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.*

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.