off the rocking chair. He wonders if he could fit the chair in the car, the baby would love it, you would love it. The cabin already has a rocking chair but it’s old and weathered, looking like it’ll keel over once someone sits on it.

“I’ll check if they have books on giving birth.” His hand lingers on your hip before turning to the bookshelf with colourful children’s books.

“I’ll raid the closet.” Your hand instinctively brushes along your stomach, feeling the heaviness weigh you down.

You didn’t plan to get pregnant, moreso get pregnant during the end of the world where society has collapsed. You always knew from the moment you saw those two red lines that it wouldn’t be easy for the two of you, but now, you just feel regret and shame. Regret that this happened so soon in your life. Ashamed that you can’t be of any help to Hobie as the months go by. And when the inevitable comes, you could die, and you don’t want to leave the love of your life all alone in this world with a newborn to take care of. Or worse, you both don’t survive, and Hobie’s truly left alone.

You’re tired, exhausted already from carrying the extra weight on you. Bones aching on a microscopic level, as if you have a sack of cement on the small of your back. If you feel this tired just after a few months in your pregnancy, you fear for the coming months. What if you end up being bedridden? You’ve heard countless horror stories from women in your family at how terrifying it is to give birth. They said that when you’re giving birth, you have one foot buried in the ground. But they had doctors and medicine, while you have a book from the 90’s about childcare. You might die in front of Hobie while covered in blood and screaming in pain. You don’t want that to be the last thing he remembers of you.

Fists clenching, you feel the indents left on your palms. You take deep breaths, reminding yourself that stress isn’t good for the baby. So you start to distract yourself instead. You stare at the adorable clothes on the rack, all colour coded, from dinosaur onesies to tiny coats and matching beanies, you have the urge to take it all. The owners of the house have great taste, and you feel guilty for even being inside.

Taking a red and white plaid onesie that has matching socks, you turn to show Hobie.

“Lovie, look.”

“Hobs, look.”

You simultaneously turn to face the other.

You smile as he mirrors your expression. “‘Oh, the places you’ll go,’ really?”

“It’s a good read.” Shrugging, he shoves it in the dufflebag. “But look, baby names.”

You’re supposed to be happy, to smile at the book and imagine the names you could name the bundle born out of love, but you can’t find that happiness as you feel a lump on your throat form. Baby names are the last thing on your mind right now.

“That’s great, Hobs.”

“Couldn’t find any books about births, though.” Placing it inside the bag, right beside a teddy bear he nicked from the crib, Hobie smiles at the small pile he gathered. If he noticed your faltering expression, he doesn’t say anything about it. “What’d you find?”

“It looks kind of punk, doesn’t it?” Lifting the onesie, you peek over it, trying to hide your wobbly expression.

“Lovie…” taking the fabric in your hands, he grins fondly at the onesie. It’s so small, barely the size of his forearm, and he can’t help but imagine a little version of you wearing it. “This is the most fuckin’ adorable thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Take it?”

“Absolutely.” Peeking behind you, he sees more, eyes going wide at the swaddling cloths, tiny booties and the cutest bear onesie he has ever seen. “I say take ‘em all.”

You snort, backing away as he helps himself to the baby clothes. “That’s greedy, Hobie.” Despite your words, you help him shovel in the small socks and cute bibs. “Take some towels too, I read that they drool a lot.”

A laugh escapes his throat, barely contained as he almost forgets where he is, what might be lurking in the dark corners of the house. “Love, look at this one.”

He lifts up a plain yellow shirt with the bold pink letters that reads, ‘Daddy’s favorite.’ You clamp your mouth shut, before spluttering out a giggle.

“D’you think they have an adult sized version of this?” His eyes sparkle with playfulness. “For you, I mean.”

“Fuck, you’re so annoying.” And yet you shove the tiny shirt inside the bag with your cheeks aflame and a laugh bubbling in your throat.

“Love you too.” Pecking your temple, he moves away from the closet. “C’mon, we gotta move on to the bedroom.”

Your brows raise to your hairline, heat blossoming in the pit of your stomach. “What, right now?” You haven’t done that in a while, fuck, you just now realized that you haven’t done it since you found out about the baby. Your hands are suddenly at the hem of his shirt, desire filling your chest.

Hobie’s brows furrows for a moment before realization flickers on his expression. Eyes drifting down at your pawing, and then back over to your half lidded eyes. “Fuckin’ hell, love, not that. We need sheets and new clothes. Although that’s temptin’.” He pecks your pouting lips, giving you a sly smirk through the kiss. “Maybe later if you play your cards right, hm?” Now he’s in the mood too. It just crossed his mind when all he thought about recently was how to survive and finding you alive.

If your cheeks weren’t searing before then it’s fiery now. “I can’t believe I let you fuck me.” Groaning, head tilted back to hide your flustered expression, you walk past him towards the master’s bedroom.

“C’mon, lovie, that’s the reason why you’re pregnant.”

You flip him the bird on your way out that makes him smile even more. For a moment there he felt normal, that everything was back to normal and he’s at home with you while the houseboat rocks gently.

The two of you make it to the bedroom, and the smell hits you before he gets a whiff of it. It’s dank, like mold clinging to the damp walls, like the smell of wilted flowers downstairs, only stronger, more prominent.

“God, what is that smell?” Plugging your nose, you wince. “It kind of smells like teeth at the dentist. I’m gonna hurl if we stay here long.”

“Don’t know, but I don’t like it.” Hobie moves you aside gently before treading the dry carpet to open a window. The sun is beginning to set outside, and worry gnaws at his chest. Soon this place would be crawling with the undead. “We need to hurry, this is our last run before we head out.”

“Yeah, gotcha.” You don’t argue as you hastily grab everything you need. Some clothes that might not fit either of you perfectly, even a few maternity clothes you found, a couple of thick coats, and the sheets you’ve been eyeing.

The bags are almost full when you finish grabbing the things you needed, and Hobie even managed to find a couple of camping backpacks to fill it with two pillows and more blankets. He’s ready to leave when you remember the towels.

“Shit, Hobie, we need towels.”

“Love, we can wash the ones we already have.” Fixing his hold on the bags, he checks the ticking clock on the wall and the sun setting in the horizon that paints the sky a deep bloody orange.

“Those are threadbare, Hobie, I could the count strings on it. I’ll be quick, promise.” You’re already at the bathroom door, opening it as it creaks, the sound echoing through the hallway.

“Lovie, wait, let me—”

The stench permeates through the bedroom from the bathroom, stinking up the whole place, the same wilted flower smell. Teeth, it wasn’t just teeth, it’s bones.

“Fuck…” The bile rising up your throat and the spit filling your mouth almost made you retch. But the sight of the bodies hugging in the bathtub, surrounded by dead flowers makes your heart fall to your stomach.

The door is shut before you could let out a sound. Hobie holds you in his arms, and you stay there, frozen, still staring at the door, as if you could still see them decaying inside the tub.

“C’mon, love, we need to go.” Hobie whispers in your ear, gentle and reassuring as his hand rubs up and down your arm. He calls your name with the same gentleness, honeyed and saccharine, trying to get you to move.

Once you blink away the blurriness in your eyes, you turn to Hobie with an unreadable expression. There were three of them in there, no, four, a family, one still in the mother’s cleaved open belly. Their skin has turned to leather, sun dried, stretched over blanched bones.

“Love?” His thumb traces the length of your jaw, grounding you to the present. “We need to go.”

“Yeah, let’s go—”

There’s a shadow in the doorway.

It hunches in the dark, breathing, watching.

You act first, grabbing the shotgun from Hobie’s back as you aim.

Hobie exhales, eyes wide, before yanking at the barrel, pulling it up and away from the figure.

The shot rings out through the house and out of the opened window.

Pieces of the ceiling fall on the carpet, paint and wood cracking and splintered, falling upon the stranger like raindrops.

The figure now crouches, grasping at its ear, while a hand, a wrinkly old palm stretches at you, surrendering.

Your ears ring, a shrill deaf tone that rattles your teeth inside your mouth whilst Hobie nurses his singed hand.

“Fuck!” You yell, but you don’t hear your own voice.

The sounds are muffled in your ears as Hobie grabs the gun from your hands.

“What are you doing?!” His voice fades in and out in your hearing. His eyes are wide, frantic as he points at the crouched figure. “He’s alive!”

The words strike you like a fist.

“What?” You ask, befuddled, heaving heavily as you stare wide eyed at the stranger in the doorway.

“I’m s–sorry…” a trembling voice says, spluttering and weeping on the floor. “I’m sorry, I–I didn’t mean to—” he chokes on air, coughing as he desperately tries to clear his throat.

Narrowing your gaze, honing in to make out the man’s face, you see an old man cowering from your stare. Guilt gnaws at your conscience.

“Oh, fuck, I’m sorry. I didn’t—” you wipe your hands at your jeans, as if it’ll clean the gunpowder on your skin. As if it’ll undo what you have done. “I didn’t know, I thought you were one of them.”

“Mate,” Hobie’s words feel dry on his tongue. “Who are you, how’d you get in here?” If the man was dead, he wouldn’t be so afraid, as he eyes you underneath his bucket hat. If he was, he wouldn’t have wasted time staring in the doorway instead of devouring you. Hobie’s wary as he stands in front of you protectively. He might’ve saved the stranger’s life, but he doesn’t know him and what he’s capable of. “You can stand up, we’re not goin’ to hurt you if you don’t try anythin’.”

You stand still, breathing heavily as you keep your weapon close while your hand shields your stomach.

The stranger is old, trembling as he stands up as instructed, back hunched, and messy hair untrimmed; his dirty blonde hair is matted under his hat. He looks frail, and you could easily outrun him, but you’ve learned never to underestimate anyone in this world.

“My—” his voice is crackly at the edges, tongue trying to wet his dry lips. “My name is Norman, I’ve been here since…since I don’t know.” His tone is weak and rough like someone who has a cold. “My son, he has a place here, but—but I forgot where it was, and I got lost. He…he said that he’ll meet me here in town.”

“Old man,” Hobie takes a step closer, while his free hand holds onto your wrist, keeping you close, all the while his other hand grasps at the weapon on his hip. “We’re not ‘ere to fight, but if you could jus’ move away from the stairs. We need to get out of ‘ere before any of the dead come.”

“I– I don’t know where I am.” His lips wobble, sniffing as his big brown eyes fill with unshed tears. “I’m sorry, who…who are you, lad?”

Hobie slowly inches towards the door as you hold onto his shoulder, blade at the ready as you peek over him.

Something in you pities the man. He reminds you of Yuri’s grandmother when she got sick, when there were days she wasn’t herself. You recognize the same condition in the man, how in the world has he survived this long all alone?

“Hobie, I think he’s unwell.” You whisper to him, feet feeling the dry carpet below you, the sky outside is going dark, and the automatic lights inside the hallways open. There’s power, and you could see the office door that was locked is now wide open.

“I know, love. We jus’ need to get out of ‘ere.”

The old man’s eyes pleads you for help. His face is gaunt underneath his salt and pepper beard, the skin around his eyes are darkened, and eyes beady. His nails are awfully long, curved and yellowed at the end. He has been surviving on his own whilst his own mind attacked him.

“He needs help.” Your grip on Hobie’s shoulder tightens desperately.

James would’ve helped him. Just like he helped you.

“Love.” The protest is on the edge of his tongue. But when Hobie turns to the man and his raggedy clothes, and the gaunt of his cheek, skin blemished and blanched, it reminds him of the people he would meet at the soup kitchen he volunteered at. The same place where he used to come to when he was struggling. “Norman, right?”

The old man reluctantly nods, as if he’s trying to recall his own name.

“C’mon, before the dead get ‘ere. They would’ve heard the shot.” Hobie grabs the fallen bags from the floor, glancing at you briefly as your expression is a mix of regret, relief, and pity. “Lovie, stay close. You too, Norm.”

“I haven’t heard that name in awhile.” He mutters under his breath, nodding along to his instructions.

Hobie lets him walk first, keeping a close eye on him, in case he is bitten. If he followed behind you, his mind wouldn’t be at peace if that was the case.

The whole house is lit up the moment the sun faded from the horizon. In the warm yellow lights, the place doesn’t feel so eerie. In another world he would have a place like this with you and the baby, maybe have the kid grow up in a nice house like this. It was near impossible before the world collapsed, now it’s just wishful thinking. Like how one would imagine winning the lottery.

“Where did you two come from?” Norman asks, arms curled around himself for comfort.

“The woods, we’ve got a cabin there.” Hobie adjusts his hold onto the bags, crossing the threshold towards the kitchen and to the back door where you two entered. Where he propped a can of peas on the door to keep it ajar just in case.

You watch as Norman’s face furrows, as if he’s trying to recall something deep in his mind.

“We have to hurry—”

Hobie sees it happen in slow motion, Norman’s hand wrapped around the door knob of the front entrance, tugging at it out of instinct.

“Norman, no!” You scream, but it’s too late.

The alarm blares around the house, echoing throughout the neighborhood. If the shot didn’t gather the dead’s attention, the alarm would.

There are rushed bare footsteps slapping against concrete outside.

“Run!” Hobie grabs you harshly, yanking and pulling you towards the back door as you reach your free hand over to Norman.

He takes your hand desperately. In his addled mind, he recognizes danger, and it makes him sprint behind you.

Hobie lugs the bags around his back and arms, whilst leading you outside. The same carefulness when you two arrived is out of the window the moment he heard gurgled groaning.

He turns his head towards the cul-de-sac, and he sees a gaggle of the shambling dead run at break neck speed towards him.

Their limbs flail right behind them without a care, they’re caked in blood, jaws unhinged, claws raised up as the wall of rotting stench follows them. Blood drips from their eyes, gnashing their teeth in the air as if they’re tasting him on their blackened tongues.

He makes it to the car, throwing the bags into the backseat and helps you inside the passenger seat before going around the hood to the driver’s side and hops in quickly. Thank fuck he had the foresight to not lock the doors. It was a horrible decision back then when there was danger of getting the car nicked, but he figured that you two were the only survivors in the whole town. He thought so at least.

“Love!” He yells your name, whilst you frantically put on your seatbelt. He could see the corpses run in the reflection of the side mirror.

“Norman!” You scream, waking the stranger from his terrified stupor, frozen just beside the car. “Get the fuck inside!”

The old man scrambles inside, tossing his whole body in the car whilst Hobie doesn’t waste time in starting the car, or even waits for Norman to shut the door.

The engine splutters weakly.

“Fuck you! C’mon you stupid, cu—!”

The pained shrieks of the dead come close as the car roars to life.

Exhaust fumes exit out of the car as Hobie steps on the gas. The wheels screech on the cement, leaving tire tracks as he drives quickly out of there.

A can of peaches rolls out of the backseat and onto the street just before the opened door beside Norman slams shut as Hobie turns a corner, watching the corpses fade in the rearview mirror.

“Holy fuck.” Panting, bad leg aching, you turn to Hobie with wide eyes. “Are you okay?” Your hand squeezes his trembling arm.

“Yeah, yeah…” Hobie swallows the bile in his throat, utterly relieved to be out of there. He takes your hand, and presses a heavy kiss on your knuckles whilst keeping an eye on the road. “You?”

“I’m good.” Smiling and chuckling, knees wobbly, you turn to Noman, who is still laying on the pile of canned goods and bags you got from the house. “You okay, Norm?”

The man’s lips stretches into an easy smile, “yes, thank you.”

You rub Hobie’s bicep, giving him a quick loving peck. “Let’s go home, Hobie.”

He has been so busy and hyper focused on his work that the mere five hours without having him hold you has him in shambles. He guesses you are too since you haven't left the radioactive side of the opened microwave. It’s worse that you've just been around the house boat the entire time, not bothering him because you're such a sweetheart. He can handle being away from your touch during long hours in spider society and patrols around the city because he can't see you in his peripheral being all mopey and frowny. Five hours in the same place without a word from him must've been torture for you. Now he feels all guilty that he didn't even have lunch with you, or cook something together for dinner like usual.

