#julialogue₊⊹ | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

imsojules · 3 months ago

Text

Before the tide turns

pairing: jj maybank x fem!reader

tw: typical outerbanks things, alcohol, some drugs, bad fathers, nothing really deep in this one. maybe my crusty writing. english is not my first language!

a/n: Hello there dear reader! So this will be a zombie apocalypse series, but before the sky falls and 💩 hits the fan and everything goes to hell, let’s take a second to appreciate the life about to slip away.

word count: 6.7k

Any feedback is really appreciated! ♥

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The Outer Banks were never supposed to be home.

You arrived there on a late spring day, with two suitcases and some box of books, your mom’s tired smile, and the hollow echo of a past you hadn’t looked back on in years. She got a nursing job at the local hospital, and you got whatever this was, sunset-drenched streets, salt-kissed air. It didn’t feel like a new beginning. It felt like a pause between endings.

Your dad left when you and your mom when you were just a kid. No note. No goodbye. Just the empty space in your life where his voice used to be. Your mom never cried in front of you. She just worked, and hoped one of the shifts would stitch the wound in your chest back together. You weren’t supposed to stay.

It was supposed to be your last free time before college, something stable and prestigious and far away, the kind of life your mom had clawed her way toward for you. She’d worked every night shift, picked up extra hours, filled out scholarship forms while you slept. She’d planned this.

You were supposed to be planning too. Packing your days with summer reading lists and admissions checklists. Your plan was to help your mom settle in and work during your gap year. Read ahead for university. Then go back to real life. To ambition.

That planning lasted about two weeks.

You found work at The Wreck, the local bar just outside of The Cut—part watering hole, part sanctuary for sunburnt fishermen and troublemakers. The place smelled like stale beer. The locals knew to tip in cash and stories.

It started with Kiara. She came into The Wreck during your first shift—sweaty from the sun, still in her wetsuit, dripping water onto the floor.

“You new?” she asked, hopping up on a barstool and squinting at your name tag.

You nodded. “You’re...very wet.”

“Thanks,” she deadpanned. “Well, yeah. I figured I’d go for the drowned rat look tonight. Really works for the vibe, don’t you think?”

You liked her immediately. After your first shift ended she looked at you “Okay,” she said. “Serious question. What’s your escape plan?”

You blinked. “What?”

“You’ve got that ‘I’m just passing through’ vibe,” Kiara said. “So. What’s the plan? College? Bigger city? Secret identity?”

You smiled faintly. “Something like that. My mom got the hospital job here. She wants me starting school the next fall.”

“You want that?”

You paused. “I want her to stop worrying.”

She looked at you for a beat, like she was sizing you up. Then she nodded, arms crossed. “That’s fair.”

The next night, she came back with new people to introduce you to. Pope, John B and Sarah. They ordered fried shrimp, bickered over who owed who gas money this time, and invited you to a bonfire “just to break up the cosmic boredom of existence.”

Then the third night on the job, you met him. JJ Maybank.

He burst through the door like a hurricane in human form with his warm blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and a grin so crooked it could knock the breath out of you. Loud, and already talking before he even reached the bar.

“New girl,” he said, like it was a nickname. “Fun fact,” he announced, eyes locked on the rum bottle in your hand. “That’s the same kind Blackbeard drank the night before he buried treasure right off this coast.”

You arched a skeptical brow. “Seriously?”

“Okay,” he said, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Maybe not. But c’mon, you don’t move to the Outer Banks and not believe in pirate ghosts and buried treasure. It’s basically a local requirement.”

You fought the grin tugging at your lips. “You’re full of it.”

“Full of charm,” he corrected, tapping the counter with two fingers. “And definitely not full of pirate rum. Yet.”

He tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing just a little. “I don’t think I caught your name.” You hesitated for a second, suddenly self-aware, but something about his easy confidence made it feel okay to say it.

“It’s Y/N,” you said, the words feeling a little too small under the weight of his gaze.

He smiled, the grin wide and unrestrained. “I’m JJ.”

—

The first time you sat with all of them outside of work, it wasn’t planned.

You’d just finished your shift at The Wreck when Kie and Sarah waved you over. JJ was already there with his feet up on the table, next to his food, shirt sun-damp and sticking to his back. John B was mid-rant about something to do with boat engines, and Pope was counting coins from the tip jar like it was serious math.

“Sit,” Kie grinned. “We’re initiating you.”

“Into what, exactly?” you asked, arching a brow. JJ leaned back in his chair, looking way too pleased with himself. “The glorious cult of bad decisions and questionable morals.”

“Also known as the Pogues,” Pope clarified.

JJ tossed a fry at him. “You make it sound lame. Watch for the branding dude.”

Sarah looked at you. “If you can handle a Friday night in The Cut, you officially earn local status.”

And just like that, you stayed.

JJ leaned back, balancing precariously on the edge of the picnic table like a raccoon contemplating its life choices. “So new girl… Kiara told me that you have a board. You surf or just own that for the aesthetic?”

“I surf,” you said confidently. “In the same way a cat swims. Reluctantly. With a lot of splashing and some crying.”

He snorted. “So, you’ve nearly drowned in front of hot people. Relatable.”

“Honestly, it builds character. It’s very performance art.”

He pointed a fry at you like it was a mic. “The ocean’s never seen such raw talent.”

“It cried salty tears,” you said. “We bonded.”

He cackled. “Stick with me, new one. I’ll show you how to look cool while making terrible life decisions.”

You raised your cup in a toast. “Can’t wait to disappoint my mom with style.” JJ clinked his beer can against yours. “That’s the spirit.”

Kiara laughed behind you. “She’s one night in and already talking like JJ. This is how it starts.”

“How what starts?” you asked, raising a brow.

Pope looked up from his coin mountain. “Corruption. First it’s sarcasm. Next thing you know, you're trespassing on a golf course at 2 a.m. wearing a traffic cone as a hat.”

Then John B pointed at you. “And you will think it’s a good idea at the time.”

JJ grinned, full of charm. “In my defense, the traffic cone was very flattering.”

“Only because you wore it with no pants,” Pope muttered.

“Art demands sacrifice” JJ said solemnly.

You blinked. “Is this a group of friends or an elaborate cry for help?”

“Yes,” they all answered at once.

You couldn’t help but laugh. JJ leaned in just a little, elbows on knees, gaze too steady for how unserious he looked. “You laugh now, but wait until we make you break into an abandoned lighthouse or something.”

“Oh good,” you said dryly. “I've always wanted tetanus and a criminal record.”

Kie nudged you with her shoulder. “You’ll fit right in.”

JJ pointed at you again. “I like her. She’s got the right ratio.”

“You have a ratio?” you asked.

“Scientific method, babe. You gotta be just scared enough to know it’s dumb, but dumb enough to do it anyway.”

You tilted your head. “And how do you rate?”

He grinned, wide and reckless. “Overqualified.”

“You live at dangerously overqualified.” John B added.

JJ leaned back again, arms spread out along the bench like he was claiming the whole night. “What can I say? I’m a man of many talents.”

You couldn’t stop smiling. These people were chaos. Loud, messy, sunburnt chaos.

Kie handed you the last fry. “You're one of us now. No take-backs.”

You took it, crunching it between your teeth like a solemn oath. “Guess I better start practicing my mug shot face.”

JJ waggled his brows. “Don’t worry. I’ve got a whole portfolio.”

“Of mug shots?” you asked, choking on laughter.

“Of facial expressions. The mug shots are just… bonus content.”

You had the next weekend off. You planned a chill, relaxing Saturday, but when that morning JJ showed up outside your place leaning out the window of the Twinkie—John B’s car—, yelling like a lunatic. “SURF’S UP, BABY!”

You blinked at him, bleary-eyed, clutching your coffee like it was life support. “JJ, it’s 7 a.m.”

“Exactly. Prime wave real estate. Let’s go, Sharkbait.”

After getting ready, you climbed into the van, your board knocking into everything in its path, you found Kiara already in the backseat, stuffing snacks into her bag. Pope sat up front with headphones in, clearly regretting his life choices, and John B was behind the wheel, sunglasses on and hair still damp from a lazy hose down.

The beach was still misty when you pulled up, sunlight breaking through in lazy streaks. JJ jumped out first, hauling his board over his shoulder like he was starring in his own indie surf documentary.

You dragged your board to the sand, staring at the waves like they were out to get you.

“Alright, rookie,” JJ said, spinning his board in the sand with dramatic flair. “Time to see if that board’s just for Instagram.”

John B snorted. “Don’t let him get to you.”

You paddled out with them, nervous, already soaked to your ears. Pope wiped out first, his limbs flailing so violently he looked like he was trying to fly. John B caught a decent wave and immediately shouted, “Did you SEE that?” like he’d just solved world peace. Kiara, naturally, made it look effortless.

Then it was your turn. JJ floated nearby, watching like a lifeguard with a flair for mockery. “Okay, new girl. This is your moment. Make Poseidon proud.”

You paddled. You stood. You flailed. You crashed.

When you surfaced, JJ was cracking up. “Majestic. Ten out of ten. Graceful as a flying possum.”

You flipped him off, laughing, salt water pouring out of your nose. “You’re lucky I don’t launch this board at your smug face.”

But the second time? You stood longer. Rode it almost all the way in. When you fell, you were smiling.

Later, the five of you collapsed on towels and boards, sun drunk and dripping wet, munching chips, JJ tossed you a sweatshirt that smelled like him and sunscreen.

“You’re not bad,” he admitted, nudging your foot with his.

“Careful,” you warned, pulling the hoodie tighter. “That almost sounded like praise.”

He grinned, eyes squinting in the sun. “You’re officially one of us now.”

And as the wind ruffled the beach, you realized something: You’d never belonged anywhere like this before.

The next night you spent with them, they built a bonfire like it was a ritual—driftwood, lighter fluid, and Pope’s very strict “no glass near the fire” rule that everyone immediately ignored.

John B found a busted speaker in the Chateau and hooked it up to his phone with duct tape and a prayer. The sound was terrible, but it didn’t matter.

JJ handed you a drink without asking what you wanted. “I made it for you,” he said proudly. “It’s called the Sunset Surprise.”

You sniffed it. “JJ, this is just rum and SunnyD.”

“Yeah. The surprise is how good it is.”

Later, after some too much of that drink, you ended up tangled in a hammock with Kie and Sarah, passing a bag of marshmallows between you while JJ and John B tried to one-up each other on who had the worst sunburn.

