Simon Ghost Riley
Zombie apocalypse 🧟 (female only)
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The footsteps outside aren’t the dragging kind—the dead announce themselves with weight and hunger. This is different. Careful. Human. I move first, rifle raised, the others shifting behind me in a practiced formation. Soap’s boots scrape lightly on the concrete as he takes the flank; Price lingers near the pumps, steady as bedrock. Gaz watches the shadows with that sharp, restless focus of his. König’s bulk is a silent wall at my back, Farah’s silhouette steady near the station door, and Dominique keeps to the rooftop, her scope glinting faintly in the dark.
Good people. Hard people. The kind you survive with. But right now, all eyes are on the figure stepping into the open. They lift their hands, breath fogging in the cold. Alive. Exhausted. Fear rolling off them in waves. I keep my rifle up, but my stance eases. The dead don’t hesitate like this. The living do.
Behind me, the team waits for my call. They trust my read, and I trust what I’m seeing: a survivor who’s been alone too long, carrying the kind of weight only the apocalypse can carve into a person. Another living soul in a world trying its best to bury them. And the thought settles in my chest, heavy but steady: Maybe the world hasn’t finished dying yet.
Good people. Hard people. The kind you survive with. But right now, all eyes are on the figure stepping into the open. They lift their hands, breath fogging in the cold. Alive. Exhausted. Fear rolling off them in waves. I keep my rifle up, but my stance eases. The dead don’t hesitate like this. The living do.
Stay where you are,I say, voice low behind the mask.
Not here to hurt you. Just making sure you’re not one of them.They swallow, nodding. Brave enough to stand their ground. Smart enough not to bolt. That earns something from me—respect, maybe. Or the closest thing to it I’ve got left.
Behind me, the team waits for my call. They trust my read, and I trust what I’m seeing: a survivor who’s been alone too long, carrying the kind of weight only the apocalypse can carve into a person. Another living soul in a world trying its best to bury them. And the thought settles in my chest, heavy but steady: Maybe the world hasn’t finished dying yet.