Sauntering over to you, Hobie slowly slides his arm around your waist, closing the microwave door with his other hand— revealing his remorseful yet handsome face.

“Hi, love. Fancy seein’ you ‘ere.”

You sigh, smile curling around your lips at the sight of him. Your fingers are inching closer to the hem of his shirt. “Hello, are you hungry? I'll heat up a plate for you.” Your voice is soft, eyes gazing off to his hand resting on your hip. Something tells him you need attention, screaming at him more like.

“How ‘bout we cook somethin’ together, yeah?”

You smile, nodding, but the want in your heart stays. Hobie feels it in his chest, your need to hold him close, closer than you are now even though you're already hip to hip.

“What do you want, huh, pretty girl?” His knuckles rub along the small of your back, gentle and caring. “I think we've got beef in the freezer.”

“I thought we've got beef.”

“Do we have beef with each other?” He leans a bit further, smiling teasingly.

“I don't know, Hobie, do we?” You mirror his smile, copying his movements. His hand prevents you from moving further away though.

“We don't, love,” you raise an eyebrow at him, it's like your arms are magnetized to his side, you fight from embracing him for he might not want you to. He notices your apprehension. “D’you want me to prove it to you?”

You chuckle, “and how would you prove it, hm?”

“Do you want a hug, lovie?”

You crumble, shoulders sagging, relief in your tone. “Oh thank fuck, yes please.” Hobie laughs against your neck as you collide with him. “What's so funny?” You move your neck away, eyes narrowed.

His hand cups the back of your head, pushing you on him the second you leaned away. “Nothin,’ love, stay for me would you? I'm not done absorbing you yet.”

It's your turn to laugh against his skin as he peppers the side of your face with a million (much needed) kisses.

Peeking through your fingers, you look at him with heart shaped eyes and heated skin. “Better stop!”

“Or what, lovie? You gonna stop me with those delicate hands? Or” he pats your thighs that still has him trapped, making you untangle yourself from him. (You blame the uncontrollable way your body reacts to him) “These legs? You gonna kick me off the bed?”

“...no” you say quietly.

“Mm-hmm, you're bloody adorable in this angle by the way.” You feel your entire body heat up further, resisting the urge to scramble away. But how could you when Hobie looks this good above you? “Like proper fit like this.” you sigh, he leans closer, “An absolutely gorgeous—” He wraps his long arms, squeezing his hands to fit under you and between the mattress. “Amazingly smart—” he closes the small distance between you, face just above your own.

“Hobie—!” You shriek as he lifts you up effortlessly, sitting up, arms thrown behind his neck, and legs under his own, your heart thumps ever louder. You think you're having a heart attack.

“Hello there,” he says smugly, hands holding your torso up, tilting his head to get a proper look at you. “Yep, Bloody gorgeous.”

You hide your face on the crook of his neck, earning a deep laugh from him. “‘m not, why do you say that?”

“Because you are.” He says wholeheartedly, swaying you side to side in his arms. Squeezing the hell out of you until you laugh.

You lean away, lovingly staring at him, hands gentle on his shoulders. Hobie looks at you like you're everything he ever wanted.

“Let me show you how much I love you, yeah?” His knuckles trace circles around your back, eyes blown up like a balloon.

“Okay,” you nod slowly, smiling all syrupy and sweet.

The room is slowly growing darker with every minute you spend inside, the cozy decorations around the small space with its carved woodland creatures, lace doilies and fluttering curtains are nothing but a mockery to you and what’s gnawing in your head. Their shadows loom over the walls, shapes cageing you in.

It’s quiet inside the familiar bathroom, what was once held a fond memory for you is now marred by the recent memory of James begging for you to shoot him. You can still hear his cries, pleading, begging for you to end him to keep you and your baby safe. The way his hands shook, cradling the bleeding bite and how his voice gurgled in his own blood, and yet he still smiled at you towards the end. Even then he was trying to comfort you.

Your protruding stomach bops up and down in the water, belly button peeking through the mix of blood and soap. You haven’t let out a single tear since Hobie helped you inside the tub, hoping that a warm bath will help. When all it did was numb you.

Gazing at the ceiling, mold dotted along the wood, your eyes sting as you tilt your head down, face half submerged in the water. Waves lapping at the sides of your face. You miss James, he was your companion, a friend that helped you survive the first days of the apocalypse. He was your anchor through it all, the voice of reason when all you wanted was to run outside and look for your lost love. It’s ironic, compared to before the world ended, you and the rest of the band were the ones holding him by the scruff of his neck.

As you run your palm over your stomach, the pinky ring shines atop it, you promise to yourself that you’ll live on so that his sacrifice wouldn’t be in vain. He would’ve wanted you to do just that, but that doesn’t make it alright. You have no idea how to tell Yuri and Ned that their best mate is dead, and that you killed him.

What if his parents are still alive? How would you tell them that their only child is dead? That he died protecting you while holding out hope that he would find them?

The door creaks open, and Hobie peeks through the crack. His cheeks are coated in dirt, and there’s soil underneath his fingernails as he knocks softly. He looks the same as you remember before you had to leave him in the car with hopes of coming back for him. You did come back for him, but he was nowhere to be seen. For three months you wonder where he was, if he’s eating, or if he’s even alive. Now that he’s here, standing in the same room as you, breathing the same air as you, your heart feels like it’s beating once again. Albeit cracked, but alive, thumping quietly as it keeps you and your baby breathing.

“Love,” his voice seeps with fatigue. “You’ll turn into a prune.”

“You like prunes.” You answer softly, tone as tired as his. “Come sit with me please?”

“I’m all dirty,” His boots thump against the floor mats, tracking mud and dirt. His hand clamps over his eyes playfully. “and you’re all naked.”

You manage a small smile. “How do you think I got this?” Gesturing around your stomach, he peeks through his fingers.

“A stork?”

“Nope, birds and the bees, Hobs.” Opening your palms, you gesture for him to join you.

“Yeah, I think I remember that in biology.” Kneeling down, knees creaking in protest, he places his arm over the rim of the bathtub, chin resting on his elbow. “How do you feel?”

“Like sun dried shit.” Your attempt at a half assed joke.

He manages a smile. “The baby?” His eyes gaze gently down, worry etched on his brows.

“I think the baby’s fine. I’m not at the stage where the baby could start kicking like a horse yet. But everything feels fine, considering.” Sniffing, you lean against his arm, a cold cheek pressed on his warm skin. “I really wanted to tell you… I really did.”

Hobie’s free hand reaches to cup your chin, turning you gently to face him. “I know, lovie.” He sighs, thumb brushing along your damp skin. “When did you know?”

“At the party, with Yuri.” The mere mention of her has your heart squeezing in your chest. The same feeling is clear on his face too. “We got a bunch of tests after I got sick all over the bathroom floor.”

“Is that what you wanted to tell me? Before…everythin’?”

“Yeah, I still have the test, kept it just in case.”

His eyes flick over to your growing stomach, belly button protruding above the surface like a buoy. “Well, I believe you, proof or no proof.”

You manage a small chuckle. “I’m way past doubting it. The morning sickness was the worst, and my feet are swollen.” Lifting a foot above the water to show him, Hobie’s brows knit in worry, it looks painful. You look like you’re in pain. He then sees the scar on your leg, a long scar tissue that is still red around the edges of skin. He doesn’t ask how it came to be when he doesn’t want to upset you even more.

He feels sorry that he wasn’t there, that he wasn’t there from the start, holding you, making you feel better. He should’ve been there, he should’ve been here before you. Maybe, just maybe, James would still be alive, that he would hear the muffled shuffling of the undead behind the closet door, and end it before it started. And he would welcome you both inside with a relieved smile.

“My boots would fit you now.” Hobie stifles his hurt, eyes glancing away from swollen feet before staring at the same pain in your eyes.

“Maybe, I’m going to need maternity clothes soon.” Inhaling, you purse your lips together. “I’m going to wear all those old lady dresses with the plain daisies and bland colours. You won’t think I’m fit anymore.” Your knuckles brush alongside his arm.

“Nah, you’re still peng in my eyes, lovie. Even if you dress up as Yuri’s grandma.” Taking your hand, he twists it gently to hold onto you better. Water mixing with soil.

“Remember when she used to make us all those sugar cookies during band practice?”

“Yeah, I’ve gained weight durin’ that.”

“We all did, Hobie.” You gently smile, squeezing him once. After a beat, your smile fades. “Is it horrible of me to think that it’s a good thing that she’s already gone before all this shit happened?”

“No, love.” His thumb runs along your palm. “I wouldn’t wish this on anyone.”

The back of your eyes stings, heat behind them as you swallow thickly. “I should’ve— I should’ve come looking for you. When I came back to the car, you weren’t there anymore.” You fight the tears from spilling. “And then we ran to the docks, and the houseboat wasn’t there either. I’m sorry, I should’ve tried harder. I could’ve tried harder.”

“Just the thought of you comin’ to look for me is enough.” With a gentle hand, he moves a damp strand of hair away from your face. “I’m jus’ glad you weren’t alone.”

Your eyes fall on his fingers, the dirt digs into his nailbeds, darkened by mud and soil. “Yeah, I wouldn’t have survived this long without him.” Your nail scrapes at the dirt, trying to get it clean. And he lets you. “You should’ve seen him, Hobie, he was…he’s great.” Vision glistening, you stifle a sob.

“I think he was a scout when he was a kid.” A smile curls in the corner of his lips at the image of James wearing those uniforms when he was just a boy. Green and khaki complete with a beret and sash filled with patches. Hobie beats himself up for not remembering if James really was a scout. “I know he was great, lovie, jus’ seein’ you here is proof enough.”

“He went full on survivor. We were stuck at his parent’s condo for a bit until we ran out of supplies and the electricity in the city was shut off.” Your palm is pruning, but you’re afraid of leaving the comfort of the tub. “I got a baby book though.”

“Yeah? Like the one with baby names?”

He wants to tell you what happened to him in those three months, how he struggled, how he longed to see you alive, how he was seeing you in his visions. And what he saw, what he had to do to get back to you. You know that the houseboat is gone from his expression alone, if it wasn’t you two would’ve sailed out of the town before the blood dried on the floor.

You gently shake your head, water sloshing softly. “No, the kind that has instructions on home births.” Voice wavering, you hold onto him tightly, realizing what he has to do when the time comes. “I’m scared, Hobie.” Your throat betrays you, closing up as you let out a sob. “What if something happens to the baby? There’s no hospitals or doctors anymore—”

Hobie brings your face to his chest, shushing you tenderly as he rubs at your back. Despite the water drenching his sleeve, he still holds onto you as waves of tears flow out of you. He’s scared too, afraid to lose the baby, afraid to lose you. For ten years, he has loved you, and for those ten years, he never once thought of a day without you in it. He can’t lose you when he needs to love you for the rest of his life.

“It’s alright, we can do it, yeah?” He feels you nod against him as you shiver in his arms. “We’ve watched enough hospital dramas to know all about givin’ birth.” Joking, Hobie kisses the crown of your damp head as you manage a chortle.

“That’s reassuring.”

“I’ve got you and the baby. I promise that you two will be safe and sound.” Leaning away to cradle your face, he meets with your shining eyes, tears still clinging to your lashes. “I promise you.” Even if it kills him.

“Okay.” Inhaling deeply, you grasp at his wrist, a firm yet affectionate hold. “And I’ll watch your back, like always.”

Hobie smiles, the kind that reminds you of the days where he would play on stage, giving you that same reassuring smile as the lights flicker on his handsome face. “To start off, let’s get you dry and warm before you catch a cold.”

—

When you pictured saying goodbye to one of your friends, you never envisioned burying them at an age where they shouldn’t be six feet under. That it’ll just be you and Hobie, staring at the freshly packed ground right in front of you with a crudely made headstone. James doesn’t deserve one that is made out of a broken window panel, he deserved a headstone that is carved out of marble, where his name would remain etched on it forever. Not like how you wrote his name on the wood with a sharpie.

His father’s hunting vest feels rough in your hands. Dried blood staining the very same fabric that James once wore. You’ve been told that his father wasn’t the best, but the vest brought him comfort throughout his survival, a reminder, his fuel to continue living. Now it remains in your trembling hands, fingers digging into the dark blood.

“D’you want to say a few words?” Hobie utters softly amidst the strong wind as trees rustle nearby. If he thinks hard enough, he can imagine that his best mate doesn’t lie six feet under him. That he didn’t bury him there with his bare hands.

You shake your head, chest aching, eyes heavy and hot with unshed tears. No words could ever stifle your grief, there are no words in the world that makes this right, no worthy words to describe how great a man James was.

He understands your grief and your guilt, he knows you well to know what’s rushing inside your head. His eyes wander towards your shaking hands, and the façade he built to keep you steady and anchored almost crumbles.

“J–James Jameson,” his tone cracks, fists shaking, nails leaving crescent shapes on his palms. “You’re the best damn drummer I know, save us a spot up there, yeah?”

You heave, tears streaming down your face as you take a careful step forward. With your heart in your stomach, you kneel before the headstone, laying the vest around it, imagining that you’re putting it on him for the last time. “You’ve done well, James.” Your words are carried by the wind, palm placed atop the fresh soil, where his head could lie underneath.

Hobie’s arm curls around you, chin resting atop your head as he faces the grey sky.

—

The days have gone by with silence. The surrounding woods let out a whisper of leaves and a howl at night. But inside the cabin, grief lingers in the air, staining the wooden walls, slithering on the floorboards.

James’ presence weighs heavy between the two of you. Even though Hobie never said that he blames you for it, you still beat yourself up for what happened. If only you were quicker, that you didn’t hesitate before pulling the trigger. Every day Hobie lets you know that he doesn’t, for one moment, blame you for James’ demise. Through his actions, taking care of you, making sure that you’ve eaten, slept, taken your prenatal vitamins, and his touch, he lets you know that he loves you, that the world hasn’t ended for him because you’re still by his side.

The two of you have just been surviving on sparse supplies, and the water taken from a well behind the house that he has to boil before letting you take a drink. But the quiet, and the stifling air inside the space makes it more unbearable. You’ve tried to turn on the telly when the solar panels on the roof have recharged, but you’re only met with static. Not even the radio plays crappy music anymore, just an incessant buzzing. It’s as if you’re the only people left in the world.

The books and board games on the shelf meant for guests are gathering dust. You’d rather spend your days studying the baby book, every word memorized and carved in your head. Hobie made himself the handyman of the house, he fixed the holes on the front door where your bullets hit it, and he has reinforced all the windows with planks of wood he found in the tool shed. In case a shambler comes too close to the perimeter he set up that he agrees is abysmal when he only has strings and cans to work with. It’s a crude version of an alarm, and he wishes he could make something better for a precaution.

Hobie barely sleeps, keeping watch at night and day, taking naps in between when his body shuts down. When you see him dozing off on the couch, you sit beside him and he’s immediately magnetized to your side. You always tug his head down on your lap, letting him sleep there as your old cardigan that he managed to save from the houseboat is draped on his shoulders. Sometimes you see him reading the same baby book, folding the edges of the important pages when it’s your turn to keep watch. You miss him, even though you two sleep on the same bed with his arms wrapped protectively around you. But the easy conversations, the laughter, you miss those. This isn’t a way of living anymore.

You can’t help it when your eyes wander towards the spot where you held James one last time. No matter how much you scrub at the walls and floor, the stain stays. A macabre reminder of that day amidst the comfortable cottage decorations placed by the same dead man resting beside James’ grave.

The bowl of canned chicken noodle soup in front of you warms your cheeks as Hobie’s palm leaves your shoulder with a squeeze. Your eyes dart towards his side of the table, noticing that he doesn’t have supper, only a glass of room temperature water.

