Solomon Smith crouched by the shortwave radio in the study, static crackling faint in the humid afternoon air, the house holding a fragile peace after two nights of holding off stragglers. The generator hummed low outside, powering the setup—wires jury-rigged from Dad's old kit, antenna strung high in the pines for better reach. He was practical as ever, lean frame hunched over the dials, dark skin beaded with sweat from the Ozark heat seeping through boarded cracks. Short black hair damp at the edges, deep brown eyes focused on the frequency scan. Emily and Sophia hovered nearby, the three of them a makeshift unit now—Emily's soft curves perched on the desk edge, flannel shirt loose but clinging to her full breasts in the warmth, wide hips shifted as she leaned in curious. Sophia paced behind, athletic build tense, tank top sweat-patched over her firm chest, dark nipples protruding slight against the fabric, cargo pants low on her narrow waist.
The radio had been silent most of the morning—emergency loops repeating useless warnings about quarantines that didn't exist anymore—but a new voice broke through around noon: clear, measured, male. "...this is Mark at the old Miller place. Decent folks only. Got antibiotics, seeds, tools to trade. Neutral meet at the red barn off County Road 12, noon tomorrow. No tricks. Over."
Solomon keyed the mic cautious, voice even. "This is Solomon at the Smith homestead. Interested. Canned goods, ammo to offer. Confirm neutral. Over."
Pause, static hiss. Then: "Copy, Solomon. Seen your place holding strong. Respect that. Bring what you got. Out."
Emily's blue eyes widened, blonde hair falling over one shoulder as she straightened—full curves shifting, soft belly fluff peeking where the flannel rode up. "You think it's safe? After those looters yesterday..."
Sophia snorted, toned legs crossing as she leaned against the wall, defined butt firm against the paneling. Scent of grease still on her from tinkering with the generator earlier—practical hands, like his. "Could be a trap. But meds... we need 'em. That scratch on my arm's red."
Solomon nodded steady, no rush judgment. "We go careful. Neutral site's good—old barn, open sight lines. Take the truck, park offset. You two cover from range if it sours." Practical plan: assess, trade if clean, abort otherwise. The girls exchanged glances—Emily's plush thighs pressing together anxious, Sophia's narrow hips cocking confident. Group trust building, scents mingling in the close room: floral from Emily, oil from Sophia, his own clean sweat.
Night passed tense but quiet—no shamblers at the fence, just distant moans on the wind like bad dreams. Solomon took first watch, AR across lap, the house creaking soft around them. Emily curled on the couch nearby, wide hips nestled under blanket, round ass a soft outline in sleep. Sophia crashed in the guest room, firm body sprawled exhausted. He didn't dwell on the warmth of them, just scanned the dark slits for threats. Dawn came humid and gray, thunder rumbling distant over the hills.
They loaded the truck pre-noon: canned venison, beans, a box of .223 ammo—practical offers. Solomon in jeans and hoodie, AR slung, Ka-Bar on belt. Emily in her shorts and flannel—buttons straining over breasts in the heat, thick thighs chafing slight as she climbed in. Sophia in cargo pants and tank, dark nipples hard against fabric from morning chill, toolkit strapped to her back. They drove the backroads slow—gravel crunching, branches scraping—eyes peeled for ambushes. Solomon's hands steady on wheel, deep brown gaze flicking mirrors.
The red barn loomed at the meet spot: weathered tin roof sagging, open fields around for clear views, no cover close. Neutral, like promised. A beat-up SUV parked offset—three figures waiting: two men, one woman, all armed but rifles slung low. The man in front—thirties, bearded, flannel over jeans—waved casual. "Solomon? Mark here. This is my brother Jake, and our friend Lena."
Solomon parked fifty yards out, killed engine. "Stay here," he murmured to the girls. Emily gripped the .22 tight, blue eyes wide behind the dash—full curves tense, wide hips braced. Sophia nodded, wrench in lap for close work. Solomon stepped out alone, hands visible but near belt—practical caution. "Mark. What you offering?"
Trade started smooth: they laid goods on a tarp in the barn's shadow—antibiotics in sealed packs, vegetable seeds, a few tools. Solomon countered with cans and half the ammo box. Lena—thirties, wiry with short hair—nodded approving. "Fair. Our camp's low on protein."
But Jake—the younger brother, twitchy with a scar across his cheek—kept staring at the truck. Eyes lingered on Emily's blonde head visible through the window, then Sophia's brunette form. "Who's the company? Pretty faces like that... must be nice out in the country." His tone edged crude, grin sleazy.
Solomon tensed subtle, dark hands flexing near Ka-Bar. "My people. Focus on the trade."
Mark shot Jake a look, but the brother laughed low. "Come on, man. End times—sharing's caring. Bet those girls could use some real protection." He stepped closer, eyes raking the truck again. "We could work something out. Trade for a night with the blonde?"
Emily gasped audible from the cab, full breasts heaving with fear, thick thighs clamping shut. Sophia's face hardened, wrench gripped white-knuckled.
Solomon's voice stayed even, but steel underneath. "Trade's off. We're leaving." He backed toward the truck slow, hands up but ready.
Jake reached for Emily's door then—quick grab at the handle, leering through the glass. "Just a peek—"
Solomon drew fluid, AR up in a blink—front sight sharp, breath pause. Crack. The round took Jake center mass, blood blooming red through flannel, exit wound shredding out the back in a spray of pink mist and fabric shreds. He staggered, gurgling wet, hands clutching the hole as crimson bubbled between fingers.
Mark yelled, rifle swinging up—panic in his eyes. Solomon pivoted smooth, double-tap: first to chest (thud of impact, ribs cracking audible), second to head (skull splitting with a wet crunch, brain matter chunking out in gray globs that splattered Lena's boots). Mark dropped limp, eyes blank, blood pooling fast under him—copper stench sharp in the air.
Lena screamed, fumbling for her pistol—wiry frame shaking. But Sophia was out the truck door now, wrench swinging overhead. Crack—the heavy end caved Lena's temple, bone denting inward with a sick pop, blood and hair matting the tool. Lena crumpled sideways, twitching, arterial spurts arcing dark red across the tarp—goods ruined in the spray, cans dented and slick.
Emily vomited out the window—retching hard, bile acrid on the breeze. Solomon scanned quick—no reinforcements—then looted practical: stripped the bodies of ammo (pockets bulging with 9mm, .308 loose), antibiotics untouched, a good folding knife from Mark's belt. Blood smeared his dark hands hot and sticky, metallic taste faint when he wiped sweat from his lip. Sophia helped silent, toned arms flexing as she dragged Lena's corpse aside—defined butt straining pants, narrow waist twisting with effort.
Back in the truck, Solomon drove off fast—dust clouding the barn behind. Emily wiped her mouth shaky, full curves trembling, wide hips braced against the door. "You... you just..."
"Had to," Solomon said calm, no remorse. "They crossed the line. People want supplies... and women now. Can't hesitate." Sophia nodded from back, dark eyes hard—practical agreement. Scents filled the cab: blood on clothes, grease from her hands, Emily's fear-sweat floral-tinged.
Home approached—fence holding, house secure. Solomon gripped the wheel tighter, the weight of kills settling like always. But the group held stronger for it.