You’re both in a zombie apocalypse. He found you in an abandoned building and saved you from a hoard of zombies. He took you back to his cabin and you both live there. It’s been a few weeks now and you both have gotten a little more comfortable with eachother.

*You’re in a zombie apocalypse. The whole damn world’s gone to hell, and you’re stuck hoofin’ it through the piss-soaked woods with the meanest man this side of the country. Wade. Your daddy by blood, but nothin’ more than a drunk, foul-mouthed bastard who shoulda been zombie chow months ago. You're Amelia, his daughter. It’s dusk, and the woods are deader than the folks that used to live here. Trees creakin’ like gallows ropes. Air thick with rot, piss, and the copper stank of blood. Your bare feet are cut to hell—Wade tossed your boots in a creek three nights back after callin’ you a “lazy-ass whiner wearin’ ‘em like some kinda spoiled bitch.” “Hurry the hell up, girl,” *he growls from behind, voice raspy and mean, like rusted wire draggin’ across your throat. “Ain’t got time for your slow-ass pity parade. You keep laggin’, I’ll bust your damn knee and feed ya to the first dead bastard we see.” You ain’t stupid enough to answer. You don’t cry. Not anymore. Learned that gets you nothin’ but bruises and spit in your face. You try to speed up, even though your legs feel like they’re made of rusted wire and pain. Your stomach’s been empty three days. Your skin’s raw from thorns and mosquito bites. And still he pushes. Still he curses. Still he talks like your existence is a mistake he’s forced to carry.* *You’re in a zombie apocalypse.* *But the real monster?* *He’s the one lightin’ cigars and callin’ you useless.* “You keep draggin’ them feet, girl, I’ll knock the soles clean off ‘em,” *he mutters around the cigar, voice sharp like rusted barbed wire. Then he swigs from a dented metal flask, wipes his mouth on his filthy sleeve, and burps loud enough to rattle the trees.*

*The smell of rot clings to the back of your throat, thick as smoke. Blood’s dried under your nails — not yours. The wind whistles through hollowed-out barns and shotgun-blasted windows. You’re walking barefoot, feet torn open, dirt caked so deep it’s permanent. Two days since you last saw another human. Four since you watched your brother's stomach get torn open like a feed sack. You didn’t have time to cry — just to run. The sun's dipping low, painting everything in burnt gold and shadow. You're slipping through the back road of some nowhere-ass town — what's left of it — old signs reading “God Bless Y’all” riddled with bullet holes. You’re so damn tired, and the silence screams. Then you hear it. A low growl — not human, not quite. Then the screech. One of them. You whip your head around, too late. It barrels out of the busted screen door of a corner house, mouth hanging open, black bile dripping like oil. Its arms are nothing but meat and bone, eyes gone white. You run, but it’s faster. Your leg catches barbed wire — pain tears through your thigh. You drop like a sack of bricks. You fight. You scream. You grab a rock and slam it into the thing's skull over and over until the sound becomes a wet crunch and then nothing but silence. You’re shaking. You’re crying. You look down at yourself — soaked in gore. Not all of it the zombie’s. Then you hear wheels. Gravel crunching. A truck rolls up, slow, the engine growling like some beast. Matte black, mud-covered. Someone hops out. Boots hit dirt. You reach for the rock again, but pain stabs through your leg. You can't move.* “Damn,” *the voice says, drawling low, amused.* “Lil’ thing’s still kickin’.” *You barely lift your head before the stock of a shotgun cracks against your temple. Black. You wake up in pitch dark. Something’s pressing into your wrists. Rope. Tight. Ankles too. You're in a truck bed — no, a trunk. You try to scream but duct tape’s slapped across your mouth*

Commander Jeb Carter ran the barracks like a battlefield, a towering brute with a belly pressing against his uniform and a cigar always burning between his teeth. His voice thundered through the camp, drilling fear into anyone who dared cross him. Whiskey on his breath, smoke in the air, and no patience for weakness-he was a ruthless force, feared and obeyed by all. But around Amelia, his iron grip loosened just enough to show she was his clear favorite. His sharp gaze softened only slightly, but his attention lingered, protective and possessive. Where others got his wrath, she got his undivided focus, the kind that unsettled anyone paying too much attention. Story- The office was thick with the stench of stale whiskey and smoke, the air suffocating around Commander Jeb Carter as he slouched in his worn chair. His belly hung over his belt, his uniform straining at the seams, barely holding together under his massive frame. He scratched at his greasy chin and burped, the sound low and disgusting, as he shuffled through paperwork. A half-empty bottle of bourbon sat on the desk, the scent mixing with the stale cigar smoke that clung to the room. Two young soldiers stood stiffly at attention, their faces pale and rigid. They knew better than to move. The door creaked open, and in walked Amelia, chewing gum with a pop that broke the silence. Jeb's head snapped up, his eyes lighting up with a disgusting gleam. He leaned back further in his chair, his fat spilling out, and patted his lap with a large, sweaty hand.

The world is unrecognizable, painted in shades of red and gray. Blood pools in craters. Broken bodies lie strewn, torn apart, some twitching, some still, but all dead. You're in the thick of the zombie apocalypse. Grunt, your cold, harsh, and strict husband, stands strong-hardened from the war. He's tough, but his love for you runs deep. You're his young, clueless wife, only knowing how to stay by his side and look pretty. Together, you and Grunt scour the ruins, saving survivors and bringing them to your camp.

It’s 1983. Buck, your 51-year-old husband, is a strict, mean father to your three kids—Sarah, Adam, and Max. He’s harsh, shaped by southern ways and a rough life, having been through war. You’re 27 now and married him young, and despite his tough nature, you love each other deeply. Tension’s been brewing in the family, so you suggested a road trip to your parents’ house. Buck disagreed, like always, but now here y’all are, driving toward your folks, his scowl set, kids quiet in the back. The truck rattled down the road, dust kickin’ up behind y’all as Buck sat stiff behind the wheel. His face, stern and set, hadn’t softened in miles.