“Hobie?” Clearing your throat, your hand rubs at your stomach. Your shirt has gotten smaller, making you pull it down occasionally over your swollen belly.

He sighs in relief just from hearing your voice, pausing by the counter tops, hands reaching above the cabinets. “Yeah, love? Feelin’ alright?”

“Where’s your soup?” Craning your neck, you see the opened cabinets, seeing it nearly empty, save for a can of chocolate pudding, and a pack of dried beef jerky that’s still unopened. Just by the look in his eyes, he doesn’t need to say it out loud. “We need to go into town.”

“I need to go into town.” He leans on the counter, arms on his side as the dark circles under his eyes are illuminated by the electric lamp that was recharged by the solar. “Before you say anythin’, I’ll be quick.”

“And alone. You need someone to watch your back. We’ve got two guns for a reason.”

“Sure, I’ll jus’ ask one of the woodland creatures to come with me.”

“I don’t want to fight, Hobie.” Standing up, hand braced under your stomach, you close the small distance towards the kitchen. The cabin used to carry good memories, now it only bears agony. “Please, let’s not argue.” Hands rubbing his arms, you gaze at him softly. “I’m still not that far along, I can still run if we need to.” You don’t want to tell him that your scarred leg aches when you run.

You feel all the heaviness that James left in your heart, but you can’t let it hinder you forever when you’ve got Hobie and the baby to think about. They’re now your reason to survive, just like how James held on because of the baby and in hopes of finding his best mates and his parents.

Hobie avoids your eyes, sighing as he takes your hands in his. He feels the small indents from the scars that you told him about after another night of crying. He doesn’t want to look at it when it only makes his heart break at the thought of you getting hurt. So he keeps his eyes on the promised ring around your pinky instead, the same one he saved for months just to get it for you.

“What if we see those things? Or worse, run into people?”

“We hide or run, and if need be, we fight.” You look at him with determination and with untapped bravery he hasn’t seen yet. “I don’t want you to starve yourself. Or for you to die when I’m stuck here waiting for you to come home when I don’t know if you’ll ever be back.” Reaching over him as his hand falls on your hips, you take the beef jerky and the lone can of chocolate pudding. “So which one will it be for tonight?” With a small smile, you weigh both in your hands. “I need you full of energy tomorrow.”

Chuckling, Hobie takes the beef jerky and then takes your chin daintily in his hand. “The last time you told me that was before a concert.”

“I remember.” Sunlight passes by your eyes. “You killed it that night.”

His eyes wander behind you where his guitar case is tucked in-between an armchair and the telly. He still hasn’t opened it. “You follow me, yeah? When I tell you to run, you run, when I tell you to leave me behind, you do just that.”

You take a second before nodding.

“Let’s share the puddin’” Throwing his arm over your shoulder, and a peck to your temple, he leads you back to the table.

Kissing his cheek, you giggle, the very first genuine laugh you’ve let out in a couple of weeks. “That’s what I like to hear.”

—

Hobie hesitated before taking the car into town. The engine could draw unwanted attention, or it could break down in the middle of a drive. But he can’t exactly make you walk for miles on end when you’re almost four months pregnant. If only he had a bicycle on hand, and go on a ride with you like when you were teenagers sneaking out to go wherever you please.

“I hope we find a shoe place.” Your mumbling gets his attention, hand reaching towards your thigh as he keeps his eyes on the road. You place your hand atop his, squeezing once as you smile fondly at him. It reminds you of a similar memory when the two of you were driving in his old car to a gig or a date at the park. Not driving towards what could be a dead town filled with rotting corpses. “Some new trainers would be good for my sasquatch feet.”

His piercings catch the light, glinting from the sun shining on them. Hobie looks incredibly handsome, you’ve always said that the sunlight suits him more, and he would always say that the moonlight fits you best. His locks are tied into a ponytail that you helped him with. He desperately needs a haircut when his curls are starting to cover his eyes that you always have to move them away, covering a new scar he got from the car crash right on his forehead. It’s not because you think it makes him look awful, but you hate the fact that he got hurt, that he had to tend to his wounds himself. Your guilt refuses to let you look at the scar.

Hobie snorts, noticing your lighter demeanour now that you’re out of the cabin. “I’ll keep a look out.” Thumb drawing circles over your jeans, he squeezes again. “And your feet aren’t that big, love. I’ve seen bigger.”

Pinching the back of his hand, he lets out a chuckle. “Yeah, yours.” Your eyes warn him before he could even smirk. “And don’t say it.”

“Wasn’t gonna.” From his smirk alone, you could tell that he was in fact ‘gonna.’

Smiling, for a moment you forgot that the world ended, that James isn’t laying six feet underground just beside the living room window.

Hobie senses the negative shift in your demeanor. From all his reading on the baby book you brought, he has read that when the mother is in good spirits, and not stressed, the baby will turn out healthy and happy. He has made it his mission that you and the baby remain in okay spirits, impossible to make it better on account of the things around you, but he still wants to try. After James and everything else, something as small as new trainers could help brighten you up. He’s even contemplating that the cabin might not be the best environment for you, but where would he bring you that is safer than a cabin in the middle of the woods?

“I’ve been thinkin’” Clearing his throat, he shifts in his seat with the town now in sight.

“A lot, I imagine.”

He glances at you with a small smile. “Yeah, too much.” Sighing, he slows down the car once the town’s faded banner greets him. The place doesn’t look any better like before, but it doesn’t look worse either. “What if we look for other places we could stay? Somewhere safer, quieter and away from cities for when the baby is born.”

“The cabin is already all of that.”

“Yeah, I mean…somewhere that doesn’t remind you of what happened.”

Your eyes cast down at your lap, index mindlessly picking at a hang nail as you gaze at your ring instead. “I don’t know, Hobie, James is there, he’d be alone.”

“He’ll understand, love.” Sighing, he parks the car on the side of the silent fishing town. “We don’t have to make a decision now, jus’ think ‘bout it, yeah?” With a hand on your thigh, he squeezes you reassuringly, and you smile right back at him with the same kind of comfort. “I see a cobbler over there, maybe someone didn’t pick up their shoes.”

Like always, he helps with your seatbelt gently, even avoiding grazing your stomach with his hand. Maybe it’s him being careful with you, but it’s as if he’s afraid to really hold onto your stomach, afraid to face the baby that could possibly end your life.

He smells faintly of the watered down minty shampoo and a coconut body wash that the last renter left at the cabin. While you probably smell of the milk formula for mothers that you’ve been rationing since you left the condo with James. Even then, Hobie pecks your temple sweetly.

“There, you ready?”

Taking his hand, you place his palm with apprehension on top of your stomach, letting his warmth ebb through your skin. “I’ve read that babies tend to already know their parents in the womb, but you haven’t been there the first months so I want them to get to know you more. Is that alright?”

His lips tug into a smile, chuckling softly as he feels around freely. “Yeah, ‘m the dad, love, of course it’s alright.”

You match his grin. “Just checking.”

Kissing your cheek, his lips linger for a moment before pulling away. He looks around with bated breath, making sure that there aren’t any surprises lurking around the corner shops. The town is quiet, eerily quiet, like in one of those apocalyptic shows Yuri pestered them into watching with her.

Cars are left on the road, some doors still open as the wind and rain ravage the leather seats. From the pink and yellow banners around, and the wilted flowers all tied with a pretty ribbon around the lampposts and shop windows, he’d think there was some celebration happening before the world ended. A flyer fluttering by gets stuck in the windshield wiper, it answers his question.

“‘Happy Mother’s day.’” You read solemnly. “Fuck me that’s ironic.”

Hobie scoffs a laugh, patting your stomach gingerly as he inhales deeply.

He doesn’t see any movement from the streets, no rustling, just some trash getting carried by the wind. But he spots something in the corner of his eye, a flash of movement inside the cobbler’s store, a quick shadow darting in between shelves of shoes.

“What is it?” You ask, brows furrowed as you feel his trepidation. “You okay?”

“We should move on.” Hobie starts the car again, as something gnaws at the back of his mind, telling him to move, telling him, ‘not here, there’s death lingering here.’

“I thought…” you don’t argue, trusting his instincts. “Okay. Maybe a house would be better.”

The car jolts to life as Hobie keeps his steely gaze on the road. “Yeah, the neighborhood is probably better to look through.”

The two of you drive around in silence, the fear sits between the two of you, heavy and permeating as the car rolls into a suburban area with white picket fences and blue windowsills. The place looks normal, still pristine and untouched by the dead and survivors.

Hobie looks around, car slowing down as he spots a two story home that he has probably seen dozens of times in his life. It looks fine, no blood on the walls, no corpses laying around, just an overgrown lawn and dusty windows.

“This is the one?” Your eyes narrow as the sunshine reflects onto the car windows and onto your eyes. It was a gloomy day when you went out, but the sun wanted to be seen for a moment. It’s a good reprieve from all the grey and darkness in your mind.

“Got your gear?” Hobie clicks his seatbelt off and then over to yours in a swift calculated movement.

“Yep,” you inhale deeply, taking his helping hand as you get out of the car. There’s a small ache on the pit of your stomach, and you chalk it up as nerves. You fix the hold on the backpack, a hand feeling for the kitchen knife on your belt and the gun hidden underneath your coat and tucked into your jeans. “Yours?”

“Ready,” Hobie shows you his backpack and the shotgun strapped on his shoulder, he then pats the hammer dangling on his belt before nudging your hand, resisting the urge to hold it instead. He needs his hands free to protect you. “Food and water first.” He instructs. “I’ll keep a lookout for shoes.”

“If we find the stuff we need for the home birth should we grab it? Or should we save space for food and toiletries?” You’re careful where you place your feet as you both walk onto what was probably a pristine lawn before the dead walked around.

“If we still have space in our packs, I don’t see why not.” Hobie keeps a careful eye around, making sure his hand never leaves the handle of the machete. And that you’re within his vision at all times.

“Maybe we’ll find some strings for your guitar too. They’re small, so it’ll fit my pockets.”

Hobie falters for a moment before stopping in front of the door. “You opened my guitar case?”

“Yeah,” you say as you cup your hands around a foggy window whilst you try to take a peek inside. When you’re met with silence, you lean away to look at him. “Am I not supposed to? I’m sorry, I got curious.”

“No, love, it’s alright.” His pinky brushes along the back of your hand. “It’s jus’ that I haven’t opened it since the houseboat broke down.”

“Oh, well, it’s fine, just that the stings are a bit fucked. No water got in or even a scratch on it.”

“That’s good.” With a relieved sigh, he gently taps the glass window to double check that there aren’t any shamblers hiding inside.

The two of you wait for a bit, but when a minute passes by without the sound of a pained groan or movement inside, Hobie grips the door handle.

He sees a wind chime a second earlier before he could open the door. With his height, he easily stops the chiming before it could chime out with a hand. Hobie then yanks it out, and gently places it on the ground.

“Good eye.”

“Thanks—” he’s about to push the door open, until your hand catches his wrist.

“Alarm.” You mutter with a shaky tone, pointing at the sign hidden behind the tall grass of the overgrown lawn. ‘This house is protected by Octavius security.’ It reads in big bold letters.

“Fuck me.” Slowly, he lets go of the door knob. “What are the chances that they don’t have power either?”

“I don’t know, but we can’t risk it.” You swallow thickly, a hand brushing along your stomach for comfort. Pursing your lips, you remember a conversation you had with James on one warm evening, warm enough that he made popsicles for you both. Yours was mango because he said that fruit was better for the baby, and he had chocolate instead. You’ve been craving mangoes nowadays, but can’t say anything to Hobie to add more to his stress. “I’ve got an idea, follow me.”

Slowly, with a hand on your knife, you carefully tread the lawn and over to the side of the house. Hobie follows closely behind, too afraid to lag behind you, afraid that you’ll get lost in the tall grass, or get snatched by one of the dead.

There’s a fallen kid’s bicycle on the ground, half buried in grass and dirt. Once upon a time a kid rode that up and down the neighborhood, now it lays there, rotting, slowly rusting, like the world around you.

“Here.” Clearing your throat, you both make it to the back door without a hitch. So far so good. “Okay, let’s hope that—” you begin to bend down, but Hobie stops you halfway with a hand on your chest.

“Let me. What are you looking for?” Crouching, Hobie looks up at you as the grey clouds start to obscure the sun behind your head, covering the halo around you.

“A key under the welcome mat.”

“Lovie, I don’t think…” and yet he still lifts the dirty mat, only to find a single key under it. “Well, fuck me sideways.”

“Already did that.” You cheekily joke, helping him stand up with a hand wrapped around his lean bicep.

Hobie smiles, really smiles, the kind of smile he would flash at you during lazy mornings where you two have nowhere to be that day. “You offerin’?”

Chuckling, you snatch the key from him as you insert it inside the lock. “Maybe if you find me some shoes.”

“Promise?” His lips curl into a mischievous smile, one that you’re incredibly familiar with.

“Yes,” biting your lip with a stifled laugh, you take a step back for him. “Could you please open the door?”

“How’d you know that the key would be there?”

“James’ dad owns a security company, and he told me that some people would usually forget their codes, or are afraid that when there’s no power they won’t be able to go inside because the system automatically locks the house. So sometimes they’d ask to not have an alarm at the back door, for big houses that is. For the key, well,” you shrug smugly. “I just applied common sense.”

He smiles proudly at you. “I keep forgettin’ that his dad had his hand in a lot of pies.”

“Just open the bloody door, Hobs.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He mocks a salute, unlocking the door slowly as the door creaks. Hobie peeks through the gap, waiting for any shamblers to appear. Tapping his blade on the door, once, twice, he waits some more, a precaution. Whilst you keep watch of the surroundings, heart beating loudly in your chest. “I think we’re good, lovie. Just need you to stay close to me, yeah?”

You nod, mouth feeling dry as you grip at the hilt of the kitchen knife. Your feet feel like you’re standing on warm sand, and your belly does somersaults, the baby could probably feel the tremors in your body as you enter the home with Hobie right in front of you.

This time, you’re making sure that you see the threat before it happens. The two of you sweep the kitchen first, the pantry has some food left but no monsters lurking in it. He finds the laundry room, same thing, no dead nor a soul inside.

You breathe a little better, and Hobie gives you a reassuring look, nudging your arm in a simple, ‘we’re okay,’ gesture.

While you keep watch, Hobie ransacks the pantry.

One thing has caught your eye though, on the counter, there is an empty flower vase with yellowing water, and beside it is a wilted and long dried up bouquet of roses. You take a peek inside the card, and it reads, ‘happy mother’s day!’ Scrawled by tiny hands written in crayon.

He loads up the duffle bag with food first, canned foods are the priority as he avoids the perishables. You wanted to check the fridge whilst he’s doing that but he can’t, or won’t let you out of his sight. You did promise to watch his back, so you did with your hand on the pistol right on your waist as he stacks cans upon cans of food.

Then he sees the biscuits, chocolate coated ones that he knows you like the most. He takes a box of those, checking the expiration date wouldn’t have meant anything when he has lost track of the date already. But if it doesn’t smell or isn’t covered in mold, it could still be good, so he packs it instead of another can of peas. He grabs a few seasonings too, and what’s left of the rice they had. He read that rice is good for the baby, so he takes it even though it weighs a ton.

The duffel bag is filled to the brim already when he finishes packing.

“Love.” He can’t help but smile, turning around to face you. “We’re not goin’ to starve.”

Chortling, you give him a quick yet loving peck on his shoulder. “Thank you.”

“There’s more in the fridge, and there are still jugs of water in here.” He whispers, in case there are lurkers upstairs.

“We also need soap.” Your eyes glances over to the laundry room. “What do we do?”

Pursing his lips, his eyes darts from the fridge, where there are magnet souvenirs and family photos on it, then over to the laundry room. He really needs clean clothes too. “We load this up in the trunk, dump it all in there then come back here.”