“Remember when you said you weren’t staying?” Kie whispered to you, grinning.

“I’m still not.” you said.

You’d never actually been inside the Chateau before, just heard the legends. Mismatched furniture, questionable wiring, and a general aura of lived in disaster. So when JJ waved you in that evening like you’d been coming over for years, you stepped through the door and into the eye of the hurricane.

Somehow, one visit turned into a dozen. Before you even noticed, the Chateau became your second home, blaring music, sandy floors, and all.

The first night you crashed there, you fell asleep on the lumpy couch with a scratchy blanket and JJ snoring on the other side of the room. You woke up to the unmistakable smell of something burning. And your skull pulsing like a tiny, furious drummer had moved in behind your eyes.

The couch beneath you creaked as you shifted, your cheek peeling off the sticky cushion fabric. Someone had draped a beach towel over you like a blanket. Your mouth tasted like JJ’s surprise drink and regret.

Groaning, you sat up, and immediately regretted it.

Your surroundings came into focus slowly: Pope curled up on the floor using a backpack as a pillow, Kie sprawled upside down in the battered armchair, and John B, shirtless, lying half off his hammock like he’d lost a battle with gravity sometime in the night.

The Chateau was chaos and comfort all at once, half sunk in sand and too bright for your aching eyes.

JJ walked in from the kitchen, flipping something on the stove, grinning when he caught you squinting at him like the morning lightness had declared war on your eyeballs.

“Well, well, well,” he drawled, barefoot and smug. “Sleeping Beauty lives.”

You glared. “Why are you yelling?”

He snorted and walked over, pressing a bottle of water into your hands, then some painkillers into your palm like he’d done it a dozen times before.

“My gut instincts told me to keep you alive,” he said, crouching in front of you. “Also, you puked off the back porch and yelled at a mailbox.”

Your groan turned into a muffled scream behind the towel. “Please stop.” Your face burned hotter than the morning sun. “I’m never drinking again.”

“Lies,” Pope muttered from the floor.

JJ reached out, brushing a piece of sand-dusted hair from your forehead with extreme gentleness. “You good?”

The joke fell from his face then, just for a second. His blue eyes searched yours like he wasn’t asking about the hangover at all. Like he was asking if you felt okay here—with them. With him.

You nodded, throat thick. “Yeah. Weirdly good.”

“You can crash here whenever,” he said, standing and tossing you a granola bar. “Just… maybe aim away from the porch next time.”

You threw the granola bar at his head. He ducked and laughed, already turning back toward the stove, like this was just normal now—you waking up here, part of the mess.

Part of them.

After that, you liked to spend almost all of your free time at that house. One of your day off you were next to JJ who was sitting on the porch railing with a damp t-shirt slung over his shoulder, a laundry basket at his feet and his hair still wet from a surf. You were sitting on the steps, sorting socks with a kind of focused frustration that made him smirk every time you muttered about losing pairs to the “sock void.”

“You know,” JJ said, nudging your foot with his. “You don’t have to color code them.”

“It’s not color-coding,” you muttered. “It’s... sock logic.”

He snorted. “You sound like Pope.”

“Hey!”

He leaned down, plucked a sock from the pile, and tossed it behind him like a basketball. “Boom. Freedom.”

“You’re such a pain in the ass.”

“You’re in denial.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. The late afternoon sun dipped behind the trees, throwing shadows across the porch. Somewhere inside, John B was yelling at the TV about a busted DVD player, and Kiara was digging through the fridge for snacks she swore she didn’t bring.

JJ glanced down at you, softer now.

“You didn’t have to come by, you know.”

You shrugged. “You texted me you were doing laundry. I assumed you needed supervision.”

“Fair.”

A beat passed. The kind of quiet that was only awkward if you didn’t want it to mean something.

He looked at you again. Really looked. “You always do that.”

You glanced up. “Do what?”

“Show up.”

The words settled between you like something heavier than air. You didn’t answer right away just looked at him, really looked back. At the bruise fading along his ribs. At the way his hands never stayed still. At the hope that flickered behind all the sarcasm when he looked your way.

“I like being here,” you said finally.

He didn’t say anything at first, just nodded. Then, quieter: “Yeah. Me too.”

He sat beside you, knees bumping, arms brushing — both of you pretending it didn’t matter. Both of you wishing the moment would stretch just a little longer.

That same night was technically a “movie night,” but John B had passed out on the couch, Pope never showed, and JJ had offered you the spare mattress in the back like it wasn’t a big deal. The storm had rolled in just after sunset.

You were half asleep when you heard the shouting.

Not JJ.

His dad. You knew damn well he was abusive. Kiara told you about him when you two walked together home after work. You’d seen JJ’s bruises. The ones on his ribs, the ones on his back. The ones he tried to cover up, the ones he didn’t talk about. You knew what his dad was capable of. The way the older man’s anger could tear JJ down, piece by piece. You sat up fast. The mattress was thin and cold, your phone lighting up with a single message: “Stay in the room. Please.”

You didn’t.

By the time you made it down the hall, JJ was in the kitchen, blocking the door with his body. His dad stood outside, soaked from the rain, reeking of whiskey and rage.

“Don’t be a little bitch, JJ,” he slurred. “Let me the hell in—”

“You’re not doing this again.” JJ snapped, voice low but tight, like he was holding everything together by one breath. “You think you’re some tough guy now?” his dad named Luke, if you are remember correctly, snarled, leaning harder against the door. “Living in your little clubhouse like a man? You’re still just some screw-up kid who needs his—”

“Go home,” JJ said, and it wasn’t loud, but it cut. You saw his hands shaking.

The door slammed shut a second later, just narrowly missing JJ’s fingers. He stood there, chest heaving, head bowed like it physically hurt to stay upright.

“JJ...” you said softly.

He didn’t look at you. Just braced his hands on the kitchen counter, knuckles white.

You reached out gently, fingers brushing his arm. “Can I—?”

He nodded once.

You wrapped your arms around him from behind. Slowly. Carefully. His back was warm, tense as steel cable, but when you pressed your cheek to his shoulder, you felt him exhale. His head dropped forward, curls wet from rain or sweat or maybe both.

“I hate him,” JJ whispered. “I hate that I still care what he says. I hate that I can’t stop him from getting in my head.”

You didn’t speak. Just held tighter.

“Hey,” you murmured, pulling back just enough to make him face you. His eyes were red-rimmed, jaw clenched, but he didn’t pull away “Whatever he is, you’re the opposite.” JJ’s eyes searched yours, as if he wanted to believe it but didn’t know how. You reached up and touched his face—fingertips soft at his jaw. “He doesn’t get to define you. Not now. Not ever.” JJ leaned into you like he was starved for warmth.

On a sweltering July afternoon, the heat clung to your skin, hot sand burning beneath your toes, the sky above a washed-out blue with the promise of stars to come. The Pogues had built a bonfire near the dunes—Kiara brought a Bluetooth speaker, John B smuggled snacks, Pope came late, and JJ was already tipsy when you arrived. You found him sitting on a log, poking the fire with a stick like it owed him money.

“Late,” he said without looking at you.

You smirked. “You missed me.”

He glanced up. “Always.”

You settled beside him. The fire crackled. The ocean whispered behind you. For a moment, it felt like the whole island had stopped spinning.

And then, voices. Loud, slurred, Kook voices.

You turned.

Rafe Cameron, in all his smug, sunburned glory, was striding toward the fire like he owned the shoreline. Two of his cronies followed behind him grinning, emboldened. He wasn’t drunk. He was worse. He was in one of those moods. You’d seen this dance before. Kooks with their collars popped and pockets lined, swaggering into places like they were doing everyone a favor. And Pogues? Tended bars, cleaned up their messes, swallowed insults with clenched jaws because rent didn’t pay itself.

At The Wreck, it was always the same story: Kooks sitting too close, speaking too loud, tipping too little. Entitled. The kind of people who looked at you like you were wallpaper just there to blend into the background unless they needed something.

“Well, well,” Rafe said, raising a beer. “Look who’s slumming it with the pogues tonight.”

You stood, not even sure why. Maybe just on instinct. JJ stood too. You felt the heat of him at your back.

Rafe’s eyes slid to you, then back to JJ.

“She your latest stray, Maybank?”

JJ didn’t flinch. “You lost?”

“Just enjoying the public beach.” Rafe said, smiling like a shark.

Kie was beside you, arms crossed tight. “Rafe, no one wants you here.”

“Relax,” he said, but his eyes were still on you. “She doesn’t look like she minds. You from out of town, sweetheart? Didn’t think they let tourists run with the trash.”

You didn’t even have time to blink before JJ moved.

It wasn’t a swing—not yet. Just a step forward. Fast and controlled. His jaw was clenched, fists at his sides, not raised but the intent was there.

“Back off.” JJ said, voice low.

Rafe laughed, but it wasn’t amused. “Didn’t know you got a guard dog.”

“Keep talking,” JJ said, “see how fast I make you eat sand.”

For a second, no one moved. The fire popped.

Then Pope was there, wedging himself between them. “Walk away, JJ.”

“Not until he does,” JJ hissed.

Rafe raised both hands in mock surrender and started to backpedal “Have fun, scumbags.”

When he was gone, JJ finally exhaled like he’d been holding his breath since the second Rafe showed up. He didn’t look at you right away.

“Jay...” you started.

You didn’t know what to say, so you just stepped a little closer. Close enough to feel the heat coming off of him part firelight, part JJ.

He noticed. But he didn’t move away.

—

There was a kind of rhythm to it, the way you danced around each other without ever touching the center. Like magnets flipping polar at the last second, always close enough to feel the pull, never close enough to give in.

Sarah caught on first.

She cornered you at the surf shop while you were stocking shelves. “So, you and JJ…”

“There’s no me and JJ,” you said too quickly.

Sarah raised a perfectly shaped brow. “That’s cute. He talks about you like you hung the stars or something. Like, annoying, but cute.”

Kiara joined in later, handing you a beer and casually asking, “So when are you going to admit you’re in love with him?”

You choked. “I’m not—he hasn’t—nothing’s happening.”

She just smirked. “Yeah, yeah okay.”

JJ was always there. Leaning on the bar when your shift ended, talking too loud, laughing too easily. He stole fries from your plate and let you steal sips from his beer. He called you “trouble” with a smirk like he was begging for you to prove him right.

And you were just as bad.

