Solomon Smith stood in the kitchen, morning light filtering weak through the boarded slits, casting striped shadows on the worn linoleum. The generator hummed steady again after his dawn fix—loose wire, nothing major—but the air still carried the faint acrid bite of last night's gunsmoke, mixed with the earthy scent of coffee brewing on the propane stove. He was eighteen, lean and practical, dark skin glistening slight with sweat from the work, short black hair damp at the temples. Emily hovered nearby, blonde hair tied back in a loose ponytail, her borrowed flannel shirt buttoned high but straining over her full C-cup breasts—pale pink puffy nipples faint outlines when she moved. Denim shorts hugged her wide hips, thick thighs shifting as she paced anxious, round plush ass swaying with each step. The scent of her lingered in the close space: faint floral from a quick bucket wash, undercut by the lingering fear-sweat of the night.
They'd held the house through the dark hours—no more shamblers after the three he'd dropped, bodies still slumped on the porch in pooled blood, flies starting to buzz in the warming air. Emily had slept fitful against him eventually, soft curves pressed warm and trusting, but dawn brought reality crashing back. Radio chatter looped the same dire warnings: infection rampant, cities falling, stay put. Solomon muted it mid-sentence. Practical—focus on what's in front.
"Eat," he said, handing her a plate of scrambled eggs from the last of the fresh ones in the fridge, canned Spam fried crisp beside. She took it hesitant, blue eyes wide and grateful, sitting at the table with legs crossed—thick thighs dimpled soft against the chair. "We need to move soon. Check neighbors. Sophia's place next—Ramirez farm. She's like us, from school. Might need help."
Emily nodded, fork poking at the food. "Soph... yeah. Tomboy, right? Fixes cars with her dad." She ate slow, plush body relaxing a fraction in the routine. Solomon joined her, dark hands steady on his fork, chewing methodical. The eggs tasted farm-fresh, salt cutting through, but his mind was on the map in his head: Ramirez property two miles west, through woods and backroads. Risky, but leaving people behind wasn't practical—not if they could help.
They geared up after: Solomon in jeans and hoodie, AR slung, extra mags in pockets, Ka-Bar on belt. Emily in her shorts and flannel—looted a spare belt from the closet to cinch it, fabric clinging to her curves. He handed her the .22 rifle from last night's lesson, unloaded for now. "Keep it close. Safety on till needed."
She gripped it awkward but determined, wide hips swaying as she followed him to the truck. Outside, the bodies hit them first—stench of rot accelerating in the heat, blood congealed black and sticky on porch boards. Flies swarmed thick, buzzing insistent. Solomon dragged them off one by one—practical disposal—bodies thumping down steps, limbs flopping limp, gore smearing trails on gravel. Emily gagged but helped with the last, her pale hands trembling on cold skin. "Burn 'em later," he said. "No time now."
Truck started with a rumble, Emily in passenger, rifle across her lap. They drove slow on backroads—gravel crunching, pines whipping past, air humid and pine-scented through cracked windows. Solomon's deep brown eyes scanned constant: treelines for movement, mirrors for tails. Emily fidgeted, thick thighs pressing together, full breasts bouncing slight with the bumps. "What if... more like my parents?"
"Then we handle it. Quiet if we can." He kept tone even, no sugarcoat.
The Ramirez farm appeared over a rise: squat garage dominant, smoke trickling thin from the chimney—generator maybe. But chaos in the yard: two shamblers down already, heads caved in with what looked like a wrench, blood and brains chunked on grass in drying puddles. No sign of Mr. or Mrs. Ramirez. Solomon parked at the fence line, killed the engine. "Stay here. Cover me with the .22 if needed."
Emily nodded shaky, loading a mag with trembling fingers—clicks soft in the cab. Solomon moved low through the gate, AR at ready, finger indexed. Stench hit stronger here: fresh death, copper and shit mixed with motor oil from the open garage. He cleared the yard methodic—pieing corners like Dad taught, boots silent on dirt.
Inside the garage: tools scattered, blood smears on concrete. A low whimper from behind a workbench. "Sophia?" he called quiet.
Movement—brunette head peeking up, grease-streaked face pale but fierce. Sophia Ramirez, eighteen, athletic tomboy build: firm B-cup breasts under a sweat-soaked tank top, dark brown protruding nipples hard from adrenaline chill. Cargo pants low on narrow waist, toned legs coiled ready. She held a heavy wrench, knuckles white. "Solomon? Shit... you real?"
He nodded, scanning behind her—no threats. "Your folks?"
"Gone. Turned. I... handled it." Her voice cracked slight, but eyes steady—practical streak like his. Blood flecks on her arms, scent of oil and sweat strong up close.
"Come with. My place is holding. Emily's there too."
She hesitated brief, then nodded, grabbing a toolkit from the bench—wrenches clinking. They moved out together, Sophia's defined butt shifting firm in the pants, hips pronounced but narrow. Back at the truck, Emily leaned out the window, relief flooding her face. "Soph! Thank God."
Sophia climbed in back, wrench still gripped. "Drive. Before more come."
Solomon pulled out slow, but eyes caught movement distant—a neighboring farmhouse across the field, smoke rising not from chimney but a fresh fire? Binoculars up: two armed men, rifles slung, looting the porch—cans and tools stuffed in packs. One spotted the truck's dust trail, pointed. They started walking toward the road, pace quickening, hands on weapons.
"Shit," Solomon muttered. Not shamblers—humans, opportunistic. He floored it subtle, veering off the main gravel onto a side trail through woods—bumps jarring, branches scraping paint. Emily gripped the dash, full breasts bouncing with the ride, wide hips braced. Sophia leaned forward from back. "Who?"
"Strangers. Looting. Saw us." Solomon's voice stayed calm, but grip tightened on wheel. Trail looped longer, adding miles, but avoided the road. They emerged near his property unseen, truck coughing dust as he parked.
Inside the house—door locked behind—Solomon set the AR down, safety on. Emily collapsed on couch, thick thighs splayed exhausted, round ass sinking into cushions. Sophia paced the living room, toned legs flexing, tank top clinging to her firm curves—dark nipples still prominent from the chill. Scent of grease and sweat filled the space, mixing with the house's wood and spice.
"That was close," Emily whispered, blue eyes wide.
Solomon nodded, deep brown gaze meeting theirs steady. "People are worse than the dead now. They want what we have—food, guns... and you." He let it hang practical, no drama. The girls exchanged glances—Emily's soft belly fluff peeking as she shifted, Sophia's narrow waist tensing. Group dynamic forming: three now, in this together.
Outside, moans echoed faint—shamblers or imagination? Solomon checked the boards, practical as ever. The world tightened, but the house held.