“Greedy, but I agree. I can’t sleep for another day in those sheets.”

With your approval, and a squeeze to your hand, the two of you trek back to the car, and carefully dump the canned goods inside the trunk of James’ car.

“I’ve never asked.” Hobie starts, a hand clasped around a can of peaches. “What happened to the window?” Glancing at the missing window at the back that was hastily wrapped in tarp and taped by duct tape, you follow his gaze.

“A horde got to us when we were leaving the condo building.” The stacking pauses on his end. “We were okay, we made it out by using molotov cocktails.”

He smiles fondly as something swims in his eyes, pride perhaps? Or perhaps jealousy. “You learned from the best.”

“We did, Hobie.” You tap the back of his knee with your foot as you finish your side. “I hope we find deodorant.”

Nodding, Hobie shuts the trunk as quietly as he could as he takes the empty duffel bag in his hand. “You smell great, love.”

“It’s because your brain started blocking the smell.” Giggling, you start your trek back again with him in tow. The steps are lighter, less careful now that you know what to expect.

“Nah, I think it’s your pheromones, you smell fit.”

“Never say that word ever again, Hobie.” That earns a kiss from him as he steals one from behind, right on your nape, before stepping around you to get to the laundry room before you could.

It goes like that for an hour, when the bags get full, he dumps it into the car and goes back again. It’s routine for the two of you, one that he refuses to go in and out alone when he can’t bear to leave you outside or inside the house for that matter. Even though it was tedious, going back and forth, he would still do it if it meant never straying too far from your side. He lost you once, he’s not planning on losing you ever again.

Both of you have cleared out the first floor, you found laundry detergents, food and water, now you’re on a mission to get some new clothes or maybe some pillows and blankets while it’s still light outside.

The walls of the house have grown familiar for you, the pictures on the walls of an unknown family, all strangers, and yet you found a connection to them. Somewhere in between taking their supplies, you wonder about them. Did they prefer beef over chicken when everything you found in their freezer was beef? Did their son ask for snacks before dinner like every kid does? How were they living now? Did they escape together? Or perhaps they’re shambling somewhere together with the rest of the dead.

Brows furrowed, your feet are on fire as you take a breather on the steps, taking hold of the bannister as you inhale through your nose and exhale out of your mouth. A breathing exercise that you read in your book.

“Love?” Hobie calls your name with worry. “You good?”

“Yeah, it’s just that…my feet are really fucking swolen and it kind of hurts. And I sort of need to pee.” Wincing, you give him an apologetic smile.

“Alright.” He sighs in relief, almost smiling. “I’ll take you to the loo.”

Hobie does a quick sweep of every room, there are only two bedrooms upstairs, and one office that is under lock and key. Every room is quiet and pristine, except for an odd smell coming from the master bedroom. Once he deems it safe, he helps you into the bathroom, keeping watch just outside the closed door.

Hand on his weapon, he keeps finding himself looking at the nursery right in front of him. It has light blue walls, powder blue like the sky on a good day in London, and it’s painted with fluttering birds and flowers. There’s a crib in there too, pristine, probably newly bought when there is still plastic wrapped around it. On the other side of the room is a small bed, meant for a toddler with rocketship bed sheets and glow in the dark stars tacked on the ceiling. In between them is an old rocking chair, oak and probably older than Hobie. And sitting on top of it is a box of trainers, with a neat pink bow on the lid. It’s from the brand that he knows you have been saving up for before the dead started walking.

He glances at the closed bathroom door, hearing you shuffle on the other side. The door is closed, and he didn’t find any undead inside the whole house. The place is safe and the nursery faces the loo where he could still keep an eye on you, so he takes a step away from the door and over to the rocking chair.

Hobie makes his strides quick and quiet, crossing the short distance over to the box as he takes it. He opens the lid, finding the same soft blue inside, the shoes seem to be larger than your usual size, but it would now fit you.

Grinning, his mission is accomplished. He shoves the pair inside the duffel bag, turning around with a triumphant smile on his face. “Love.” He shows you the box just as you exit the bathroom. “Look.”

The sheer happiness on your face makes his chest warm. He hasn’t seen you have that expression in a long while, it’s as if he’s a thirsty wanderer who finally found an oasis. For the first time ever since the party, he grins widely, the unabashed carefree smile that tugs at the corner of his lips first, right next to the piercing, a lopsided smile that never fails to turn your legs into jelly.

“Please tell me it’s my size.” Your hands reach for the box, squealing giddily once you see the size on the side.

“Open it.” His stomach thrums with excitement.

“Yes, new—!” Your face falls at the emptiness, and once you turn to look at the father of your unborn child, his cheeks are puffed, trying and failing to stifle a guffaw. “You wanker.”

“I couldn’t help it, lovie.” Tossing the box away that lands into the crib with a thump, he leads you to the rocking chair as you scowl at him like back when he accidentally ate your cheesecake in the fridge that you were saving for the end of the day. Hands on your shoulders, he’s still smiling at you, crouching down as he retrieves the shoes from the duffel bag. “‘m not evil.”

Your expression melts from annoyance to giddiness once again. “It’s blue.” You utter softly, lashes batting as Hobie slowly unlaces the old dirty shoes you have on.

“It is.” Chuckling fondly, he gently takes off your shoes, palm carefully cupping your heel, a thumb brushing along the hill of skin before slipping the new shoes on you. “Brand new too, we hit the jackpot.”

“I think it’s the exact same one I was saving for.” You still remember the road to and from work, where a shoe place is situated right on the road home, where you always look at the display longingly, waiting for the shoe to go on sale. “Just in blue.”

“What was the colour you wanted?” He slips the next one on your other foot, tying it twice, making sure that the laces won’t suddenly untie and make you trip and fall.

“Black,” you admire the shoes on you as you wiggle your feet about. “Easier to pair with my clothes.”

“Either one suits you.” Taking both feet, he taps the heels together playfully. “They fit you perfectly.”

“Thank you, Hobie.” You follow his smiling eyes as he stands up, a hand perched on the armrest of the rocking chair as his knees creak.

“Thank the bloke who got it.” His head tilts to gesture at the room. He wonders if the man who lived here got the shoes for his wife on mother’s day, or just because he wanted to show his love for her. Hobie knows he would do the same for you.

The irony doesn’t escape you when you find yourself sitting in the middle of a nursery. Maybe in another life, you and Hobie are refurbishing the spare room in his houseboat, the room you both use as a workspace slash art room slash library. It was littered with trinkets from you and Hobie the last time you saw it. You don’t remember much what was on the shelves when it’s been so long but you do remember the feeling whenever you spent a whole lazy afternoon with him in there.

The soft rocking of the boat would lull you to sleep whilst you read on an old lazyboy you two found abandoned on a street corner, the same one you had to call in James and Yuri to help haul it in the van. You would read and Hobie would tinker with his gadgets, sometimes taking odd fixing jobs from friends, fixing an antique clock, a radio, or a fan. The sound of the tinkling metal, the curses under his breath, and the water splashing against the side of the boat, it felt like home. It was warm and cozy, but it was colder in the winter when the space heater doesn’t help much with the chill. Those were the days where Hobie would huddle close to you on the armchair underneath all the blankets even when you both don’t fit in the chair. You miss those soft days, the peaceful days where you don’t have to be careful where you step, where the stench of death and decay doesn’t stick to your nostrils. It was just living, now all you know is surviving. Surviving to see Hobie for another day. Surviving to see the day your baby is born.

“Love,” he senses your heavy thoughts, hand reaching out to your chin, lifting it with his knuckle softly. Hobie doesn’t have the right words to comfort you, maybe there are no right words that will ever comfort you, but he tries, the only way he knows how, the only way that could get your mind out of the plague that is your mind. “You wanna take a look around? Maybe they’ve got something we could use for the baby.”

“We’re in a nursery, Hobs,” you say with a teasing tone. “I’m sure there’s baby stuff here we could use.”

Hobie chuckles, exhaling through his nose as he helps you off the rocking chair. He wonders if he could fit the chair in the car, the baby would love it, you would love it. The cabin already has a rocking chair but it’s old and weathered, looking like it’ll keel over once someone sits on it.

“I’ll check if they have books on giving birth.” His hand lingers on your hip before turning to the bookshelf with colourful children’s books.

“I’ll raid the closet.” Your hand instinctively brushes along your stomach, feeling the heaviness weigh you down.

You didn’t plan to get pregnant, moreso get pregnant during the end of the world where society has collapsed. You always knew from the moment you saw those two red lines that it wouldn’t be easy for the two of you, but now, you just feel regret and shame. Regret that this happened so soon in your life. Ashamed that you can’t be of any help to Hobie as the months go by. And when the inevitable comes, you could die, and you don’t want to leave the love of your life all alone in this world with a newborn to take care of. Or worse, you both don’t survive, and Hobie’s truly left alone.

You’re tired, exhausted already from carrying the extra weight on you. Bones aching on a microscopic level, as if you have a sack of cement on the small of your back. If you feel this tired just after a few months in your pregnancy, you fear for the coming months. What if you end up being bedridden? You’ve heard countless horror stories from women in your family at how terrifying it is to give birth. They said that when you’re giving birth, you have one foot buried in the ground. But they had doctors and medicine, while you have a book from the 90’s about childcare. You might die in front of Hobie while covered in blood and screaming in pain. You don’t want that to be the last thing he remembers of you.

Fists clenching, you feel the indents left on your palms. You take deep breaths, reminding yourself that stress isn’t good for the baby. So you start to distract yourself instead. You stare at the adorable clothes on the rack, all colour coded, from dinosaur onesies to tiny coats and matching beanies, you have the urge to take it all. The owners of the house have great taste, and you feel guilty for even being inside.

Taking a red and white plaid onesie that has matching socks, you turn to show Hobie.

“Lovie, look.”

“Hobs, look.”

You simultaneously turn to face the other.

You smile as he mirrors your expression. “‘Oh, the places you’ll go,’ really?”

“It’s a good read.” Shrugging, he shoves it in the dufflebag. “But look, baby names.”

You’re supposed to be happy, to smile at the book and imagine the names you could name the bundle born out of love, but you can’t find that happiness as you feel a lump on your throat form. Baby names are the last thing on your mind right now.

“That’s great, Hobs.”

“Couldn’t find any books about births, though.” Placing it inside the bag, right beside a teddy bear he nicked from the crib, Hobie smiles at the small pile he gathered. If he noticed your faltering expression, he doesn’t say anything about it. “What’d you find?”

“It looks kind of punk, doesn’t it?” Lifting the onesie, you peek over it, trying to hide your wobbly expression.

“Lovie…” taking the fabric in your hands, he grins fondly at the onesie. It’s so small, barely the size of his forearm, and he can’t help but imagine a little version of you wearing it. “This is the most fuckin’ adorable thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Take it?”

“Absolutely.” Peeking behind you, he sees more, eyes going wide at the swaddling cloths, tiny booties and the cutest bear onesie he has ever seen. “I say take ‘em all.”

You snort, backing away as he helps himself to the baby clothes. “That’s greedy, Hobie.” Despite your words, you help him shovel in the small socks and cute bibs. “Take some towels too, I read that they drool a lot.”

A laugh escapes his throat, barely contained as he almost forgets where he is, what might be lurking in the dark corners of the house. “Love, look at this one.”

He lifts up a plain yellow shirt with the bold pink letters that reads, ‘Daddy’s favorite.’ You clamp your mouth shut, before spluttering out a giggle.

“D’you think they have an adult sized version of this?” His eyes sparkle with playfulness. “For you, I mean.”

“Fuck, you’re so annoying.” And yet you shove the tiny shirt inside the bag with your cheeks aflame and a laugh bubbling in your throat.

“Love you too.” Pecking your temple, he moves away from the closet. “C’mon, we gotta move on to the bedroom.”

Your brows raise to your hairline, heat blossoming in the pit of your stomach. “What, right now?” You haven’t done that in a while, fuck, you just now realized that you haven’t done it since you found out about the baby. Your hands are suddenly at the hem of his shirt, desire filling your chest.

Hobie’s brows furrows for a moment before realization flickers on his expression. Eyes drifting down at your pawing, and then back over to your half lidded eyes. “Fuckin’ hell, love, not that. We need sheets and new clothes. Although that’s temptin’.” He pecks your pouting lips, giving you a sly smirk through the kiss. “Maybe later if you play your cards right, hm?” Now he’s in the mood too. It just crossed his mind when all he thought about recently was how to survive and finding you alive.

If your cheeks weren’t searing before then it’s fiery now. “I can’t believe I let you fuck me.” Groaning, head tilted back to hide your flustered expression, you walk past him towards the master’s bedroom.

“C’mon, lovie, that’s the reason why you’re pregnant.”

You flip him the bird on your way out that makes him smile even more. For a moment there he felt normal, that everything was back to normal and he’s at home with you while the houseboat rocks gently.

The two of you make it to the bedroom, and the smell hits you before he gets a whiff of it. It’s dank, like mold clinging to the damp walls, like the smell of wilted flowers downstairs, only stronger, more prominent.

“God, what is that smell?” Plugging your nose, you wince. “It kind of smells like teeth at the dentist. I’m gonna hurl if we stay here long.”

“Don’t know, but I don’t like it.” Hobie moves you aside gently before treading the dry carpet to open a window. The sun is beginning to set outside, and worry gnaws at his chest. Soon this place would be crawling with the undead. “We need to hurry, this is our last run before we head out.”

“Yeah, gotcha.” You don’t argue as you hastily grab everything you need. Some clothes that might not fit either of you perfectly, even a few maternity clothes you found, a couple of thick coats, and the sheets you’ve been eyeing.

The bags are almost full when you finish grabbing the things you needed, and Hobie even managed to find a couple of camping backpacks to fill it with two pillows and more blankets. He’s ready to leave when you remember the towels.

“Shit, Hobie, we need towels.”

“Love, we can wash the ones we already have.” Fixing his hold on the bags, he checks the ticking clock on the wall and the sun setting in the horizon that paints the sky a deep bloody orange.

“Those are threadbare, Hobie, I could the count strings on it. I’ll be quick, promise.” You’re already at the bathroom door, opening it as it creaks, the sound echoing through the hallway.

“Lovie, wait, let me—”

The stench permeates through the bedroom from the bathroom, stinking up the whole place, the same wilted flower smell. Teeth, it wasn’t just teeth, it’s bones.

“Fuck…” The bile rising up your throat and the spit filling your mouth almost made you retch. But the sight of the bodies hugging in the bathtub, surrounded by dead flowers makes your heart fall to your stomach.

The door is shut before you could let out a sound. Hobie holds you in his arms, and you stay there, frozen, still staring at the door, as if you could still see them decaying inside the tub.

“C’mon, love, we need to go.” Hobie whispers in your ear, gentle and reassuring as his hand rubs up and down your arm. He calls your name with the same gentleness, honeyed and saccharine, trying to get you to move.

Once you blink away the blurriness in your eyes, you turn to Hobie with an unreadable expression. There were three of them in there, no, four, a family, one still in the mother’s cleaved open belly. Their skin has turned to leather, sun dried, stretched over blanched bones.

“Love?” His thumb traces the length of your jaw, grounding you to the present. “We need to go.”

“Yeah, let’s go—”

There’s a shadow in the doorway.

It hunches in the dark, breathing, watching.

You act first, grabbing the shotgun from Hobie’s back as you aim.

Hobie exhales, eyes wide, before yanking at the barrel, pulling it up and away from the figure.

The shot rings out through the house and out of the opened window.

Pieces of the ceiling fall on the carpet, paint and wood cracking and splintered, falling upon the stranger like raindrops.

The figure now crouches, grasping at its ear, while a hand, a wrinkly old palm stretches at you, surrendering.