You found reasons to text him at 2 a.m., knowing he’d answer. Laughed a little louder at his dumbest jokes. Let your knees bump his on the couch and never moved away. You wore his hoodie home once and claimed it was accidental. He never asked for it back.

Your mom washed it, folded it neatly, and said nothing. Just gave you a look. The kind that said: I know exactly what this is, and we are not talking about it right now.

She liked JJ. Not that she’d admit it first. But you saw the way her expression softened when he called her “ma’am,” or offered to carry groceries, or he said to her “You made your daughter this cool alone? That should be illegal.” He tried to be a perfect gentleman around her, straightened posture, yes ma’ams, even opened the car door once. He even complimented her pasta like it was five-star cuisine.

She liked him. But she didn’t trust that she liked him.

“He’s got manners,” she said once, setting a pot on the stove. “But so do cult leaders.”

Still, she’d slide him an extra helping at dinner without blinking. Pack leftovers “just in case your friend’s hungry.” She saw the good in him. Just didn’t want you rearranging your whole future around it.

Some nights, when the wind rattled your windows and the ocean howled in the distance, you lay awake wondering how close was too close. How long until one of you cracked.

You caught him looking sometimes. Not in that passing way guys look at girls. Not like a glance. Like he was memorizing you.

Like he was trying to figure out if this whatever this was, could be real.

And he caught you, too. Watching him light a joint, shirtless in the Chateau’s golden hour glow. Watching the way his jaw flexed when he was thinking too hard. Watching him watch you.

You talked about everything. The kind of stuff most people never dared to say out loud. Bad dads. Broken systems. How life sometimes felt like a house of cards, like one gust and it’d all go down.

But you never talked about the way your heart beat faster when his hand brushed yours. Or how he always pulled you in closer than necessary during movie nights. Or the way you always waited for him to say something first.

And then, one night, he finally did.

You’d been watching some old movie John B had lying around at the Chateau. Midway through a scene involving an axe, a fog machine, and the world’s worst scream queen, JJ shifted. Without warning, he dropped his head into your lap, exhaling sharply like gravity had just won. You paused, looking down, half-expecting him to make some smartass comment.

Instead, he blinked up at you, eyes glassy but honest in that way drunk people sometimes get like all their edges had gone soft.

“You know I like you a lot, right?”

The words hit like a pebble through a window. Quiet, sharp, and irreversible.

You froze, heart stalling mid-beat. “JJ… you’re drunk.”

He blinked again. “Yeah I am. And I’m also getting fall in love with you.”

No smirk. No wink. Just soft certainty, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

You didn’t know what to do with it, so you did what you could. You gently untangled yourself, stood up ignoring the way he pouted, and fetched a glass of water, and two painkillers. When you came back, he was still on the couch, now sprawled dramatically like a fallen prince.

“Drink this please,” you said, nudging the glass into his hand.

He obeyed, eyes not leaving yours.

Then you helped him up—he leaned heavier than he needed to, one arm slung lazily over your shoulder—and guided him to the bedroom, muttering sleepy nonsense the whole way. You pulled the covers up to his chest, smoothed his hair back, and before you could think too hard, kissed his forehead.

He was out cold two minutes later.

The next morning, you found him on the porch one hand shielding his eyes like the sun had personally wronged him. John B was beside him, sipping coffee and looking far too chipper for someone who lived off instant ramen.

“She probably thinks I was just wasted,” JJ muttered, voice rough, temple cradled in his palm. “I fucked up.”

He didn’t see you at first. You stood there in the doorway for a beat, watching him squint into the daylight like it held answers. The words had come out messy, sure. But the truth in them hadn’t felt drunk.

You didn’t hesitate after that. You stepped outside, the screen door creaking just enough to give you away. JJ flinched like he’d been caught doing something illegal. John B glanced between the two of you, instantly clocked the energy, and bless him, he quickly stood up.

“I’m gonna go… check on the water heater,” he mumbled, already backing away even though the Chateau hadn’t had hot water in weeks.

JJ didn’t look at you right away. He scrubbed a hand over his face, wincing at the effort. “So… about last night,” he said, voice rough like gravel. “Just for the record, I was absolutely trashed.”

“I noticed.”

He laughed once—short, nervous. “Cool. So we can just pretend I was talking to a tree or, like, a large bird and keep this friendship alive.”

You sat beside him on the step, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin.

“Thing is,” you said, “you were drunk. But you weren’t lying.”

JJ finally turned to look at you, blue eyes bloodshot and uncertain. He looked like a boy halfway between wanting to run and wanting to believe he hadn’t ruined everything.

“And that’s the problem?” he asked, voice quieter now.

You shook your head slowly. “No. That’s the part that makes it easy.”

His brows furrowed. “Wait… are we still using metaphors or?”

You kissed him.

It was gentle, cautious like you were both trying to memorize something fragile. He froze for a split second, then kissed you back, sun-warm hands coming up to cradle your jaw like he couldn’t believe you were real.

When you finally pulled away, he looked dazed, but smiling.

“I knew you liked me,” he whispered.

“You said you are in love with me,” you reminded him.

JJ leaned back a little, grinning now, like gravity couldn’t touch him. “Yeah, well. I was also drunk. I’m sober now, and I still do. So… just putting that out there.”

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t stop smiling. “You’re such a menace.”

“And you’re doomed,” he said brightly. “You kissed me. That’s a lifetime contract.”

Later that afternoon, the rest of the Pogues trickled in like seagulls smelling fries. You and JJ were still on the porch, now tangled up on the hammock, his legs practically hanging off one side, your head on his shoulder, the laziest smiles on both your faces.

Kiara stepped out first, paused mid-step, and blinked. “Okay…what the hell is this?” she asked, already pulling out her phone like she was documenting a cryptid sighting.

You squinted at her through the hammock netting. “Do I at least look cute?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Kie muttered, snapping a photo. “Ugh, finally. I'm putting this on the Pogue group chat.”

JJ grinned, not even bothering to move. “This, my friend, is a rare sighting. Handle with care.”

“Since when?” Pope asked, squinting like he was trying to solve a crime scene.

JJ stretched, yawned dramatically. “Since always. You guys just have no observational skills.” John B emerged from the kitchen with a bag of chips and the look of someone extremely over it. “He confessed last night while slurring into her lap. It was kinda romantic tho.”

Pope looked at you with raised eyebrows. You responded to the question he never actually said. “I made peace with my fate.”

“You’re a brave one.” Pope said.

Kiara groaned, flopping onto the porch swing. “This is gonna be great.”

“You love it,” JJ said, throwing a chip at her. “You all do. Admit it.”

John B sighed. “Can we at least make a rule that if you two start making out, we get a five-minute warning to evacuate?”

“No promises,” JJ said, slinging an arm around you. “We’re spontaneous like that.” And then he pulled you into a warm hug, his breath brushing your ear as he whispered, “So… when do I get to see you again?”

You grinned, pretending to think. “Hmm, let me check my very full and important schedule...”

“Oh no,” he whispered dramatically. “Am I being penciled in?”

“Lucky for you,” you said, pulling back just enough to look at him, “next Friday’s wide open.”

He lit up. “Next Friday it is.”

On your first “real” date JJ didn’t tell you where you were going. He just showed up in front of your and your mom’s place at golden hour, wearing that cocky grin that made your heart do gymnastics.

"Is that... cologne?" you asked, sniffing the air.

"It’s scented confidence," he said, revving the boat engine dramatically.

You blinked. "We’re going on a boat ride?"

“Hell yeah.” he confirmed, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Very poetic. Very Nicholas Sparks.”

You hopped in, grinning. “Is this what romance looks like in The Cut?”

“Buckle up, baby. We’re about possibly violate some maritime law.”

The boat was old, and a little squeaky every time JJ shifted gears but it glided like freedom. The water sparkled as the sun dipped lower, turning the sky into melted orange sherbet.

“You pull this move with all your dates?” you asked, legs dangling over the side of the boat.

JJ glanced over with a grin. “Only the ones I actually want to impress.”

“Lucky me.”

“Extremely,” he said, kicking at the water with the heel of his boot. “Most girls freak out when I joke about being stranded at sea.”

You gave him a look.

He shrugged, way too relaxed. “Guess we’ll find out when the gas light comes on.”

“JJ.”

“Kidding.” He leaned closer, voice low. “Probably.”

Eventually, he anchored near a quiet inlet. The boat rocked gently beneath you as JJ pulled out a slightly crumpled brown bag. Inside? Two sandwiches, a bottle of coke, and a pack of twizzlers.

“It’s giving gourmet” you said.

“I forgot the forks for our gourmet feast,” he replied solemnly. “but I have a surprise.”

He reached into the boat’s cooler and pulled out a single sparkler, the kind you get on the Fourth of July.

“This was supposed to be for later,” he said, lighting it with a victorious flick of a lighter. “But I’m impatient.”

You watched the sparkler fizzle between you, lighting his face in bursts of starlight. He looked so soft and full of mischief.

“I think this counts as the weirdest first date I’ve ever been on,” you said.

“But like... in a good way?” he asked, leaning a little closer.

You smiled. “In the best way.”

And when he kissed you tasting like coke and sunshine and it felt less like a beginning and more like a promise you’d already been living.

—

Exactly one year later after he kissed you on that boat, you fumbled with your new home’s keys, the metal biting into your palm like it could sense your nerves. With a sigh, you dropped them onto the counter, letting the sound of their clink echo.

Your mom’s voice echoed in the back of your mind. She’d given you a deadline, keep planning your future, stick to your academic goals, and she’d be more than happy to help you and JJ out with the rent. But she didn’t exactly approve of your life choices. But your mom, in her own strict way, always tried to take care of you, even if it didn’t always feel that way.

Her disapproval had hung heavy in the air when you’d told her. But she’d softened when you promised you’d keep pursuing your university plan, her way of showing she still cared, still expected something from you. So, you did. You planned, you organized. You tried to keep your life from spiraling in the chaos.

The new place was nothing special, just a two bedroom above an old dive shop in Kill Devil Hills with creaky floors, sea stained windows, and ceilings the color of forgotten cigarettes. You and JJ had only moved in a few days ago, but it already smelled like him. Sand, sunscreen, weed, and whatever cheap body wash he swore by.

You lay sprawled out on the floor in the living room, your head tilted just enough to brush against JJ’s. The only furniture in the room was a secondhand couch you hadn’t bothered to unwrap yet and a floor lamp that leaned like it was half-drunk. Sunlight leaked through warped blinds, casting stripes across the wooden floor. Dust hung in the air like pollen.