Your ears ring, a shrill deaf tone that rattles your teeth inside your mouth whilst Hobie nurses his singed hand.

“Fuck!” You yell, but you don’t hear your own voice.

The sounds are muffled in your ears as Hobie grabs the gun from your hands.

“What are you doing?!” His voice fades in and out in your hearing. His eyes are wide, frantic as he points at the crouched figure. “He’s alive!”

The words strike you like a fist.

“What?” You ask, befuddled, heaving heavily as you stare wide eyed at the stranger in the doorway.

“I’m s–sorry…” a trembling voice says, spluttering and weeping on the floor. “I’m sorry, I–I didn’t mean to—” he chokes on air, coughing as he desperately tries to clear his throat.

Narrowing your gaze, honing in to make out the man’s face, you see an old man cowering from your stare. Guilt gnaws at your conscience.

“Oh, fuck, I’m sorry. I didn’t—” you wipe your hands at your jeans, as if it’ll clean the gunpowder on your skin. As if it’ll undo what you have done. “I didn’t know, I thought you were one of them.”

“Mate,” Hobie’s words feel dry on his tongue. “Who are you, how’d you get in here?” If the man was dead, he wouldn’t be so afraid, as he eyes you underneath his bucket hat. If he was, he wouldn’t have wasted time staring in the doorway instead of devouring you. Hobie’s wary as he stands in front of you protectively. He might’ve saved the stranger’s life, but he doesn’t know him and what he’s capable of. “You can stand up, we’re not goin’ to hurt you if you don’t try anythin’.”

You stand still, breathing heavily as you keep your weapon close while your hand shields your stomach.

The stranger is old, trembling as he stands up as instructed, back hunched, and messy hair untrimmed; his dirty blonde hair is matted under his hat. He looks frail, and you could easily outrun him, but you’ve learned never to underestimate anyone in this world.

“My—” his voice is crackly at the edges, tongue trying to wet his dry lips. “My name is Norman, I’ve been here since…since I don’t know.” His tone is weak and rough like someone who has a cold. “My son, he has a place here, but—but I forgot where it was, and I got lost. He…he said that he’ll meet me here in town.”

“Old man,” Hobie takes a step closer, while his free hand holds onto your wrist, keeping you close, all the while his other hand grasps at the weapon on his hip. “We’re not ‘ere to fight, but if you could jus’ move away from the stairs. We need to get out of ‘ere before any of the dead come.”

“I– I don’t know where I am.” His lips wobble, sniffing as his big brown eyes fill with unshed tears. “I’m sorry, who…who are you, lad?”

Hobie slowly inches towards the door as you hold onto his shoulder, blade at the ready as you peek over him.

Something in you pities the man. He reminds you of Yuri’s grandmother when she got sick, when there were days she wasn’t herself. You recognize the same condition in the man, how in the world has he survived this long all alone?

“Hobie, I think he’s unwell.” You whisper to him, feet feeling the dry carpet below you, the sky outside is going dark, and the automatic lights inside the hallways open. There’s power, and you could see the office door that was locked is now wide open.

“I know, love. We jus’ need to get out of ‘ere.”

The old man’s eyes pleads you for help. His face is gaunt underneath his salt and pepper beard, the skin around his eyes are darkened, and eyes beady. His nails are awfully long, curved and yellowed at the end. He has been surviving on his own whilst his own mind attacked him.

“He needs help.” Your grip on Hobie’s shoulder tightens desperately.

James would’ve helped him. Just like he helped you.

“Love.” The protest is on the edge of his tongue. But when Hobie turns to the man and his raggedy clothes, and the gaunt of his cheek, skin blemished and blanched, it reminds him of the people he would meet at the soup kitchen he volunteered at. The same place where he used to come to when he was struggling. “Norman, right?”

The old man reluctantly nods, as if he’s trying to recall his own name.

“C’mon, before the dead get ‘ere. They would’ve heard the shot.” Hobie grabs the fallen bags from the floor, glancing at you briefly as your expression is a mix of regret, relief, and pity. “Lovie, stay close. You too, Norm.”

“I haven’t heard that name in awhile.” He mutters under his breath, nodding along to his instructions.

Hobie lets him walk first, keeping a close eye on him, in case he is bitten. If he followed behind you, his mind wouldn’t be at peace if that was the case.

The whole house is lit up the moment the sun faded from the horizon. In the warm yellow lights, the place doesn’t feel so eerie. In another world he would have a place like this with you and the baby, maybe have the kid grow up in a nice house like this. It was near impossible before the world collapsed, now it’s just wishful thinking. Like how one would imagine winning the lottery.

“Where did you two come from?” Norman asks, arms curled around himself for comfort.

“The woods, we’ve got a cabin there.” Hobie adjusts his hold onto the bags, crossing the threshold towards the kitchen and to the back door where you two entered. Where he propped a can of peas on the door to keep it ajar just in case.

You watch as Norman’s face furrows, as if he’s trying to recall something deep in his mind.

“We have to hurry—”

Hobie sees it happen in slow motion, Norman’s hand wrapped around the door knob of the front entrance, tugging at it out of instinct.

“Norman, no!” You scream, but it’s too late.

The alarm blares around the house, echoing throughout the neighborhood. If the shot didn’t gather the dead’s attention, the alarm would.

There are rushed bare footsteps slapping against concrete outside.

“Run!” Hobie grabs you harshly, yanking and pulling you towards the back door as you reach your free hand over to Norman.

He takes your hand desperately. In his addled mind, he recognizes danger, and it makes him sprint behind you.

Hobie lugs the bags around his back and arms, whilst leading you outside. The same carefulness when you two arrived is out of the window the moment he heard gurgled groaning.

He turns his head towards the cul-de-sac, and he sees a gaggle of the shambling dead run at break neck speed towards him.

Their limbs flail right behind them without a care, they’re caked in blood, jaws unhinged, claws raised up as the wall of rotting stench follows them. Blood drips from their eyes, gnashing their teeth in the air as if they’re tasting him on their blackened tongues.

He makes it to the car, throwing the bags into the backseat and helps you inside the passenger seat before going around the hood to the driver’s side and hops in quickly. Thank fuck he had the foresight to not lock the doors. It was a horrible decision back then when there was danger of getting the car nicked, but he figured that you two were the only survivors in the whole town. He thought so at least.

“Love!” He yells your name, whilst you frantically put on your seatbelt. He could see the corpses run in the reflection of the side mirror.

“Norman!” You scream, waking the stranger from his terrified stupor, frozen just beside the car. “Get the fuck inside!”

The old man scrambles inside, tossing his whole body in the car whilst Hobie doesn’t waste time in starting the car, or even waits for Norman to shut the door.

The engine splutters weakly.

“Fuck you! C’mon you stupid, cu—!”

The pained shrieks of the dead come close as the car roars to life.

Exhaust fumes exit out of the car as Hobie steps on the gas. The wheels screech on the cement, leaving tire tracks as he drives quickly out of there.

A can of peaches rolls out of the backseat and onto the street just before the opened door beside Norman slams shut as Hobie turns a corner, watching the corpses fade in the rearview mirror.

“Holy fuck.” Panting, bad leg aching, you turn to Hobie with wide eyes. “Are you okay?” Your hand squeezes his trembling arm.

“Yeah, yeah…” Hobie swallows the bile in his throat, utterly relieved to be out of there. He takes your hand, and presses a heavy kiss on your knuckles whilst keeping an eye on the road. “You?”

“I’m good.” Smiling and chuckling, knees wobbly, you turn to Noman, who is still laying on the pile of canned goods and bags you got from the house. “You okay, Norm?”

The man’s lips stretches into an easy smile, “yes, thank you.”

You rub Hobie’s bicep, giving him a quick loving peck. “Let’s go home, Hobie.”

The room is slowly growing darker with every minute you spend inside, the cozy decorations around the small space with its carved woodland creatures, lace doilies and fluttering curtains are nothing but a mockery to you and what’s gnawing in your head. Their shadows loom over the walls, shapes cageing you in.

It’s quiet inside the familiar bathroom, what was once held a fond memory for you is now marred by the recent memory of James begging for you to shoot him. You can still hear his cries, pleading, begging for you to end him to keep you and your baby safe. The way his hands shook, cradling the bleeding bite and how his voice gurgled in his own blood, and yet he still smiled at you towards the end. Even then he was trying to comfort you.

Your protruding stomach bops up and down in the water, belly button peeking through the mix of blood and soap. You haven’t let out a single tear since Hobie helped you inside the tub, hoping that a warm bath will help. When all it did was numb you.

Gazing at the ceiling, mold dotted along the wood, your eyes sting as you tilt your head down, face half submerged in the water. Waves lapping at the sides of your face. You miss James, he was your companion, a friend that helped you survive the first days of the apocalypse. He was your anchor through it all, the voice of reason when all you wanted was to run outside and look for your lost love. It’s ironic, compared to before the world ended, you and the rest of the band were the ones holding him by the scruff of his neck.

As you run your palm over your stomach, the pinky ring shines atop it, you promise to yourself that you’ll live on so that his sacrifice wouldn’t be in vain. He would’ve wanted you to do just that, but that doesn’t make it alright. You have no idea how to tell Yuri and Ned that their best mate is dead, and that you killed him.

What if his parents are still alive? How would you tell them that their only child is dead? That he died protecting you while holding out hope that he would find them?

The door creaks open, and Hobie peeks through the crack. His cheeks are coated in dirt, and there’s soil underneath his fingernails as he knocks softly. He looks the same as you remember before you had to leave him in the car with hopes of coming back for him. You did come back for him, but he was nowhere to be seen. For three months you wonder where he was, if he’s eating, or if he’s even alive. Now that he’s here, standing in the same room as you, breathing the same air as you, your heart feels like it’s beating once again. Albeit cracked, but alive, thumping quietly as it keeps you and your baby breathing.

“Love,” his voice seeps with fatigue. “You’ll turn into a prune.”

“You like prunes.” You answer softly, tone as tired as his. “Come sit with me please?”

“I’m all dirty,” His boots thump against the floor mats, tracking mud and dirt. His hand clamps over his eyes playfully. “and you’re all naked.”

You manage a small smile. “How do you think I got this?” Gesturing around your stomach, he peeks through his fingers.

“A stork?”

“Nope, birds and the bees, Hobs.” Opening your palms, you gesture for him to join you.

“Yeah, I think I remember that in biology.” Kneeling down, knees creaking in protest, he places his arm over the rim of the bathtub, chin resting on his elbow. “How do you feel?”

“Like sun dried shit.” Your attempt at a half assed joke.

He manages a smile. “The baby?” His eyes gaze gently down, worry etched on his brows.

“I think the baby’s fine. I’m not at the stage where the baby could start kicking like a horse yet. But everything feels fine, considering.” Sniffing, you lean against his arm, a cold cheek pressed on his warm skin. “I really wanted to tell you… I really did.”

Hobie’s free hand reaches to cup your chin, turning you gently to face him. “I know, lovie.” He sighs, thumb brushing along your damp skin. “When did you know?”

“At the party, with Yuri.” The mere mention of her has your heart squeezing in your chest. The same feeling is clear on his face too. “We got a bunch of tests after I got sick all over the bathroom floor.”

“Is that what you wanted to tell me? Before…everythin’?”

“Yeah, I still have the test, kept it just in case.”

His eyes flick over to your growing stomach, belly button protruding above the surface like a buoy. “Well, I believe you, proof or no proof.”

You manage a small chuckle. “I’m way past doubting it. The morning sickness was the worst, and my feet are swollen.” Lifting a foot above the water to show him, Hobie’s brows knit in worry, it looks painful. You look like you’re in pain. He then sees the scar on your leg, a long scar tissue that is still red around the edges of skin. He doesn’t ask how it came to be when he doesn’t want to upset you even more.

He feels sorry that he wasn’t there, that he wasn’t there from the start, holding you, making you feel better. He should’ve been there, he should’ve been here before you. Maybe, just maybe, James would still be alive, that he would hear the muffled shuffling of the undead behind the closet door, and end it before it started. And he would welcome you both inside with a relieved smile.

“My boots would fit you now.” Hobie stifles his hurt, eyes glancing away from swollen feet before staring at the same pain in your eyes.

“Maybe, I’m going to need maternity clothes soon.” Inhaling, you purse your lips together. “I’m going to wear all those old lady dresses with the plain daisies and bland colours. You won’t think I’m fit anymore.” Your knuckles brush alongside his arm.

“Nah, you’re still peng in my eyes, lovie. Even if you dress up as Yuri’s grandma.” Taking your hand, he twists it gently to hold onto you better. Water mixing with soil.

“Remember when she used to make us all those sugar cookies during band practice?”

“Yeah, I’ve gained weight durin’ that.”

“We all did, Hobie.” You gently smile, squeezing him once. After a beat, your smile fades. “Is it horrible of me to think that it’s a good thing that she’s already gone before all this shit happened?”

“No, love.” His thumb runs along your palm. “I wouldn’t wish this on anyone.”

The back of your eyes stings, heat behind them as you swallow thickly. “I should’ve— I should’ve come looking for you. When I came back to the car, you weren’t there anymore.” You fight the tears from spilling. “And then we ran to the docks, and the houseboat wasn’t there either. I’m sorry, I should’ve tried harder. I could’ve tried harder.”

“Just the thought of you comin’ to look for me is enough.” With a gentle hand, he moves a damp strand of hair away from your face. “I’m jus’ glad you weren’t alone.”

Your eyes fall on his fingers, the dirt digs into his nailbeds, darkened by mud and soil. “Yeah, I wouldn’t have survived this long without him.” Your nail scrapes at the dirt, trying to get it clean. And he lets you. “You should’ve seen him, Hobie, he was…he’s great.” Vision glistening, you stifle a sob.

“I think he was a scout when he was a kid.” A smile curls in the corner of his lips at the image of James wearing those uniforms when he was just a boy. Green and khaki complete with a beret and sash filled with patches. Hobie beats himself up for not remembering if James really was a scout. “I know he was great, lovie, jus’ seein’ you here is proof enough.”

“He went full on survivor. We were stuck at his parent’s condo for a bit until we ran out of supplies and the electricity in the city was shut off.” Your palm is pruning, but you’re afraid of leaving the comfort of the tub. “I got a baby book though.”

“Yeah? Like the one with baby names?”

He wants to tell you what happened to him in those three months, how he struggled, how he longed to see you alive, how he was seeing you in his visions. And what he saw, what he had to do to get back to you. You know that the houseboat is gone from his expression alone, if it wasn’t you two would’ve sailed out of the town before the blood dried on the floor.

You gently shake your head, water sloshing softly. “No, the kind that has instructions on home births.” Voice wavering, you hold onto him tightly, realizing what he has to do when the time comes. “I’m scared, Hobie.” Your throat betrays you, closing up as you let out a sob. “What if something happens to the baby? There’s no hospitals or doctors anymore—”

Hobie brings your face to his chest, shushing you tenderly as he rubs at your back. Despite the water drenching his sleeve, he still holds onto you as waves of tears flow out of you. He’s scared too, afraid to lose the baby, afraid to lose you. For ten years, he has loved you, and for those ten years, he never once thought of a day without you in it. He can’t lose you when he needs to love you for the rest of his life.

“It’s alright, we can do it, yeah?” He feels you nod against him as you shiver in his arms. “We’ve watched enough hospital dramas to know all about givin’ birth.” Joking, Hobie kisses the crown of your damp head as you manage a chortle.

“That’s reassuring.”

“I’ve got you and the baby. I promise that you two will be safe and sound.” Leaning away to cradle your face, he meets with your shining eyes, tears still clinging to your lashes. “I promise you.” Even if it kills him.

“Okay.” Inhaling deeply, you grasp at his wrist, a firm yet affectionate hold. “And I’ll watch your back, like always.”

Hobie smiles, the kind that reminds you of the days where he would play on stage, giving you that same reassuring smile as the lights flicker on his handsome face. “To start off, let’s get you dry and warm before you catch a cold.”

—

When you pictured saying goodbye to one of your friends, you never envisioned burying them at an age where they shouldn’t be six feet under. That it’ll just be you and Hobie, staring at the freshly packed ground right in front of you with a crudely made headstone. James doesn’t deserve one that is made out of a broken window panel, he deserved a headstone that is carved out of marble, where his name would remain etched on it forever. Not like how you wrote his name on the wood with a sharpie.

His father’s hunting vest feels rough in your hands. Dried blood staining the very same fabric that James once wore. You’ve been told that his father wasn’t the best, but the vest brought him comfort throughout his survival, a reminder, his fuel to continue living. Now it remains in your trembling hands, fingers digging into the dark blood.

“D’you want to say a few words?” Hobie utters softly amidst the strong wind as trees rustle nearby. If he thinks hard enough, he can imagine that his best mate doesn’t lie six feet under him. That he didn’t bury him there with his bare hands.

You shake your head, chest aching, eyes heavy and hot with unshed tears. No words could ever stifle your grief, there are no words in the world that makes this right, no worthy words to describe how great a man James was.

He understands your grief and your guilt, he knows you well to know what’s rushing inside your head. His eyes wander towards your shaking hands, and the façade he built to keep you steady and anchored almost crumbles.

“J–James Jameson,” his tone cracks, fists shaking, nails leaving crescent shapes on his palms. “You’re the best damn drummer I know, save us a spot up there, yeah?”

You heave, tears streaming down your face as you take a careful step forward. With your heart in your stomach, you kneel before the headstone, laying the vest around it, imagining that you’re putting it on him for the last time. “You’ve done well, James.” Your words are carried by the wind, palm placed atop the fresh soil, where his head could lie underneath.

Hobie’s arm curls around you, chin resting atop your head as he faces the grey sky.

—

The days have gone by with silence. The surrounding woods let out a whisper of leaves and a howl at night. But inside the cabin, grief lingers in the air, staining the wooden walls, slithering on the floorboards.

James’ presence weighs heavy between the two of you. Even though Hobie never said that he blames you for it, you still beat yourself up for what happened. If only you were quicker, that you didn’t hesitate before pulling the trigger. Every day Hobie lets you know that he doesn’t, for one moment, blame you for James’ demise. Through his actions, taking care of you, making sure that you’ve eaten, slept, taken your prenatal vitamins, and his touch, he lets you know that he loves you, that the world hasn’t ended for him because you’re still by his side.

The two of you have just been surviving on sparse supplies, and the water taken from a well behind the house that he has to boil before letting you take a drink. But the quiet, and the stifling air inside the space makes it more unbearable. You’ve tried to turn on the telly when the solar panels on the roof have recharged, but you’re only met with static. Not even the radio plays crappy music anymore, just an incessant buzzing. It’s as if you’re the only people left in the world.

The books and board games on the shelf meant for guests are gathering dust. You’d rather spend your days studying the baby book, every word memorized and carved in your head. Hobie made himself the handyman of the house, he fixed the holes on the front door where your bullets hit it, and he has reinforced all the windows with planks of wood he found in the tool shed. In case a shambler comes too close to the perimeter he set up that he agrees is abysmal when he only has strings and cans to work with. It’s a crude version of an alarm, and he wishes he could make something better for a precaution.

Hobie barely sleeps, keeping watch at night and day, taking naps in between when his body shuts down. When you see him dozing off on the couch, you sit beside him and he’s immediately magnetized to your side. You always tug his head down on your lap, letting him sleep there as your old cardigan that he managed to save from the houseboat is draped on his shoulders. Sometimes you see him reading the same baby book, folding the edges of the important pages when it’s your turn to keep watch. You miss him, even though you two sleep on the same bed with his arms wrapped protectively around you. But the easy conversations, the laughter, you miss those. This isn’t a way of living anymore.

You can’t help it when your eyes wander towards the spot where you held James one last time. No matter how much you scrub at the walls and floor, the stain stays. A macabre reminder of that day amidst the comfortable cottage decorations placed by the same dead man resting beside James’ grave.

The bowl of canned chicken noodle soup in front of you warms your cheeks as Hobie’s palm leaves your shoulder with a squeeze. Your eyes dart towards his side of the table, noticing that he doesn’t have supper, only a glass of room temperature water.

“Hobie?” Clearing your throat, your hand rubs at your stomach. Your shirt has gotten smaller, making you pull it down occasionally over your swollen belly.

He sighs in relief just from hearing your voice, pausing by the counter tops, hands reaching above the cabinets. “Yeah, love? Feelin’ alright?”

“Where’s your soup?” Craning your neck, you see the opened cabinets, seeing it nearly empty, save for a can of chocolate pudding, and a pack of dried beef jerky that’s still unopened. Just by the look in his eyes, he doesn’t need to say it out loud. “We need to go into town.”

“I need to go into town.” He leans on the counter, arms on his side as the dark circles under his eyes are illuminated by the electric lamp that was recharged by the solar. “Before you say anythin’, I’ll be quick.”

“And alone. You need someone to watch your back. We’ve got two guns for a reason.”

“Sure, I’ll jus’ ask one of the woodland creatures to come with me.”

“I don’t want to fight, Hobie.” Standing up, hand braced under your stomach, you close the small distance towards the kitchen. The cabin used to carry good memories, now it only bears agony. “Please, let’s not argue.” Hands rubbing his arms, you gaze at him softly. “I’m still not that far along, I can still run if we need to.” You don’t want to tell him that your scarred leg aches when you run.

You feel all the heaviness that James left in your heart, but you can’t let it hinder you forever when you’ve got Hobie and the baby to think about. They’re now your reason to survive, just like how James held on because of the baby and in hopes of finding his best mates and his parents.

Hobie avoids your eyes, sighing as he takes your hands in his. He feels the small indents from the scars that you told him about after another night of crying. He doesn’t want to look at it when it only makes his heart break at the thought of you getting hurt. So he keeps his eyes on the promised ring around your pinky instead, the same one he saved for months just to get it for you.

“What if we see those things? Or worse, run into people?”

“We hide or run, and if need be, we fight.” You look at him with determination and with untapped bravery he hasn’t seen yet. “I don’t want you to starve yourself. Or for you to die when I’m stuck here waiting for you to come home when I don’t know if you’ll ever be back.” Reaching over him as his hand falls on your hips, you take the beef jerky and the lone can of chocolate pudding. “So which one will it be for tonight?” With a small smile, you weigh both in your hands. “I need you full of energy tomorrow.”

Chuckling, Hobie takes the beef jerky and then takes your chin daintily in his hand. “The last time you told me that was before a concert.”

“I remember.” Sunlight passes by your eyes. “You killed it that night.”

His eyes wander behind you where his guitar case is tucked in-between an armchair and the telly. He still hasn’t opened it. “You follow me, yeah? When I tell you to run, you run, when I tell you to leave me behind, you do just that.”

You take a second before nodding.

“Let’s share the puddin’” Throwing his arm over your shoulder, and a peck to your temple, he leads you back to the table.

Kissing his cheek, you giggle, the very first genuine laugh you’ve let out in a couple of weeks. “That’s what I like to hear.”

—

Hobie hesitated before taking the car into town. The engine could draw unwanted attention, or it could break down in the middle of a drive. But he can’t exactly make you walk for miles on end when you’re almost four months pregnant. If only he had a bicycle on hand, and go on a ride with you like when you were teenagers sneaking out to go wherever you please.

“I hope we find a shoe place.” Your mumbling gets his attention, hand reaching towards your thigh as he keeps his eyes on the road. You place your hand atop his, squeezing once as you smile fondly at him. It reminds you of a similar memory when the two of you were driving in his old car to a gig or a date at the park. Not driving towards what could be a dead town filled with rotting corpses. “Some new trainers would be good for my sasquatch feet.”

His piercings catch the light, glinting from the sun shining on them. Hobie looks incredibly handsome, you’ve always said that the sunlight suits him more, and he would always say that the moonlight fits you best. His locks are tied into a ponytail that you helped him with. He desperately needs a haircut when his curls are starting to cover his eyes that you always have to move them away, covering a new scar he got from the car crash right on his forehead. It’s not because you think it makes him look awful, but you hate the fact that he got hurt, that he had to tend to his wounds himself. Your guilt refuses to let you look at the scar.

Hobie snorts, noticing your lighter demeanour now that you’re out of the cabin. “I’ll keep a look out.” Thumb drawing circles over your jeans, he squeezes again. “And your feet aren’t that big, love. I’ve seen bigger.”

Pinching the back of his hand, he lets out a chuckle. “Yeah, yours.” Your eyes warn him before he could even smirk. “And don’t say it.”

“Wasn’t gonna.” From his smirk alone, you could tell that he was in fact ‘gonna.’

Smiling, for a moment you forgot that the world ended, that James isn’t laying six feet underground just beside the living room window.

Hobie senses the negative shift in your demeanor. From all his reading on the baby book you brought, he has read that when the mother is in good spirits, and not stressed, the baby will turn out healthy and happy. He has made it his mission that you and the baby remain in okay spirits, impossible to make it better on account of the things around you, but he still wants to try. After James and everything else, something as small as new trainers could help brighten you up. He’s even contemplating that the cabin might not be the best environment for you, but where would he bring you that is safer than a cabin in the middle of the woods?

“I’ve been thinkin’” Clearing his throat, he shifts in his seat with the town now in sight.

“A lot, I imagine.”

He glances at you with a small smile. “Yeah, too much.” Sighing, he slows down the car once the town’s faded banner greets him. The place doesn’t look any better like before, but it doesn’t look worse either. “What if we look for other places we could stay? Somewhere safer, quieter and away from cities for when the baby is born.”

“The cabin is already all of that.”

“Yeah, I mean…somewhere that doesn’t remind you of what happened.”

Your eyes cast down at your lap, index mindlessly picking at a hang nail as you gaze at your ring instead. “I don’t know, Hobie, James is there, he’d be alone.”

“He’ll understand, love.” Sighing, he parks the car on the side of the silent fishing town. “We don’t have to make a decision now, jus’ think ‘bout it, yeah?” With a hand on your thigh, he squeezes you reassuringly, and you smile right back at him with the same kind of comfort. “I see a cobbler over there, maybe someone didn’t pick up their shoes.”

Like always, he helps with your seatbelt gently, even avoiding grazing your stomach with his hand. Maybe it’s him being careful with you, but it’s as if he’s afraid to really hold onto your stomach, afraid to face the baby that could possibly end your life.

He smells faintly of the watered down minty shampoo and a coconut body wash that the last renter left at the cabin. While you probably smell of the milk formula for mothers that you’ve been rationing since you left the condo with James. Even then, Hobie pecks your temple sweetly.

“There, you ready?”

Taking his hand, you place his palm with apprehension on top of your stomach, letting his warmth ebb through your skin. “I’ve read that babies tend to already know their parents in the womb, but you haven’t been there the first months so I want them to get to know you more. Is that alright?”

His lips tug into a smile, chuckling softly as he feels around freely. “Yeah, ‘m the dad, love, of course it’s alright.”

You match his grin. “Just checking.”

Kissing your cheek, his lips linger for a moment before pulling away. He looks around with bated breath, making sure that there aren’t any surprises lurking around the corner shops. The town is quiet, eerily quiet, like in one of those apocalyptic shows Yuri pestered them into watching with her.

Cars are left on the road, some doors still open as the wind and rain ravage the leather seats. From the pink and yellow banners around, and the wilted flowers all tied with a pretty ribbon around the lampposts and shop windows, he’d think there was some celebration happening before the world ended. A flyer fluttering by gets stuck in the windshield wiper, it answers his question.

“‘Happy Mother’s day.’” You read solemnly. “Fuck me that’s ironic.”

Hobie scoffs a laugh, patting your stomach gingerly as he inhales deeply.

He doesn’t see any movement from the streets, no rustling, just some trash getting carried by the wind. But he spots something in the corner of his eye, a flash of movement inside the cobbler’s store, a quick shadow darting in between shelves of shoes.

“What is it?” You ask, brows furrowed as you feel his trepidation. “You okay?”

“We should move on.” Hobie starts the car again, as something gnaws at the back of his mind, telling him to move, telling him, ‘not here, there’s death lingering here.’

“I thought…” you don’t argue, trusting his instincts. “Okay. Maybe a house would be better.”

The car jolts to life as Hobie keeps his steely gaze on the road. “Yeah, the neighborhood is probably better to look through.”

The two of you drive around in silence, the fear sits between the two of you, heavy and permeating as the car rolls into a suburban area with white picket fences and blue windowsills. The place looks normal, still pristine and untouched by the dead and survivors.

Hobie looks around, car slowing down as he spots a two story home that he has probably seen dozens of times in his life. It looks fine, no blood on the walls, no corpses laying around, just an overgrown lawn and dusty windows.

“This is the one?” Your eyes narrow as the sunshine reflects onto the car windows and onto your eyes. It was a gloomy day when you went out, but the sun wanted to be seen for a moment. It’s a good reprieve from all the grey and darkness in your mind.

“Got your gear?” Hobie clicks his seatbelt off and then over to yours in a swift calculated movement.

“Yep,” you inhale deeply, taking his helping hand as you get out of the car. There’s a small ache on the pit of your stomach, and you chalk it up as nerves. You fix the hold on the backpack, a hand feeling for the kitchen knife on your belt and the gun hidden underneath your coat and tucked into your jeans. “Yours?”

“Ready,” Hobie shows you his backpack and the shotgun strapped on his shoulder, he then pats the hammer dangling on his belt before nudging your hand, resisting the urge to hold it instead. He needs his hands free to protect you. “Food and water first.” He instructs. “I’ll keep a lookout for shoes.”

“If we find the stuff we need for the home birth should we grab it? Or should we save space for food and toiletries?” You’re careful where you place your feet as you both walk onto what was probably a pristine lawn before the dead walked around.

“If we still have space in our packs, I don’t see why not.” Hobie keeps a careful eye around, making sure his hand never leaves the handle of the machete. And that you’re within his vision at all times.

“Maybe we’ll find some strings for your guitar too. They’re small, so it’ll fit my pockets.”

Hobie falters for a moment before stopping in front of the door. “You opened my guitar case?”

“Yeah,” you say as you cup your hands around a foggy window whilst you try to take a peek inside. When you’re met with silence, you lean away to look at him. “Am I not supposed to? I’m sorry, I got curious.”

“No, love, it’s alright.” His pinky brushes along the back of your hand. “It’s jus’ that I haven’t opened it since the houseboat broke down.”

“Oh, well, it’s fine, just that the stings are a bit fucked. No water got in or even a scratch on it.”

“That’s good.” With a relieved sigh, he gently taps the glass window to double check that there aren’t any shamblers hiding inside.

The two of you wait for a bit, but when a minute passes by without the sound of a pained groan or movement inside, Hobie grips the door handle.

He sees a wind chime a second earlier before he could open the door. With his height, he easily stops the chiming before it could chime out with a hand. Hobie then yanks it out, and gently places it on the ground.

“Good eye.”

“Thanks—” he’s about to push the door open, until your hand catches his wrist.

“Alarm.” You mutter with a shaky tone, pointing at the sign hidden behind the tall grass of the overgrown lawn. ‘This house is protected by Octavius security.’ It reads in big bold letters.

“Fuck me.” Slowly, he lets go of the door knob. “What are the chances that they don’t have power either?”

“I don’t know, but we can’t risk it.” You swallow thickly, a hand brushing along your stomach for comfort. Pursing your lips, you remember a conversation you had with James on one warm evening, warm enough that he made popsicles for you both. Yours was mango because he said that fruit was better for the baby, and he had chocolate instead. You’ve been craving mangoes nowadays, but can’t say anything to Hobie to add more to his stress. “I’ve got an idea, follow me.”