You sneezed for the third time.

JJ snorted out a laugh. “You allergic to happiness or just our janky-ass apartment?”

You groaned and wiped your nose with your sleeve. “I told you I should’ve dusted yesterday.”

JJ rolled onto his side, propping himself up on an elbow. “I got it. I’ll do it now.”

“No,” you said, grabbing his arm and dragging him back down beside you. “You need a break. You carried all of the boxes up those stairs.”

He made a dramatic groaning noise. “They weighed a million pounds. I broke a sweat.”

“Drama queen.”

He grinned. That lopsided, JJ special smug and inexplicably soft.

You linked your fingers through his. He didn’t hesitate. His hand was warm and always a little rough, like he’d been living three lives at once. He brushed your thumb with his. Then, out of nowhere, he said:

“I’m so happy.”

You blinked at him, surprised. JJ wasn’t shy, but he didn’t usually say things like that, not without a joke stitched to the end. This wasn’t one of those moments. His voice was clear, steady. Like he needed you to hear it.

“I am too,” you murmured, tightening your grip. “I didn’t think I could feel like this again.”

JJ didn’t answer at first. He was looking at you like he’d never seen you before. Like you were some rare artifact dug out of the sand, something he was scared to touch too hard in case it disappeared.

“What?” you asked, voice hushed.

He raised a hand to your cheek, fingertips featherlight. The pads of his fingers traced the shape of you, reverent. His touch wasn’t demanding, just curious.

Then he smiled. “I don’t get how I got this lucky.”

You kissed him. It was a very sweet quick and warm and close mouthed. Then you whispered, “I’m happier.”

His eyes narrowed in mock offense. “Liar.”

“Swear it.”

“No way. I’m like… glowing. I’m radiating happiness. You’re catching my happy.”

The afternoon sun dipped lower, washing the apartment in a warm orange haze. It hit JJ’s hair just right, turning it to gold. He looked like summer as a person.

“I’m still happier” you teased.

He rolled over until he was half on top of you, chest pressing into yours. “Then prove it.”

“How?”

“Let me hold you for like, ever.”

You grinned. “JJ…”

But you let him pull you in, let him stretch himself across you like a blanket, tucking his face into your neck. His weight grounded you. His arms were secure, gentle but insistent. He always held you like he was afraid the universe might snatch you away.

“You good?” you asked softly, hand stroking through his hair.

“I am now,” he mumbled. “Just… don’t move yet.”

You didn’t. Not even when your back started to ache or your nose twitched from dust.

The world outside didn’t feel real that night. Just you and JJ, your hearts beating in the same rhythm, in a home that smelled like freedom.

A home that wouldn't last forever.

But neither of you were thinking about that yet.

#julialogue₊⊹#jj maybank x reader #jj maybank fanfiction #jj maybank fanfic #obx x reader #obx fanfiction #jj maybank zombie au #jj maybank fluff #jj maybank angst #jj maybank x you #jj maybank imagine #jj maybank fic #jj maybank obx #obx fanfic #obx jj maybank #obx fic #jj maybank post apocalypse au

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imsojules · 3 months ago

Text

After the tide turns – Part 1

pairing: jj maybank x fem!reader

tw: Outbreak violence so, blood, death, swearing, military control, inspired by the last of us, established relationship, english is not my first language!

a/n: Here we go!! 🚨

Comments always make my day! 🖤

word count: 2.8k

masterlist | prequel | next |

The apartment is quiet.

The clock on the microwave blinks 1:42 AM in ghostly blue digits. It’s the only light in the room besides the soft flicker of the streetlamp filtering through the blinds. The apartment smells faintly like the candle you lit earlier, cheap vanilla, burnt halfway down and the leftover takeout JJ promised to throw away when he got back.

Somewhere outside, waves slap against the docks. A fan spins in the ceiling above you, clicking on every third turn like a broken clock. The TV’s gone dark, stuck on the menu screen of some half-watched show. You’re curled up sideways on the couch, one arm underneath your cheek, the other still loosely holding your phone.

It’s late. JJ should’ve been home hours ago. Always running into something dumb that turns into a story later. Something feels off all week, ever since the weird news starts leaking in from the mainland—food recalls, strange medical emergencies, radio silence from certain cities. Rumors on social media about tainted crops. You haven’t paid much attention, honestly.

But you must doze off waiting, because when your eyes snap open again, it’s not to JJ’s voice or the sound of the door.

Your phone comes to life with a faint buzz. A name flashes across the screen, it’s your mom.

You swipe to answer, breath catching.

“Mom? Hello?”

But there’s only static.

You press the phone harder to your ear, like that’ll force a connection through the storm of crackles.

“Mom, I can’t hear you—”

A faint breath. Maybe a syllable. Then nothing. The line drops. The screen reads Call Failed. You stare at it like maybe the phone will change its mind.

It doesn’t. You try calling back, but the screen blinks No Service. One bar flickers and vanishes.

You reach for the remote with a shaking hand. The screen comes alive with a quiet click, casting pale light across the room. You flip through the channels until one freezes— news. Not some talking head in New York or DC. This is close. Too close.

The anchorwoman sits stiffly at her desk, hair slightly out of place, makeup cracked under sweat. Her hands grip the table just out of frame, knuckles white. The studio behind her is dimmer than usual, and there's a buzzing hum in the background, like something’s malfunctioning. Her voice wavers, but she keeps reading.

“...the number of confirmed deaths has surpassed two hundred tonight. The Governor has declared a state of emergency across Dare, Hyde, and surrounding counties…”

She glances to the side—someone off-camera is clearly waving her along—but her voice catches in her throat.

The screen jolts, flickers once, then cuts to a shaky phone video. Someone’s filming from the sidewalk, and everything’s chaos. Emergency lights blur across the frame. A building burns behind the man speaking, his face sweaty, frantic, splashed with ash.

“They didn’t warn us,” he shouts into the lens. “There were hundreds. I swear to God hundreds of bodies just lying there. Like trash. Lined up on the sidewalks. Some of them were still moving. They just left them there.”

It cuts back to the anchor. She’s visibly shaken now, no longer trying to hide it. She swallows hard, eyes flicking to the teleprompter, voice barely above a whisper.

“North Carolina is the next state placed under federal martial law. All residents are required to report to their designated quarantine zones...”

She stops mid sentence. A crash echoes from offscreen. Something metallic falling. Then shouting.

Her head jerks toward the sound.

The studio lights flicker violently. The broadcast stutters, audio warping, and the screen cuts to black.

No more voices. Just dead air.

Your heart slams against your ribs. You start to move fast.

You throw on the hoodie JJ left on the counter, rip open the drawer for your charger, then yank open another and grab the biggest kitchen knife you own. You don’t stop to think, just stuff it into your backpack beside a water bottle and a flashlight.

The doorknob feels ice cold in your hand as you twist it.

—

Outside, the island feels wrong.

The air is too still, too heavy, no wind through the trees. Not a single cicada hums.

Only silence.

Then far off a siren wails, long and piercing. Another joins it. Somewhere to the east, a car alarm hiccups into life, screeching until it cuts off like it was silenced. A few blocks down, tires screech. You hear something crash. Then a scream. Sharp, raw, human. The kind that cuts through bone.

The streetlights flicker above your head, stuttering like a dying heartbeat.

You step out slowly, kitchen knife clenched in your fist, your pulse thudding in your ears.

A shadow breaks across the end of the street.

“HEY!”

You spin, heart in your throat.

JJ barrels toward you at a dead sprint. Sweat beads down his temple, his blond curls stuck to his forehead, his chest heaving like he hasn’t stopped running in blocks. His T-shirt is ripped, shoulder bloodied, and there’s a bat strapped to his back.

"You're okay?" you ask loudly.

“Shit, Y/N,” he breathes, skidding to a stop in front of you. “What the hell are you doing out here?”

“My mom called,” you say, breath catching. “They said they’re locking everything down—“

“I know. I know,” he says, already grabbing your arm, scanning the street behind you like something might crawl out of it. “They’re saying it’s a pandemic, but it’s way worse than that.”

“Worse how?”

“I don’t know. People are... sick. And violent. I saw one of the yacht guys bit someone at the marina. Didn’t stop.”

You stare at him.

“Bit them?”

“Yeah,” he says, low. “Didn’t stop until someone cracked his skull open.”

You try to process it, but it doesn’t stick. It doesn’t feel real.

“John B’s got a truck running—don’t ask. We’re getting off this island before they shut it down.”

You’re still frozen, knife in hand, mind racing to catch up. You feel sick.

JJ sees it in your face, the fear, the stall. He steps in close, cups your face in both hands like it’s the only thing that matters. “Hey. Look at me.”

His voice remains steady, but there's a fire beneath it, a sharp edge.

“We need to move. Now.” He laces his fingers with yours and pulls you forward. “It’s down by the marina,” JJ says under his breath, eyes cutting side to side. “John B said he ditched it behind the bait shack.”

The two of you move fast and low, ducking between hedges and shadows. The island feels like it’s holding its breath. You pass a front yard where someone’s porch light is still on, swinging gently in the breeze. The door’s wide open. Inside, it’s too quiet.

You keep going.

You’re half a block from the marina when you hear it. A wet, gurgling moan.

JJ freezes. Holds a hand out to stop you.

“Shhh...”

You strain to listen. Then you see it, stumbling into the middle of the road.

It used to be someone’s dad. He’s wearing cargo shorts, a fishing shirt, and one sandal. His face is slack, twitching. Mouth twitching like he’s trying to form words but only guttural clicks spill out. His neck is twisted too far to one side.

“What the hell...” you whisper.

“No fucking way” JJ mutters.

The man jerks his head at the sound. And then he runs.

Not stumbles… runs. Straight at you.

JJ reacts first.

“Back!”

He shoves you behind him and rips the bat off his back. The monster slams into him full force, and they crash onto the pavement. JJ rolls with him, shoving the handle of the bat between them as the man snaps his teeth inches from JJ’s face.

You don’t think. Instinct takes the wheel.

You surge forward, knife gripped so tight it carves into your palm. The blade sinks into the infected man's side, deep and fast but he doesn’t even blink. No scream. No hesitation. Just a low, sickening grunt as he whips around toward you, jaw unhinged.

“The head!” JJ yells, voice cracked with urgency.

Your hands shake as you yank the blade free. You aim higher.

You shove the knife straight into his throat and feel it grind against something solid. He gurgles, still moving. You rip it out and slam it forward again, this time just under his chin, until the resistance gives and he drops like a sack of wet meat.

It’s over.

But the silence afterward is louder than the fight.

Your chest heaves. Your arms are trembling, coated in blood, some of it yours, most of it not. The knife clatters to the pavement, slick and red.

JJ pushes himself up from the ground, sweat pouring off him, chest rising and falling like he just ran a marathon. His shirt’s soaked, splattered with dark streaks.

“You okay?” he asks, voice raw, eyes locked on yours.

“Are you?”

JJ drags in a breath, shoulders tight, jaw clenched like he’s holding back everything at once.

“Yeah,” he says, but his voice cracks around it. “I’m fine. Fucking hell...”

He grabs your hand, not waiting for you to find your balance. He hooks his arm behind your head and buries your face into his neck, the sound he makes is like a half-groan, half-sigh, torn from something deeper than relief.

“Don’t stop now.” he mutters.

And you run again, blood on your hands, shadows at your heels. JJ doesn’t let go of your hand as you cut through backyards and over fences, dodging overturned trash bins and shattered glass.

You spot the truck before you see them. The engine growls low as it idles by the curb, headlights off. A shape leans out the passenger side window and waves both arms.

“There!” JJ yells, tugging you forward.

You sprint the last block, lungs on fire, your shoes slamming the pavement with each step. Pope jumps out and yanks the door open before you even reach them.

“Where the hell have you been?” he shouts. “We heard screaming, I thought you were dead!”

“We almost were,” JJ snaps, climbing in behind you. “One of those things came at us.”

John B leans forward over the steering wheel, face grim under the red dashboard lights. “We’re out of time. They’re shutting everything down. Bridge is already crawling with military trucks.”

You slam the door just as the engine revs.

The tires screech. John B jerks the wheel, pulling away from the curb so hard you feel your body lurch sideways. He doesn’t slow down. The street blurs past—yards, fences, blown-out porch lights. You see fires in the distance, smoke bleeding into the sky.

“Is it true?” Pope asks from the front seat. “That it’s everywhere?”

“Yeah,” JJ says. “It’s not just the island. They’ve got martial law orders all over. We have to make it off before they barricade everything.”

John B kept the truck low and fast, weaving between abandoned cars, fences, and bodies. Real ones. Not just the infected.

“Where’s that quarantine zone?” Pope finally asked, breaking the silence. His voice cracked. “The emergency one they’re setting up. It’s even real?”

JJ answered before John B could.

“It’s real. I heard guys at the marina talking about it. FEMA and FEDRA are setting up temporary holding zones like processing centers before they move people to the inland.”

“Where?” you asked.

JJ glanced at you, eyes dark in the dim light. “Mainland. By the old ferry terminal.”

You sat back, feeling the hum of the tires beneath you. Processing centers. Like livestock.

When you arrive at the bridge, it’s loomed ahead lined with military vehicles, barricades, men with rifles and stiff jaws.

John B slowed as he pulled onto the shoulder behind a row of silent, idle cars. A single checkpoint light flickered weakly in the dark, casting shadows against chain-link fences. A soldier stepped out. He raised one hand.

“Stop the vehicle! Keep your hands visible!”

John B’s fingers tightened around the wheel. “Everybody, don’t move.”

Another soldier moved along the side of the truck, rifle aimed low but ready.

“What’s your status?” the man barked.

JJ muttered under his breath, “What the hell does that even mean?”

Pope answered fast, “We’re healthy. No bites. We’re just trying to get out.”

The soldier’s light cut across JJ’s face. “ID?”

“We’re local,” John B said, and that clearly wasn’t the right answer. The soldier turned his head, muttering something into a radio clipped to his vest.

JJ shifted. You reached across and grabbed his wrist under the bat.

“Don’t,” you whispered.

“Step out of the vehicle. One at a time. Hands up.”

You all moved, slowly, carefully. JJ was the last to exit. The four of you stood in the orange glow of floodlights as the soldier swept a scanner over each of your arms. A cold beep followed each one.

“Looks clear” the man muttered.

But he didn’t lower his weapon. A second soldier approached with a clipboard. “Group of four, unregistered. No assigned housing, no prior QZ status. They go into temporary hold.”

“Where?” Pope asked.

The man didn’t answer. He just motioned toward a fenced-off zone across the bridge. You could see other groups there huddled, cold, some with children, others coughing into their sleeves. Canvas tents stood crooked under floodlights. Men in hazmat suits moved like ghosts between them.

JJ stared, jaw clenched. “You said this was just a checkpoint.”

“This is the checkpoint,” the soldier replied. “That’s where you wait.”

He shoved open the gate.

—

The temporary quarantine zone smells like sweat, bleach, and dirt. It’s sterile, metallic. Like biting a battery.

Canvas walls flap weakly in the wind, barely held by aluminum rods hammered into cracked pavement. The floodlights above burn too bright, bleaching everything in cold white. The kind of light that makes shadows too sharp and the air too thin.

A steady line of people winds toward a folding table where two soldiers stand beside a man in scrubs holding a clipboard. The stench of antiseptic clings to everything. You feel exposed. Like the light’s stripping you down, inch by inch, peeling the skin off everyone. Every breath feels too loud. Too desperate.

The line crawls forward. The murmurs around you are like a low hum, a desperate need to be anywhere but here. Sniffling kids, a father hissing at his son to sit still, a woman rocking back and forth, whispering prayers to no one. Someone coughs behind you, a wet, raw sound that causes everyone to stiffen, but no one dares to turn around.

You don’t remember when your legs started shaking. It’s like your body knew before your brain did.

This place isn’t for keeping people safe. It’s for sorting them. And you’re not sure what category you belong to.

The hum of the floodlights burrows into your skull. It’s not just a sound anymore, it’s a thought like a high-pitched idea that echoes through your teeth.

Obey. Obey. Obey.

The line shifts again, and Pope is gone. No time for goodbyes, just a sharp glance, a silent command “stay sane” but it’s hard to imagine that’s even possible. Then John B follows.

And then it’s just you and JJ. The silence between you two feels heavier, thicker. Like the air’s curdled around you, pressing down.

JJ’s breathing is too fast. You feel it before you hear it—the twitch of his hand at his side, the nervous tapping of his foot against the cracked pavement, like a countdown to something he dreads but can't stop. He glances around like he wants to bolt, but doesn’t know where to run or how to start. He looks at you, his mouth a tight line, and you feel the weight of the moment hanging in the air while he fidgets, his hand jerking toward his pocket before he stops himself.

The soldiers close in. The one who steps toward you is nothing but cold eyes and rubber gloves, moving with a precision that feels practiced. The soldier who points to you might as well be death itself.

Her voice is soft. Too soft. “You. Next.”

JJ’s hand shoots out before you even realize it, gripping your arm like he’s already losing you. His voice raw and desperate. “Just a second—”

They move toward him, and it’s like the world shifts. His grip tightens around your arm, but it’s not enough to keep you grounded. His face is strained, his eyes wild with something you can’t name, but the words die in his throat before he can say anything more.

And then they drag him away.

You don’t have time to say anything. There’s no chance to reach for him, to stop them. They take him, just like that, like it’s nothing more than routine and all that’s left is the cold light and the echo of his name still hanging in the air.

You feel like you can't move. The soldier’s eyes are cold, uninterested. She’s already moving you forward.

You can still feel JJ’s grip. Like a phantom pulse in your skin.

#julialogue₊⊹#jj maybank x reader #jj maybank imagine #jj maybank angst #jj maybank x you #jj maybank zombie au #obx fanfiction #obx fanfic #jj maybank fanfiction #jj maybank fanfic #jj maybank post apocalypse au #jj maybank #jj outer banks #jj imagine #jj x reader #obx angst #jj x you #jj maybank fic

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imsojules · 2 months ago

Text

After the tide turns – Part 2

pairing: jj maybank x fem!reader

tw: Outbreak violence, swearing, blood, military control, medical testing, inspired by the last of us, established relationship, not fully proof-read, english is not my first language!

a/n: Hi all, I'm trying to speed up the uploads for the next parts!! bear with me, hope you enjoy this one, and as always, feedback is my fuel!♥ 🫂 sorry for any mistakes this was written at 1am

taglist: @chuuuchuuutrain, @d3adfa1ry, @maddsgrace, @darkparablesfan

word count: 3.1k

masterlist | previous | next |

They shove JJ through the tent flap like he’s livestock.

He stumbles forward, jaw tight, hands raised halfway—half threat, half surrender.

“Yo—hands off, alright?” JJ snaps, ripping his arm back. “I’m walking. I got legs.”

The soldier doesn’t even blink. Just gestures him forward with the muzzle of his rifle.

JJ steps inside, breathing hard. The air hits him like a gut punch—stale bleach and copper, like a hospital and a slaughterhouse had a baby. A plastic chair faces a folding table where some exhausted looking guy in scrubs rubs his face like he’d rather be anywhere else. JJ sizes him up immediately, definitely not military. Probably a volunteer. Or a hostage, it’s hard to tell.

“Sit,” the guy mutters without looking.

JJ exhales through his nose, jaw tight. His pulse is a hammer in his ears. He hates all of this. Being separated, feeling caged. “Don’t love the whole secret-experiment vibes you got going here.”

The medic just gestures at the chair. JJ huffs and finally sits, bouncing his knee like he’s got a bomb under his skin.

“Any symptoms?” the guy asks, reaching for a scanner.

“No,” JJ snaps. “Unless being pissed off counts.”

“Any injuries?”

“Just from running for my life,” JJ says. “And I’m not the one biting people, if that’s what you’re fishing for.”

The scanner beeps over his arm. Clear. The medic doesn’t react. Just scribbles on a clipboard like this is all a Tuesday.

JJ catches sight of the blood still crusted on his sleeve from earlier—yours, maybe. Maybe his. Doesn’t matter. The guy’s eyes flick to it.

“That’s not mine,” JJ says quickly, voice dropping a notch. “Or, like—it is. But not in the way you’re thinking.”

“I didn’t ask,” the medic mutters, pulling out a needle.

JJ jerks his arm away. “That’s not happening.”

“It’s a blood test.”

“That’s how the guy dies first.”

The medic rolls his eyes. “You want into the safe zone, I need a sample.”

JJ stares him down. You want into the safe zone, like it’s a goddamn hotel check-in. He swears under his breath and sticks out his arm.

“Better be a small needle,” he mutters. “I’m delicate.”