Slowly, with a hand on your knife, you carefully tread the lawn and over to the side of the house. Hobie follows closely behind, too afraid to lag behind you, afraid that you’ll get lost in the tall grass, or get snatched by one of the dead.

There’s a fallen kid’s bicycle on the ground, half buried in grass and dirt. Once upon a time a kid rode that up and down the neighborhood, now it lays there, rotting, slowly rusting, like the world around you.

“Here.” Clearing your throat, you both make it to the back door without a hitch. So far so good. “Okay, let’s hope that—” you begin to bend down, but Hobie stops you halfway with a hand on your chest.

“Let me. What are you looking for?” Crouching, Hobie looks up at you as the grey clouds start to obscure the sun behind your head, covering the halo around you.

“A key under the welcome mat.”

“Lovie, I don’t think…” and yet he still lifts the dirty mat, only to find a single key under it. “Well, fuck me sideways.”

“Already did that.” You cheekily joke, helping him stand up with a hand wrapped around his lean bicep.

Hobie smiles, really smiles, the kind of smile he would flash at you during lazy mornings where you two have nowhere to be that day. “You offerin’?”

Chuckling, you snatch the key from him as you insert it inside the lock. “Maybe if you find me some shoes.”

“Promise?” His lips curl into a mischievous smile, one that you’re incredibly familiar with.

“Yes,” biting your lip with a stifled laugh, you take a step back for him. “Could you please open the door?”

“How’d you know that the key would be there?”

“James’ dad owns a security company, and he told me that some people would usually forget their codes, or are afraid that when there’s no power they won’t be able to go inside because the system automatically locks the house. So sometimes they’d ask to not have an alarm at the back door, for big houses that is. For the key, well,” you shrug smugly. “I just applied common sense.”

He smiles proudly at you. “I keep forgettin’ that his dad had his hand in a lot of pies.”

“Just open the bloody door, Hobs.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He mocks a salute, unlocking the door slowly as the door creaks. Hobie peeks through the gap, waiting for any shamblers to appear. Tapping his blade on the door, once, twice, he waits some more, a precaution. Whilst you keep watch of the surroundings, heart beating loudly in your chest. “I think we’re good, lovie. Just need you to stay close to me, yeah?”

You nod, mouth feeling dry as you grip at the hilt of the kitchen knife. Your feet feel like you’re standing on warm sand, and your belly does somersaults, the baby could probably feel the tremors in your body as you enter the home with Hobie right in front of you.

This time, you’re making sure that you see the threat before it happens. The two of you sweep the kitchen first, the pantry has some food left but no monsters lurking in it. He finds the laundry room, same thing, no dead nor a soul inside.

You breathe a little better, and Hobie gives you a reassuring look, nudging your arm in a simple, ‘we’re okay,’ gesture.

While you keep watch, Hobie ransacks the pantry.

One thing has caught your eye though, on the counter, there is an empty flower vase with yellowing water, and beside it is a wilted and long dried up bouquet of roses. You take a peek inside the card, and it reads, ‘happy mother’s day!’ Scrawled by tiny hands written in crayon.

He loads up the duffle bag with food first, canned foods are the priority as he avoids the perishables. You wanted to check the fridge whilst he’s doing that but he can’t, or won’t let you out of his sight. You did promise to watch his back, so you did with your hand on the pistol right on your waist as he stacks cans upon cans of food.

Then he sees the biscuits, chocolate coated ones that he knows you like the most. He takes a box of those, checking the expiration date wouldn’t have meant anything when he has lost track of the date already. But if it doesn’t smell or isn’t covered in mold, it could still be good, so he packs it instead of another can of peas. He grabs a few seasonings too, and what’s left of the rice they had. He read that rice is good for the baby, so he takes it even though it weighs a ton.

The duffel bag is filled to the brim already when he finishes packing.

“Love.” He can’t help but smile, turning around to face you. “We’re not goin’ to starve.”

Chortling, you give him a quick yet loving peck on his shoulder. “Thank you.”

“There’s more in the fridge, and there are still jugs of water in here.” He whispers, in case there are lurkers upstairs.

“We also need soap.” Your eyes glances over to the laundry room. “What do we do?”

Pursing his lips, his eyes darts from the fridge, where there are magnet souvenirs and family photos on it, then over to the laundry room. He really needs clean clothes too. “We load this up in the trunk, dump it all in there then come back here.”

“Greedy, but I agree. I can’t sleep for another day in those sheets.”

With your approval, and a squeeze to your hand, the two of you trek back to the car, and carefully dump the canned goods inside the trunk of James’ car.

“I’ve never asked.” Hobie starts, a hand clasped around a can of peaches. “What happened to the window?” Glancing at the missing window at the back that was hastily wrapped in tarp and taped by duct tape, you follow his gaze.

“A horde got to us when we were leaving the condo building.” The stacking pauses on his end. “We were okay, we made it out by using molotov cocktails.”

He smiles fondly as something swims in his eyes, pride perhaps? Or perhaps jealousy. “You learned from the best.”

“We did, Hobie.” You tap the back of his knee with your foot as you finish your side. “I hope we find deodorant.”

Nodding, Hobie shuts the trunk as quietly as he could as he takes the empty duffel bag in his hand. “You smell great, love.”

“It’s because your brain started blocking the smell.” Giggling, you start your trek back again with him in tow. The steps are lighter, less careful now that you know what to expect.

“Nah, I think it’s your pheromones, you smell fit.”

“Never say that word ever again, Hobie.” That earns a kiss from him as he steals one from behind, right on your nape, before stepping around you to get to the laundry room before you could.

It goes like that for an hour, when the bags get full, he dumps it into the car and goes back again. It’s routine for the two of you, one that he refuses to go in and out alone when he can’t bear to leave you outside or inside the house for that matter. Even though it was tedious, going back and forth, he would still do it if it meant never straying too far from your side. He lost you once, he’s not planning on losing you ever again.

Both of you have cleared out the first floor, you found laundry detergents, food and water, now you’re on a mission to get some new clothes or maybe some pillows and blankets while it’s still light outside.

The walls of the house have grown familiar for you, the pictures on the walls of an unknown family, all strangers, and yet you found a connection to them. Somewhere in between taking their supplies, you wonder about them. Did they prefer beef over chicken when everything you found in their freezer was beef? Did their son ask for snacks before dinner like every kid does? How were they living now? Did they escape together? Or perhaps they’re shambling somewhere together with the rest of the dead.

Brows furrowed, your feet are on fire as you take a breather on the steps, taking hold of the bannister as you inhale through your nose and exhale out of your mouth. A breathing exercise that you read in your book.

“Love?” Hobie calls your name with worry. “You good?”

“Yeah, it’s just that…my feet are really fucking swolen and it kind of hurts. And I sort of need to pee.” Wincing, you give him an apologetic smile.

“Alright.” He sighs in relief, almost smiling. “I’ll take you to the loo.”

Hobie does a quick sweep of every room, there are only two bedrooms upstairs, and one office that is under lock and key. Every room is quiet and pristine, except for an odd smell coming from the master bedroom. Once he deems it safe, he helps you into the bathroom, keeping watch just outside the closed door.

Hand on his weapon, he keeps finding himself looking at the nursery right in front of him. It has light blue walls, powder blue like the sky on a good day in London, and it’s painted with fluttering birds and flowers. There’s a crib in there too, pristine, probably newly bought when there is still plastic wrapped around it. On the other side of the room is a small bed, meant for a toddler with rocketship bed sheets and glow in the dark stars tacked on the ceiling. In between them is an old rocking chair, oak and probably older than Hobie. And sitting on top of it is a box of trainers, with a neat pink bow on the lid. It’s from the brand that he knows you have been saving up for before the dead started walking.

He glances at the closed bathroom door, hearing you shuffle on the other side. The door is closed, and he didn’t find any undead inside the whole house. The place is safe and the nursery faces the loo where he could still keep an eye on you, so he takes a step away from the door and over to the rocking chair.

Hobie makes his strides quick and quiet, crossing the short distance over to the box as he takes it. He opens the lid, finding the same soft blue inside, the shoes seem to be larger than your usual size, but it would now fit you.

Grinning, his mission is accomplished. He shoves the pair inside the duffel bag, turning around with a triumphant smile on his face. “Love.” He shows you the box just as you exit the bathroom. “Look.”

The sheer happiness on your face makes his chest warm. He hasn’t seen you have that expression in a long while, it’s as if he’s a thirsty wanderer who finally found an oasis. For the first time ever since the party, he grins widely, the unabashed carefree smile that tugs at the corner of his lips first, right next to the piercing, a lopsided smile that never fails to turn your legs into jelly.

“Please tell me it’s my size.” Your hands reach for the box, squealing giddily once you see the size on the side.

“Open it.” His stomach thrums with excitement.

“Yes, new—!” Your face falls at the emptiness, and once you turn to look at the father of your unborn child, his cheeks are puffed, trying and failing to stifle a guffaw. “You wanker.”

“I couldn’t help it, lovie.” Tossing the box away that lands into the crib with a thump, he leads you to the rocking chair as you scowl at him like back when he accidentally ate your cheesecake in the fridge that you were saving for the end of the day. Hands on your shoulders, he’s still smiling at you, crouching down as he retrieves the shoes from the duffel bag. “‘m not evil.”

Your expression melts from annoyance to giddiness once again. “It’s blue.” You utter softly, lashes batting as Hobie slowly unlaces the old dirty shoes you have on.

“It is.” Chuckling fondly, he gently takes off your shoes, palm carefully cupping your heel, a thumb brushing along the hill of skin before slipping the new shoes on you. “Brand new too, we hit the jackpot.”

“I think it’s the exact same one I was saving for.” You still remember the road to and from work, where a shoe place is situated right on the road home, where you always look at the display longingly, waiting for the shoe to go on sale. “Just in blue.”

“What was the colour you wanted?” He slips the next one on your other foot, tying it twice, making sure that the laces won’t suddenly untie and make you trip and fall.

“Black,” you admire the shoes on you as you wiggle your feet about. “Easier to pair with my clothes.”

“Either one suits you.” Taking both feet, he taps the heels together playfully. “They fit you perfectly.”

“Thank you, Hobie.” You follow his smiling eyes as he stands up, a hand perched on the armrest of the rocking chair as his knees creak.

“Thank the bloke who got it.” His head tilts to gesture at the room. He wonders if the man who lived here got the shoes for his wife on mother’s day, or just because he wanted to show his love for her. Hobie knows he would do the same for you.

The irony doesn’t escape you when you find yourself sitting in the middle of a nursery. Maybe in another life, you and Hobie are refurbishing the spare room in his houseboat, the room you both use as a workspace slash art room slash library. It was littered with trinkets from you and Hobie the last time you saw it. You don’t remember much what was on the shelves when it’s been so long but you do remember the feeling whenever you spent a whole lazy afternoon with him in there.

The soft rocking of the boat would lull you to sleep whilst you read on an old lazyboy you two found abandoned on a street corner, the same one you had to call in James and Yuri to help haul it in the van. You would read and Hobie would tinker with his gadgets, sometimes taking odd fixing jobs from friends, fixing an antique clock, a radio, or a fan. The sound of the tinkling metal, the curses under his breath, and the water splashing against the side of the boat, it felt like home. It was warm and cozy, but it was colder in the winter when the space heater doesn’t help much with the chill. Those were the days where Hobie would huddle close to you on the armchair underneath all the blankets even when you both don’t fit in the chair. You miss those soft days, the peaceful days where you don’t have to be careful where you step, where the stench of death and decay doesn’t stick to your nostrils. It was just living, now all you know is surviving. Surviving to see Hobie for another day. Surviving to see the day your baby is born.

“Love,” he senses your heavy thoughts, hand reaching out to your chin, lifting it with his knuckle softly. Hobie doesn’t have the right words to comfort you, maybe there are no right words that will ever comfort you, but he tries, the only way he knows how, the only way that could get your mind out of the plague that is your mind. “You wanna take a look around? Maybe they’ve got something we could use for the baby.”

“We’re in a nursery, Hobs,” you say with a teasing tone. “I’m sure there’s baby stuff here we could use.”

Hobie chuckles, exhaling through his nose as he helps you off the rocking chair. He wonders if he could fit the chair in the car, the baby would love it, you would love it. The cabin already has a rocking chair but it’s old and weathered, looking like it’ll keel over once someone sits on it.

“I’ll check if they have books on giving birth.” His hand lingers on your hip before turning to the bookshelf with colourful children’s books.

“I’ll raid the closet.” Your hand instinctively brushes along your stomach, feeling the heaviness weigh you down.

You didn’t plan to get pregnant, moreso get pregnant during the end of the world where society has collapsed. You always knew from the moment you saw those two red lines that it wouldn’t be easy for the two of you, but now, you just feel regret and shame. Regret that this happened so soon in your life. Ashamed that you can’t be of any help to Hobie as the months go by. And when the inevitable comes, you could die, and you don’t want to leave the love of your life all alone in this world with a newborn to take care of. Or worse, you both don’t survive, and Hobie’s truly left alone.

You’re tired, exhausted already from carrying the extra weight on you. Bones aching on a microscopic level, as if you have a sack of cement on the small of your back. If you feel this tired just after a few months in your pregnancy, you fear for the coming months. What if you end up being bedridden? You’ve heard countless horror stories from women in your family at how terrifying it is to give birth. They said that when you’re giving birth, you have one foot buried in the ground. But they had doctors and medicine, while you have a book from the 90’s about childcare. You might die in front of Hobie while covered in blood and screaming in pain. You don’t want that to be the last thing he remembers of you.

Fists clenching, you feel the indents left on your palms. You take deep breaths, reminding yourself that stress isn’t good for the baby. So you start to distract yourself instead. You stare at the adorable clothes on the rack, all colour coded, from dinosaur onesies to tiny coats and matching beanies, you have the urge to take it all. The owners of the house have great taste, and you feel guilty for even being inside.

Taking a red and white plaid onesie that has matching socks, you turn to show Hobie.

“Lovie, look.”

“Hobs, look.”

You simultaneously turn to face the other.

You smile as he mirrors your expression. “‘Oh, the places you’ll go,’ really?”

“It’s a good read.” Shrugging, he shoves it in the dufflebag. “But look, baby names.”

You’re supposed to be happy, to smile at the book and imagine the names you could name the bundle born out of love, but you can’t find that happiness as you feel a lump on your throat form. Baby names are the last thing on your mind right now.

“That’s great, Hobs.”

“Couldn’t find any books about births, though.” Placing it inside the bag, right beside a teddy bear he nicked from the crib, Hobie smiles at the small pile he gathered. If he noticed your faltering expression, he doesn’t say anything about it. “What’d you find?”

“It looks kind of punk, doesn’t it?” Lifting the onesie, you peek over it, trying to hide your wobbly expression.

“Lovie…” taking the fabric in your hands, he grins fondly at the onesie. It’s so small, barely the size of his forearm, and he can’t help but imagine a little version of you wearing it. “This is the most fuckin’ adorable thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Take it?”

“Absolutely.” Peeking behind you, he sees more, eyes going wide at the swaddling cloths, tiny booties and the cutest bear onesie he has ever seen. “I say take ‘em all.”

You snort, backing away as he helps himself to the baby clothes. “That’s greedy, Hobie.” Despite your words, you help him shovel in the small socks and cute bibs. “Take some towels too, I read that they drool a lot.”

A laugh escapes his throat, barely contained as he almost forgets where he is, what might be lurking in the dark corners of the house. “Love, look at this one.”

He lifts up a plain yellow shirt with the bold pink letters that reads, ‘Daddy’s favorite.’ You clamp your mouth shut, before spluttering out a giggle.

“D’you think they have an adult sized version of this?” His eyes sparkle with playfulness. “For you, I mean.”