The guy draws the blood, no apology, no words. JJ watches it leave him—dark, thick. Like it means something. The medic labels it. JJ catches a half-smudged FEMA logo on the label. Doesn’t feel real.

The guy turns to a beat-up laptop and starts typing.

JJ’s leg bounces again. “So what, you get my blood, and then what? Put me in a box?”

“If you’re clean, you’re processed into long-term QZ,” the medic says.

JJ eyes the tent flap behind him. Two guards. No way out unless he wants a bullet in the back. He leans back in the chair, tension simmering just under his skin.

The tent flap rustles. A soldier pokes his head in. “He cleared?”

The medic nods. “Yeah. Temporary zone C, until results are verified.”

“Move,” the soldier says.

JJ swears under his breath, then lets the soldier shove him toward the exit.

Outside, the air’s just as stale, just as suffocating. Rows of tents. Military patrols. Screaming in the distance. Somewhere, a baby’s crying.

And he can’t see you or the others.

They walk him to a chain-link gate, buzz it open, and shove him into a makeshift compound—plastic walls, cots, people wrapped in blankets like ghosts. JJ turns in a slow circle, scanning faces, heart pounding.

You’re not here. Not yet.

He sinks onto an empty cot, elbows on knees, fingers curled into his hair.

If you don’t come back out, he feels like he will burn the place down.

—

The cot feels like punishment. Cold, thin, barely held together with rusted welds and fraying fabric. JJ doesn’t really lie down on it—he just hovers near it, pacing the small stretch of space between it and the back wall like a caged animal. The sweat on his skin mingles with the dust in the air, making him feel grimy, heavier than he should be.

He used to be good at this. Cold under pressure. Quick and calculated.

His fists ache from clenching. His jaw has been tight for so long it’s starting to throb. Every breath tastes like bleach and stale sweat and fear. Tents flap in the stale wind. He scratches his fingers absently against the calluses on his palm, trying to ground himself. It doesn’t help.

And still, not a damn sign of you.

He’s seen too many people dragged out of processing already—some crying, some silent, one screaming so loud it sounds inhuman. The guards never flinch. They just shove them out through another gate. Everyone knows what that means. That’s where the infected wander. Where no one comes back from.

His foot taps the ground in a relentless rhythm. He tries to convince himself you’re fine. That you'll be walking in any second, complaining about the guards or demanding food or cursing the government.

But the longer the silence stretches, the more that hope slips through his fingers.

“JJ?”

He turns sharply, heartbeat jerking like it misses a step.

John B stands at the entrance of the tent, framed by harsh daylight. His face pale and thin, like someone has carved the boy he knew down to the bone. But it’s him. Alive. Breathing. Behind him is Pope, clutching a clipboard so tight it looks like his fingers might snap.

JJ doesn’t say anything. He just moves. Fast.

He reaches them in three strides and crashes into John B like the ground has vanished beneath him. They lock arms tight, clumsy and desperate. JJ lets his chin rest against his shoulder for just a second before pulling back like nothing happened.

“You made it,” Pope says, voice thick and rough like it hasn’t been used in hours.

JJ steps back, blinking hard, eyes flicking between them. “I made it?” he snaps. “Where the hell were you?”

John B runs a hand through his tangled hair. “They split us up at the gate. Didn’t even know Pope was in this zone until I saw him this morning.”

JJ’s gaze shoots over their shoulders. “And where’s—?”

He doesn’t finish. He doesn’t have to. His body already knows you’re not with them.

John B’s face darkens slightly. “They said you passed the blood test. You’re being moved into the main zone.”

“And her?” JJ asks, voice lower now. Harsher. “She behind me?”

Pope shifts awkwardly, glancing toward the guards stationed outside. “Could be. They were doing different groups in shifts.”

JJ doesn’t respond. He doesn’t blink. He just stares at the tent flap like if he focuses hard enough, it will part and reveal you standing there.

Then—more movement.

The flap rustles again, and someone steps through, but it isn’t you.

“Holy shit,” Pope breathes. “Kiara?”

She looks tired, her clothes rumpled. Her left arm is pinned in a makeshift sling, and there’s a streak of dirt down one side of her face. But her eyes are sharp and alert. Locked on them.

JJ freezes for half a second before stepping forward, grabbing her in a quick hug that surprises even him. She leans in, squeezing him back, her good arm wrapping around his shoulders.

“Where were you?” he asks, pulling back to look her in the face.

“I came in with my family,” she says, brushing a loose strand of hair from her cheek. “We got separated during the first checkpoint, but they let us through. They took us into another sector. I only found out you guys were here a couple of hours ago.”

“Did you see Y/N?” JJ asks again. This time his voice cracks just slightly at the end.

Kiara shakes her head. “No, I haven’t seen her.”

JJ barely hears the rest of whatever she says.

And now, standing here in the choking air of the QZ tent, heart pounding so hard it makes his ribs hurt, he catches it, just a flicker of a voice from the other side of the canvas wall. Two guards talking in that too-casual, too-tired way people speak when they’ve stopped caring.

“Girl in blue? Flinched during blood draw.”

“She panic?”

“Full freak out. Wouldn’t calm down.”

“They send her out?”

“East gate.”

JJ goes still.

The world tilts beneath him, as if the ground itself is giving way.

Blue hoodie.

You have his blue hoodie on.

The cold that floods his chest is instant and paralyzing, like drowning in ice water. His hands clench before his brain can catch up.

You panicked. You don’t do well with blood, with being alone. He knows that.

He sees it all—your face twisted in fear, guards grabbing your arms, dragging you down the same path that man took earlier. The East Gate. No second chances. No warnings. Just protocol.

“Fuck!” JJ shouts, voice raw.

The entire tent jolts. John B reaches for him.

“JJ, don’t—”

But JJ is already moving, barreling toward the flap. A soldier steps in his way, rifle half-raised.

“Back off!” the man barks.

“JJ, stop,” John B yells, grabbing his arm. “You’re gonna get yourself killed!”

JJ’s breathing is ragged, wild, shoulders hunched like a dog backed into a corner. His entire body buzzes with adrenaline, too much grief, too much dread. His pulse thunders in his throat, his vision threatening to tunnel.

And just as the sun hits its highest point, there’s a new movement at the tent.

Boots.

A familiar voice arguing with a guard. JJ’s head snaps up like he’s been electrocuted.

You step inside, face dirty, a scratch on your cheek, but alive.

He crosses the tent in three long strides and collides into you with a force that knocks the air from your lungs. His arms slam around your waist and lock there, unyielding. He clutches you like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers if he lets go for even a second. His face drops into the crook of your neck, breath hitting skin in ragged bursts.

“You’re late,” he mumbles, voice breaking on the second word.

You wrap your arms around him just as tightly. “Got held up. You know how it is.”

You blink up at him. There’s a tremble in your lip.

“I thought they were gonna shoot me.”

He doesn’t say anything, not out loud. But something shudders through him.

Because so did he.

He presses his forehead to yours, his hands trembling now too. And then he pulls you back into him like he could press your chest to his, heart to heart, like maybe if he holds you close enough he can feel yours beating and believe it’s real.

They don’t take long to process you once you're cleared, moving quickly. One of the soldiers gestures for you to follow, giving no room for hesitation, no time to second guess. JJ's steps are tight with contained anger, but he keeps quiet, leaning into your presence like a tether to sanity. The others follow behind, still on edge, but trying to stay calm in the face of what’s about to come.

The QZ feels like a ghost town in the middle of a warzone.

The transition from the tent compound into the main section of the quarantine zone is jarring. The first thing that hits you is the smell. Everything smells faintly of chemicals, of cleaning, of too many bodies crammed into too little space for too long. The atmosphere here is oppressive, like the air itself has grown thick with fear. Every step you take feels heavier, the ground beneath you a reminder of how close the world has come to falling apart.

The buildings are small, makeshift things. There’s a high fence, a double-layered security perimeter reinforced with guards patrolling every other corner.

“Welcome to the safe zone,” the soldier mutters, the sarcasm in his voice too sharp to miss.

You glance around, feeling the weight of everything pressing in on you. Everything looks… bleak. The people walking around seem hollow. They move in the same way—tired, resigned, shuffling from one task to the next. Some glance at you as you pass, their eyes flicking away quickly, like they're afraid to make any kind of eye contact. Others are too busy with their own misery to care about the new arrivals. The place feels more like a containment zone than a home.

Your eyes dart from face to face, hoping for a glimpse of some kind of familiarity. The others are behind you, but it's hard to spot anyone in this mess of bodies. Everyone seems to be blending into the concrete and steel of the zone.

The soldier leads you further into the QZ, past checkpoints, overgrown gardens where the wild tang of mold and decay mixes with the remnants of once-tidy parks. Now, they’re barely maintained, full of weeds and stray scraps of plastic and broken concrete. Every corner feels like it’s been abandoned by hope.

Finally, you reach a section that looks slightly different, more organized, more like a camp meant for people who’ve been living here for a while. You see a few tents lined up, with families gathered around small fires. A few makeshift stalls are set up in the corners where people trade what little they have: cans of food, medical supplies, sometimes even old clothes or weapons.

“You’ll be placed here for now, temporary quarters. No fighting, no wandering, no complaints. You wait here until relocation,” the soldier says, motioning to a row of cots in a dimly lit tent. He doesn’t even give you the chance to settle in before he’s walking away, leaving you in the middle of the chaos.

As soon as he’s gone, you let out a breath, your legs weak from the tension of the last few hours. JJ leans against a post, eyeing the area, keeping his guard up.

"Well," he says, turning to you, "this is... something."

You feel a bitter laugh bubble up in your throat but can’t bring yourself to let it out. "Yeah. Home sweet home."

—

The hours stretch. Time doesn't pass here—it drips.

Eventually, the five of you gather near the center of the tent, hunched in a loose circle around a salvaged heating coil someone managed to barter for. It glows weak orange, barely warm, but it’s something. You sit close together, knees brushing, eyes tired, backs curved like the weight of everything is finally sinking in.

No one speaks at first.

Pope chews on the cap of a pen, notebook open in his lap but blank. John B picks at a loose thread on his sleeve like he’s unraveling more than fabric. JJ watches the entrance. Always watching. He doesn’t trust this place. Not the fences, not the soldiers, everything feels like a trap with better branding. Like a cage they put flowers on.

Kiara sits cross-legged with her sling resting across her lap. She’s the one who breaks the silence.

“I should head back soon,” she says, voice low. “My family’s in sector six. They’ve probably already noticed I slipped out. Thought you were dead.”

“You too,” Pope mutters. “It’s been a day.”

Kiara manages a tired smile. “I’ll try to come back tomorrow if I can. But I need to check in with them. My mom’s probably freaking out.”

You reach over, rest a hand on her knee. “I’m glad you all made it in.”

“Me too.”

JJ glances at her. “Let us know if anything changes. If they move you.”

Kiara nods. “I will.”

She gets to her feet carefully, adjusting her sling. Then she crouches down and pulls you into a one-armed hug. “Don’t do anything stupid,” she mumbles.

“No promises,” you say.

She squeezes Pope’s arm on the way out, then locks eyes with John B. “Take care of them.”

He just nods, jaw tight.

And with that she’s gone.

The tent feels different without her, like it just lost one of its walls.

You and the boys sit in silence for a while after. Listening to the low hum of voices outside, the shuffle of boots, the tired murmur of this strange, broken camp.

JJ shifts closer, his thigh brushing yours. He doesn’t say anything. Just stays there.

Eventually, Pope lies down on his cot, notebook on his chest. John B stretches out beside the heater, hoodie pulled over his eyes.

You don’t move yet. You just sit, letting the weight of the night settle in. Letting JJ’s presence beside you be enough, for now.

Later that night, it’s just the two of you still awake.

The others are out cold—John B half-snoring in the corner, Pope curled around his notebook like it might protect him. The tent is quiet except for the hum of a floodlight outside and the distant, unplaceable sound of someone yelling. Or maybe it’s laughing. You can’t tell anymore.

JJ sits beside you on the cot, legs stretched out, arms crossed over his chest. His head leans back against the tent wall like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

You glance at him. “You ever gonna sleep?”

He shrugs. “Not really my style.”

You nudge his foot. “Not sleeping isn’t a personality trait.”

“Tell that to insomnia. She’s my girl now.”

You snort under your breath. “Figures. You always go for the toxic ones.”

JJ finally turns his head, slow and tired and fond. “And yet,” he says, “you’re still here.”

You pretend to be offended. “I didn’t follow you.”

“Oh, okay. So you just happened to run into me with a knife and a death wish while the world was ending?”

“I had a plan,” you lie.

“Yeah?” he glances at you. “Did that plan involve stabbing a guy in the neck with a kitchen knife?”

You pause. “It involved surviving. Stabbing was a bonus.”

JJ chuckles, but it dies too fast. He looks down at his hands. They’re scraped. Still dirty.

He goes quiet for a beat.

You want to say something comforting, but everything in you is tired and scraped raw. So you just lean over, rest your shoulder against his.

“You’re going to stuck with me like it or not” you murmur.

JJ tilts his head until it rests lightly against yours.

“You better be,” he says. “I’m not stable enough to be your tragic backstory.”

You huff out a laugh. “Please. You already are.”

JJ lets out a breath. “Touché.”

A long silence stretches. Not bad. Just… full.

“Hey,” he says eventually. “If I have anxiety spiral at three a.m., you gonna be up for it?”

“Sure. As long as you promise to return the favor when I inevitably lose it over canned ravioli or something.”

JJ bumps his shoulder into yours. “Deal.”

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imsojules · 2 months ago

Text

After the tide turns – Part 3

pairing: jj maybank x fem!reader

tw: implied violence, swearing, military control, inspired by the last of us, established relationship, not fully proof-read, english is not my first language!

a/n: Slowly but surely, we are getting there… If you’re reading this, you deserve a gold star. ✨ Thanks for sticking with me!! Any feedback is really appreciated 😊

word count: 4k

taglist: @chuuuchuuutrain, @d3adfa1ry, @maddsgrace, @darkparablesfan

masterlist | previous | next |

Life in the QZ isn’t like living.

It’s more like… waiting.

Waiting for news. For food. For permission. For a miracle you stopped believing in somewhere between the evacuation and the gates slamming shut behind you.

The sky’s gone pale again. Not pink, not gold—just pale. Like the world forgot how to feel color all the way through. You sit on the edge of a shipping crate near the eastern fence line, picking at the unraveling seam of your sleeve, boots scraping against gravel. From here, you can see the perimeter dogs pacing like clockwork and the rusted-out Humvees resting like carcasses in the dirt.

It’s been three weeks since the first night in the quarantine zone. Since you learned to sleep through shouting, searchlights, and the endless rumble of generators that make your molars ache.

You hear someone crunching over gravel and don’t have to look up to know it’s him.

You don’t turn around. You already know the sound of him. JJ’s footsteps are lazy, a little heavy in the heel. He drops beside you with the kind of exhausted grace that comes from too many late shifts moving supply crates or fixing broken floodlights. He’s radiating heat and the faint scent of metal and sweat and stale nicotine. He doesn’t say anything for a while, just rests his elbows on his knees and looks out over the fence like the ocean might still be out there somewhere, waiting.

His hair’s even messier than usual—cowlicks twisting toward the sun like they’re searching for something.

He nudges your knee with his. “You ghosted breakfast.”

“Didn’t feel like fighting over powdered eggs,” you mutter.

JJ exhales through his nose. “Fair. I think Pope almost got shanked over a granola bar.”

You smile, but it’s small, and tired. You tilt your head until it rests against his shoulder. “I was thinking about my mom again.”

JJ goes quiet. He doesn’t shift away.

“She’s out there somewhere,” you say softly. “Unless… I don’t know. Maybe she got picked up by another zone. Maybe she’s at that coastal one they keep talking about on the boards.”

JJ’s holding your hand tightly. “You’ll see her again.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I don’t,” he admits. “But I know you. You don’t quit.”

You want to believe him. You do. But it’s hard to carry hope without it slipping through your fingers. Especially when they won’t even let you near the comms tent unless you’ve got military clearance or something to trade that matters more than your bones.

There’s a sudden movement to your side, a quiet rustling of fabric. You glance up just in time to see JJ disappearing behind a stack of crates near the supply tent. He moves like a shadow, quick and quiet, but there’s something about the way he moves—like he’s used to this, like he’s been here before.

You don’t say anything. You just watch him for a moment, your curiosity piqued. A few moments later, JJ reappears, slipping back into place beside you with a satisfied look on his face. He’s got a small, wrapped snack in his hand, the edges a little crumpled from being shoved into his pocket. Without a word, he presses it into your palm.

You glance from the snack back up to him. “What’s this?”

“Breakfast,” JJ says, casual, like he didn’t just make a quick getaway to steal something from the supply tent. His eyes flick to the chocolate bar in your hand and then back to the fence.

You raise an eyebrow. “JJ, you didn’t—”

“…anyway,”he interrupts with a grin.

You can’t help but shake your head, but you tear open the wrapper anyway. JJ had a way of getting things others couldn't, which always made you uneasy. It wasn’t that you doubted his intentions, but the others, they might not be so understanding when someone needed a favor in exchange.

You take a bite, savoring the sweet, chocolatey taste that feels like a little piece of normalcy in all this chaos.

JJ watches you, waiting for your reaction. You break off a piece and hold it out to him. “Share with me.”

For a moment, he looks surprised, like he didn’t expect you to offer it. But then he grins, shaking his head. “Nah, you go ahead.”

You raise an eyebrow, insistent. “No, really. You’ve been working way harder than me.”

You pass him half of your bar, watching as he takes it with a smile. He takes a bite, looking over at you in that quiet way, like he’s trying to read something in your expression.

You lean back a little, feeling the warm weight of the moment settle between the two of you.

Before you can say anything else, Pope’s voice echoes across the lot. “Guys!”

You both look up. He’s running, backpack bouncing against his side, glasses crooked from the wind.

JJ stands first. “What happened?”

Pope’s face is flushed, breath hitching. “They’re here. My parents. They’re—they got moved from Charlotte last night. I just saw them by the med tent.”

Something lifts in your chest. “That’s amazing, Pope.”

He nods, eyes wide with something that looks like relief and fear. “They look older. I think my dad broke his arm, but… they’re here.”

JJ claps a hand on his back. “Go. What’re you still doing talking to us?”

Pope grins and bolts, disappearing between tents. For a second, it makes everything else feel… less heavy.

JJ slides a hand down his face. “First win we’ve had since we got here.”

You look at him. “You think we’ll get something good too?”

He doesn’t answer, not at first. But his pinky hooks around yours again. Quiet promise.

You spend the afternoon helping unload new arrivals—quiet, dazed people with burned skin and plastic bags holding their whole lives. You don’t talk much. JJ passes out bottled water and smokes half a cigarette with a soldier who probably shouldn’t be sharing, but no one cares anymore, not really.

Late in the day, Kiara appears with mud-splattered boots, hair tied up and her sleeves rolled. She’s not supposed to be in your sector but she comes when she can, when the guards aren’t paying attention.

She grins when she sees you. “You look like shit.”

“Love you too,” you mutter, tug her into a hug that’s tighter than the insult deserves.

Kiara slides in next to JJ without a word, grabbing a few ration packs from the open bin between them. They’ve done this routine so many times it barely needs words now. She starts stacking cans methodically, hands practiced and fast.

JJ eyes her arrangement. “You’re doing it backwards.”

“No, I’m doing it correctly,” Kiara mutters, not looking up. “You stack the lentils at the bottom. They’re the heaviest.”

JJ scoffs under his breath. “I swear you just make these rules up to mess with me.”

“Or,” she says, with mock patience, “I’ve actually been paying attention to what doesn’t fall over every five seconds.”

Their bickering is familiar, not sharp, not even irritated. Just two people who’ve learned how to fill silence with noise. You crouch nearby, sorting through dented cans for something that doesn’t look like it used to be dog food.

John B’s voice cuts across the yard before anyone can escalate. “Guess who found the holy grail.”

He struts toward them with that same crooked grin he’s always had, the one that somehow survived everything else. A can pokes out from the front of his jacket.

You lift an eyebrow. “What did you do?”

He yanks it free with a flourish. “Peaches.”

“Those are for the med tent,” Pope calls from a few feet away, where he’s digging through a box of old boots. “You can’t just take them.”

“Correction: I didn’t take. I liberated.”

JJ gives a low whistle. “Man’s out here stealing from the sick. That’s bold.”

“Man’s out here about to get a black eye if he doesn’t share,” Kiara adds, eyes narrowing.

John B clutches the can dramatically to his chest. “This is mine now. My prize. My—”

“—your funeral,” JJ says, tossing an empty wrapper at him.