“Fuck, you’re so annoying.” And yet you shove the tiny shirt inside the bag with your cheeks aflame and a laugh bubbling in your throat.

“Love you too.” Pecking your temple, he moves away from the closet. “C’mon, we gotta move on to the bedroom.”

Your brows raise to your hairline, heat blossoming in the pit of your stomach. “What, right now?” You haven’t done that in a while, fuck, you just now realized that you haven’t done it since you found out about the baby. Your hands are suddenly at the hem of his shirt, desire filling your chest.

Hobie’s brows furrows for a moment before realization flickers on his expression. Eyes drifting down at your pawing, and then back over to your half lidded eyes. “Fuckin’ hell, love, not that. We need sheets and new clothes. Although that’s temptin’.” He pecks your pouting lips, giving you a sly smirk through the kiss. “Maybe later if you play your cards right, hm?” Now he’s in the mood too. It just crossed his mind when all he thought about recently was how to survive and finding you alive.

If your cheeks weren’t searing before then it’s fiery now. “I can’t believe I let you fuck me.” Groaning, head tilted back to hide your flustered expression, you walk past him towards the master’s bedroom.

“C’mon, lovie, that’s the reason why you’re pregnant.”

You flip him the bird on your way out that makes him smile even more. For a moment there he felt normal, that everything was back to normal and he’s at home with you while the houseboat rocks gently.

The two of you make it to the bedroom, and the smell hits you before he gets a whiff of it. It’s dank, like mold clinging to the damp walls, like the smell of wilted flowers downstairs, only stronger, more prominent.

“God, what is that smell?” Plugging your nose, you wince. “It kind of smells like teeth at the dentist. I’m gonna hurl if we stay here long.”

“Don’t know, but I don’t like it.” Hobie moves you aside gently before treading the dry carpet to open a window. The sun is beginning to set outside, and worry gnaws at his chest. Soon this place would be crawling with the undead. “We need to hurry, this is our last run before we head out.”

“Yeah, gotcha.” You don’t argue as you hastily grab everything you need. Some clothes that might not fit either of you perfectly, even a few maternity clothes you found, a couple of thick coats, and the sheets you’ve been eyeing.

The bags are almost full when you finish grabbing the things you needed, and Hobie even managed to find a couple of camping backpacks to fill it with two pillows and more blankets. He’s ready to leave when you remember the towels.

“Shit, Hobie, we need towels.”

“Love, we can wash the ones we already have.” Fixing his hold on the bags, he checks the ticking clock on the wall and the sun setting in the horizon that paints the sky a deep bloody orange.

“Those are threadbare, Hobie, I could the count strings on it. I’ll be quick, promise.” You’re already at the bathroom door, opening it as it creaks, the sound echoing through the hallway.

“Lovie, wait, let me—”

The stench permeates through the bedroom from the bathroom, stinking up the whole place, the same wilted flower smell. Teeth, it wasn’t just teeth, it’s bones.

“Fuck…” The bile rising up your throat and the spit filling your mouth almost made you retch. But the sight of the bodies hugging in the bathtub, surrounded by dead flowers makes your heart fall to your stomach.

The door is shut before you could let out a sound. Hobie holds you in his arms, and you stay there, frozen, still staring at the door, as if you could still see them decaying inside the tub.

“C’mon, love, we need to go.” Hobie whispers in your ear, gentle and reassuring as his hand rubs up and down your arm. He calls your name with the same gentleness, honeyed and saccharine, trying to get you to move.

Once you blink away the blurriness in your eyes, you turn to Hobie with an unreadable expression. There were three of them in there, no, four, a family, one still in the mother’s cleaved open belly. Their skin has turned to leather, sun dried, stretched over blanched bones.

“Love?” His thumb traces the length of your jaw, grounding you to the present. “We need to go.”

“Yeah, let’s go—”

There’s a shadow in the doorway.

It hunches in the dark, breathing, watching.

You act first, grabbing the shotgun from Hobie’s back as you aim.

Hobie exhales, eyes wide, before yanking at the barrel, pulling it up and away from the figure.

The shot rings out through the house and out of the opened window.

Pieces of the ceiling fall on the carpet, paint and wood cracking and splintered, falling upon the stranger like raindrops.

The figure now crouches, grasping at its ear, while a hand, a wrinkly old palm stretches at you, surrendering.

Your ears ring, a shrill deaf tone that rattles your teeth inside your mouth whilst Hobie nurses his singed hand.

“Fuck!” You yell, but you don’t hear your own voice.

The sounds are muffled in your ears as Hobie grabs the gun from your hands.

“What are you doing?!” His voice fades in and out in your hearing. His eyes are wide, frantic as he points at the crouched figure. “He’s alive!”

The words strike you like a fist.

“What?” You ask, befuddled, heaving heavily as you stare wide eyed at the stranger in the doorway.

“I’m s–sorry…” a trembling voice says, spluttering and weeping on the floor. “I’m sorry, I–I didn’t mean to—” he chokes on air, coughing as he desperately tries to clear his throat.

Narrowing your gaze, honing in to make out the man’s face, you see an old man cowering from your stare. Guilt gnaws at your conscience.

“Oh, fuck, I’m sorry. I didn’t—” you wipe your hands at your jeans, as if it’ll clean the gunpowder on your skin. As if it’ll undo what you have done. “I didn’t know, I thought you were one of them.”

“Mate,” Hobie’s words feel dry on his tongue. “Who are you, how’d you get in here?” If the man was dead, he wouldn’t be so afraid, as he eyes you underneath his bucket hat. If he was, he wouldn’t have wasted time staring in the doorway instead of devouring you. Hobie’s wary as he stands in front of you protectively. He might’ve saved the stranger’s life, but he doesn’t know him and what he’s capable of. “You can stand up, we’re not goin’ to hurt you if you don’t try anythin’.”

You stand still, breathing heavily as you keep your weapon close while your hand shields your stomach.

The stranger is old, trembling as he stands up as instructed, back hunched, and messy hair untrimmed; his dirty blonde hair is matted under his hat. He looks frail, and you could easily outrun him, but you’ve learned never to underestimate anyone in this world.

“My—” his voice is crackly at the edges, tongue trying to wet his dry lips. “My name is Norman, I’ve been here since…since I don’t know.” His tone is weak and rough like someone who has a cold. “My son, he has a place here, but—but I forgot where it was, and I got lost. He…he said that he’ll meet me here in town.”

“Old man,” Hobie takes a step closer, while his free hand holds onto your wrist, keeping you close, all the while his other hand grasps at the weapon on his hip. “We’re not ‘ere to fight, but if you could jus’ move away from the stairs. We need to get out of ‘ere before any of the dead come.”

“I– I don’t know where I am.” His lips wobble, sniffing as his big brown eyes fill with unshed tears. “I’m sorry, who…who are you, lad?”

Hobie slowly inches towards the door as you hold onto his shoulder, blade at the ready as you peek over him.

Something in you pities the man. He reminds you of Yuri’s grandmother when she got sick, when there were days she wasn’t herself. You recognize the same condition in the man, how in the world has he survived this long all alone?

“Hobie, I think he’s unwell.” You whisper to him, feet feeling the dry carpet below you, the sky outside is going dark, and the automatic lights inside the hallways open. There’s power, and you could see the office door that was locked is now wide open.

“I know, love. We jus’ need to get out of ‘ere.”

The old man’s eyes pleads you for help. His face is gaunt underneath his salt and pepper beard, the skin around his eyes are darkened, and eyes beady. His nails are awfully long, curved and yellowed at the end. He has been surviving on his own whilst his own mind attacked him.

“He needs help.” Your grip on Hobie’s shoulder tightens desperately.

James would’ve helped him. Just like he helped you.

“Love.” The protest is on the edge of his tongue. But when Hobie turns to the man and his raggedy clothes, and the gaunt of his cheek, skin blemished and blanched, it reminds him of the people he would meet at the soup kitchen he volunteered at. The same place where he used to come to when he was struggling. “Norman, right?”

The old man reluctantly nods, as if he’s trying to recall his own name.

“C’mon, before the dead get ‘ere. They would’ve heard the shot.” Hobie grabs the fallen bags from the floor, glancing at you briefly as your expression is a mix of regret, relief, and pity. “Lovie, stay close. You too, Norm.”

“I haven’t heard that name in awhile.” He mutters under his breath, nodding along to his instructions.

Hobie lets him walk first, keeping a close eye on him, in case he is bitten. If he followed behind you, his mind wouldn’t be at peace if that was the case.

The whole house is lit up the moment the sun faded from the horizon. In the warm yellow lights, the place doesn’t feel so eerie. In another world he would have a place like this with you and the baby, maybe have the kid grow up in a nice house like this. It was near impossible before the world collapsed, now it’s just wishful thinking. Like how one would imagine winning the lottery.

“Where did you two come from?” Norman asks, arms curled around himself for comfort.

“The woods, we’ve got a cabin there.” Hobie adjusts his hold onto the bags, crossing the threshold towards the kitchen and to the back door where you two entered. Where he propped a can of peas on the door to keep it ajar just in case.

You watch as Norman’s face furrows, as if he’s trying to recall something deep in his mind.

“We have to hurry—”

Hobie sees it happen in slow motion, Norman’s hand wrapped around the door knob of the front entrance, tugging at it out of instinct.

“Norman, no!” You scream, but it’s too late.

The alarm blares around the house, echoing throughout the neighborhood. If the shot didn’t gather the dead’s attention, the alarm would.

There are rushed bare footsteps slapping against concrete outside.

“Run!” Hobie grabs you harshly, yanking and pulling you towards the back door as you reach your free hand over to Norman.

He takes your hand desperately. In his addled mind, he recognizes danger, and it makes him sprint behind you.

Hobie lugs the bags around his back and arms, whilst leading you outside. The same carefulness when you two arrived is out of the window the moment he heard gurgled groaning.

He turns his head towards the cul-de-sac, and he sees a gaggle of the shambling dead run at break neck speed towards him.

Their limbs flail right behind them without a care, they’re caked in blood, jaws unhinged, claws raised up as the wall of rotting stench follows them. Blood drips from their eyes, gnashing their teeth in the air as if they’re tasting him on their blackened tongues.

He makes it to the car, throwing the bags into the backseat and helps you inside the passenger seat before going around the hood to the driver’s side and hops in quickly. Thank fuck he had the foresight to not lock the doors. It was a horrible decision back then when there was danger of getting the car nicked, but he figured that you two were the only survivors in the whole town. He thought so at least.

“Love!” He yells your name, whilst you frantically put on your seatbelt. He could see the corpses run in the reflection of the side mirror.

“Norman!” You scream, waking the stranger from his terrified stupor, frozen just beside the car. “Get the fuck inside!”

The old man scrambles inside, tossing his whole body in the car whilst Hobie doesn’t waste time in starting the car, or even waits for Norman to shut the door.

The engine splutters weakly.

“Fuck you! C’mon you stupid, cu—!”

The pained shrieks of the dead come close as the car roars to life.

Exhaust fumes exit out of the car as Hobie steps on the gas. The wheels screech on the cement, leaving tire tracks as he drives quickly out of there.

A can of peaches rolls out of the backseat and onto the street just before the opened door beside Norman slams shut as Hobie turns a corner, watching the corpses fade in the rearview mirror.

“Holy fuck.” Panting, bad leg aching, you turn to Hobie with wide eyes. “Are you okay?” Your hand squeezes his trembling arm.

“Yeah, yeah…” Hobie swallows the bile in his throat, utterly relieved to be out of there. He takes your hand, and presses a heavy kiss on your knuckles whilst keeping an eye on the road. “You?”

“I’m good.” Smiling and chuckling, knees wobbly, you turn to Noman, who is still laying on the pile of canned goods and bags you got from the house. “You okay, Norm?”

The man’s lips stretches into an easy smile, “yes, thank you.”

You rub Hobie’s bicep, giving him a quick loving peck. “Let’s go home, Hobie.”

He’s taking it seriously, he fancies you that much, and would even think that his feelings for you are beyond just liking you. Maybe that’s why after dating for half a year, he’s finally confident enough to converse with you in sign language. It’s a feat in itself when he juggles his vigilante life with his personal one. For that, he gives himself a pat on his back, learning it made him feel closer to you than ever.

Maybe that’s why he’s having dinner with you at a fancier place than usual, a candlelight dinner with food he can’t pronounce on the menu. You like diners, greasy food and sharing a milkshake with him like always, but for tonight, just for the occasion, he wants to impress you and show you how much you really mean to him.

His nerves light his insides like a concert stage, spotlights flickering in and out that weave through his trembling fingers. Stomach doing somersaults more than an Olympic gymnast. But he won’t let that get in the way even when you’re holding onto his arm shyly yet sweetly atop the table.

“What’ll it be?” The monotone voice of the waiter eases Hobie’s nerves a tad bit.

Now, usually you read lips to understand, but Hobie, sweet loving Hobie, has made it his mission to talk and understand you better through sign language. So with bated breath and trembling fingers, he asks you the same question as the waiter in sign language.

A slow grin spreads across your face, eyes going blurry as you sign a, “since when do you know sign language?” Your hands shake as well, not from nerves but from sheer happiness, happy that someone learned a new language just for you. You were already falling hard for him, but now you’ve completely and utterly fallen for Hobie.

“I finished the course just last week.” He signs back a bit wobbly, a smile mirroring your own as the candlelight flickers on your glad face. “Am I doing okay?”

“Better than okay.” You answer, and you let out a soft chuckle, tears prickling your eyes as you reach for his hand on the table, squeezing him gently. Which he intertwines his fingers around your own fully, a thumb brushing along your skin.

Hobie clears his throat, giddy from your touch and the sheer happiness that he could feel from your loving hold. “I’ll have the lasagna and garlic bread. What about you, lovie?” He signs the question at the same time, hand leaving your own only for a brief moment as he watches you answer, translating it for the waiter. “She’ll have the pesto and cheesy garlic bread, and uh…” his eyes narrow at your moving hands. “Orange juice?”

Stifling a giggle, you sign it again, a bit slower this time. Teaching, not in a condescending way of correcting him, but kinder, gentler, as his eyes shine after he understands.

“Just water and some chocolate cake after,” he doesn’t know it was possible but his grin stretches wider. “To celebrate.” He translates, and he’s back to squeezing and intertwining your hands together atop the table.

“Got it,” somehow, the interaction made the weary waiter smile softly. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

Once he walks away, Hobie pulls your hand gently and pecks every bump on your knuckles lovingly.

“Cake, huh?” He says with his hands, refusing to let you go despite his words coming out a bit messy while holding your hand. You don’t mind it though, and you can still understand him perfectly, holding him is a big plus too.

“Is that okay?” You ask, brows furrowed as you squeeze his hand.

“Of course, anythin’ for you.” He answers wholeheartedly, terribly endeared by your gentleness. He definitely more than fancies you.

Hobie would lean over the table to peck the space between your brows if not for— fuck it. He does what he wants and leans over the table, utensils clattering and his knee hitting the table, but you both don’t mind it at all as you laugh and he smiles.

You must’ve read it wrong, but instead of tilting your head so he could kiss your forehead, you lean closer, a breath away from his lips as you meet him for a kiss.

Hobie’s taken aback, but he shrugs, instead of pulling back. He lets the moment continue as he kisses you underneath the candle lights and ignores the wandering stares from the other customers. His hand cups your cheek, and he could feel your smile amidst the kiss.

When he leans away, seeing your bashful look and the way your lashes flutter against the apple of your cheeks, he can’t help but sign the first three words that he learned and the first words that come to mind whenever he thinks of you.

“I love you.” Hobie signs, gazing deep into your eyes with so much love that you could feel it in your very bones.

“I love you too,” you sign back with the same fondness, moving to peck him once more.

He doesn’t need to ask you to sign it again to him when the meaning is perfectly clear to Hobie. And for that, he kisses you over the table once again.