You let yourself laugh softly, the sound catching a little in your throat. The air is thick with smoke from a nearby burn barrel, and it’s started to sink into, your hair, your skin. The world always smells like smoke now. Like something just barely holding on.

JJ turns toward the group, elbow resting on his knee. “Okay, actual question. How many cans of peaches do I have to ‘accidentally find’ before they make me mayor?”

John B doesn’t even look up. “At least twelve. And a working flashlight.”

Pope scoffs. “You? Mayor? You’d try to trade the job for batteries and a hammock.”

JJ points at him. “Exactly. Efficient government.”

You give him a sideways glance. “Pretty sure bribery disqualifies you.”

“Not if it’s delicious bribery,” JJ says, grinning. “I’d be a people’s leader. Generous.”

“And very unhinged,” Pope mutters.

JJ shrugs. “Tomato, tomahto.”

The wind kicks up, rattling the sheet metal roofs on the makeshift shelters. A soldier’s voice echoes across the lot, muffled by a bullhorn and distance. Somewhere near the north end, a child starts to cry. No one flinches anymore. It’s just part of the background.

The fire in the barrel pops, sending sparks spiraling upward.

And for a moment—just a breath—it feels like maybe this is what the end of the world looks like. Not fire. Not chaos. Just people. Still here. Still reaching. Still arguing over stolen peaches like any of it might matter in the end.

It almost feels like before.

Just before sundown, near the old church building that’s been converted into a registration center, you spot her.

It doesn’t register at first. The blonde hair is tangled from wind and days on the road. She’s thinner, face hollowed at the edges, and her eyes scan the yard like she’s looking for a way out—flicking from soldier to tent to crowd, never settling.

But then the light hits her just right, and your breath leaves your lungs.

“Sarah?” you whisper.

JJ freezes beside you, head whipping around. “Wait—what?”

John B’s head snaps around before you even realize you said it aloud. He sees her the same moment she sees him. The distance between them cracks—ten feet, maybe twelve—but it closes fast.

“Holy shit,” he mutters, and then he’s moving.

He drops the can of peaches without a second thought, arms swinging, legs already breaking into a sprint. Sarah meets him halfway. She doesn’t even hesitate. The duffel slips from her shoulder and hits the ground with a thud.

They collide like gravity pulling them into each other—arms locking tight, her feet almost leaving the ground. John B wraps her up like something he’s been afraid to hope for. One of his hands cradles the back of her head. She buries her face in his collarbone and stays there. Behind her, Ward Cameron stands talking to an officer like he’s negotiating a deal. He doesn’t look like someone who’s spent weeks scrounging beneath fences or sleeping in transport trucks.

Beside him, Rafe is slouched against the gate, blood dried on his sleeve, eyes scanning the crowd like he’s already bored of the apocalypse.

Sarah spots you. Her eyes go wide.

You take a step forward, but then she’s running.

You meet halfway, crashing into each other like the sea slamming against rock. Her arms lock around your shoulders, and you feel her tremble in the spaces where she lets herself breathe.

“I thought you were dead,” she says.

“I thought you were,” you whisper.

JJ stands a few feet away, blinking like he’s not sure this is real. His hand curls at his side. Guarded. Watching the Camerons with wary eyes.

JJ hasn’t moved. He’s standing a few feet off, staring like he’s waiting for the ground to crack open under all of you. His jaw tightens when Rafe finally notices you. His smile’s too slow, too sharp.

Sarah notices, too. Her grip tightens. “Things got bad after, but… he got us here. He got us in.” she says quickly.

You glance over her shoulder at Ward, who’s still deep in conversation with one of the guards—handing over paperwork like he’s negotiating a business deal instead of survival. He’s clean, shaven, somehow not sunburned. That alone sets him apart from the rest of you.

JJ’s still watching Ward. “He’s not staying in here long, not like this.” he mutters. “You think Ward Cameron’s gonna sleep on a cot next to strangers and a leaking ceiling? Nah. He’s already working his angle.”

Sarah doesn’t deny it.

Ward had always known how to make himself indispensable. It was just a matter of time before someone realized how much he was controlling.

The generator sputters behind you, kicking into a louder gear. More floodlights flicker on. Night is coming fast now, and the air's cooling too quickly, the kind that sinks into your sleeves and stays. You wrap your arms around yourself, grounding.

JJ steps closer, brushing your elbow. “We should go. They’ll start lockdown soon.”

You nod, but look back to Sarah. “Will I see you tomorrow?”

Sarah’s eyes soften. “Try and stop me.”

She squeezes your arm before slipping away into the registration line, already half-swallowed by the crowd. You watch her go until the knot in your throat threatens to choke you.

JJ is quiet beside you, hands jammed into his pockets. His expression is unreadable—guarded, tight around the mouth. You know that look. You’ve seen it when he’s cornered. When he’s thinking too much and saying too little.

You bump his arm gently. “You okay?”

He lets out a short breath that could be a laugh or a scoff. “Yeah. I just… wasn’t expecting ghosts today.”

You glance back toward Ward and Rafe. They’re still at the edge of the yard, somehow untouched by the grime and wear the rest of you carry like a second skin.

JJ notices your stare. “He’s gonna try something. You know that, right?”

“Ward always tries something,” you murmur.

JJ shrugs, but his jaw clenches again. “People like him don’t just show up. They maneuver.”

You nod slowly. You’ve lived with hope long enough to know it cuts both ways—sharper than loss, if you’re not careful.

A voice crackles over the loudspeaker: “Evening lockdown in ten. All residents report to assigned shelter zones.”

JJ groans under his breath. “Great. Home sweet sardine can.”

He doesn’t move, though. Not until your hand brushes his. His fingers twitch, then curl around yours, warm and familiar.

—

The next morning comes too quickly. You wake to the sound of metal groaning.

It scrapes low and long from somewhere outside the tent, followed by the crunch of gravel under boots and the faint clatter of something being dropped—wood? metal? It’s hard to tell anymore. Everything echoes here. The ground is cold beneath the thin cot, the air dense with damp and the chemical stink of bleach and diesel. And for one moment—one still, breathless moment—you forget where you are.

Then you feel him.

JJ is curled behind you, legs tangled with yours, his arm heavy across your waist like he didn’t trust the world not to steal you again. His forehead is pressed between your shoulder blades, breath warm and steady against the fabric of your shirt. One of his fingers twitches in sleep where it rests just below your ribs, the faintest, unconscious motion. Holding on. You’re not sure when the two of you fell asleep like this, tangled and folded together on the cot, like exhaustion finally cracked the last of your defenses and you just… collapsed inward. Toward each other. His arm is draped across your ribs now, not heavy, but anchoring.

You don’t move.

If you move, the morning will start. The world will come back into focus: the fences, the checkpoints, the unreadable stares from the guards. The silence of people who’ve lost too much to speak freely. If you move, you might break this fragile, borrowed peace.

So you stay still and stare at the tent ceiling—stained canvas stretched tight across metal poles, little tears along the seams letting in soft beams of light. Dust floats in those shafts like something sacred. Motes of gold suspended in breathless air.

Across the tent, the others are silent.

John B is bundled under a worn blanket on the far cot, one arm flung over his eyes like it’s the only way to keep the nightmares out. Pope lies curled into himself, glasses askew on his face, one hand still clinging to a spiral notebook. He keeps it like it’s armor. Like if he documents enough, he might make sense of the senseless.

JJ stirs against you, a small exhale catching in his throat. He shifts slightly, his fingers tightening for a second. You feel the moment his breathing changes. His awareness returning.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep and something heavier. “You still here?”

You nod, not trusting your voice. Just reach back and find his hand, linking your fingers. His grip tightens instantly.

He doesn’t say anything right away. Just exhales slow and deep, like he’s trying to hold the moment steady. Then, a soft laugh stirs the back of your neck.

“That burst last time… what do you think? SMG?”

You wait a beat before replying, just to mess with him. “Nah. Too clean. That was a rifle. Suppressed, maybe.”

The game had started as a joke, something stupid to pass the time while the world crumbled outside. Every distant pop in the night — a single shot, a burst, a rumble — became a challenge. Guess the caliber. The weapon. The direction.

It was the dumbest game you’d ever played. It also kept you sane.

“God, you’re so wrong.” His voice is warm against your spine, laced with a grin. “Definitely an SMG. Close range. You can always hear the tighter recoil if you actually pay attention.”

You scoff, quiet. “I do pay attention. You’re just mad I’m better at this than you.”

He huffs, the sound low in his chest. “Please. You thought a pistol was a shotgun last week.”

“That was one time.”

He laughs, soft and muffled. You can feel it more than hear it.

Beyond the canvas walls, the world stirs.

You hear voices—low, tense. A cough, close enough to make your skin crawl. The slap of a tarp in the wind. Somewhere far off, dogs bark in clipped, controlled bursts. You can picture them: lean, alert, leashed to perimeter poles, trained to bite first and ask questions later.

Then, all at once, a sound cuts through it all.

A siren. Sharp and mechanical.

A single sharp burst, brief yet freezing your veins with ice. Just enough to hush every whisper, halt every movement in its tracks.

JJ jerks upright behind you, his hand still tangled in yours. His eyes are wide, shoulders already braced like he’s waiting for the sky to fall.

Across the tent, John B scrambles upright, kicking free of his blanket. “Shit. That’s not the generator alarm.”

Pope’s notebook hits the floor with a soft slap. “External breach?”

“No.” JJ shakes his head. “Too short. That was… a signal.”

JJ’s already halfway to the flap before you fully stand. That tight, coiled readiness in his body—it’s not just adrenaline. It’s him, defaulting to fight when everything inside you screams “hide.”

You’re already shoving your boots on, heart kicking hard against your ribs. Your fingers tremble as you tug the laces, mind racing through every possibility, none of them good. As you move, your boot crunches something. The chocolate wrapper from yesterday, half-buried in the dirt. Sweetness turned to trash in less than a day.

Kiara appears in the tent flap like she was summoned by the noise. “South gate’s flooded. At least twenty coming through, unannounced. They weren’t on any of the incoming rosters.”

“How the hell did they get past clearance?” Pope asks.

“They didn’t,” she says grimly. “Someone let them in.”

The words hang heavy, more accusation than theory. You exchange a glance with JJ. It doesn’t need to be said. You’re all thinking the same thing: Ward.

You stand, brushing off your knees, and Kiara grabs your arm. “It’s bad. Some of them are armed. Guards are on edge. If they panic, it’s gonna turn ugly fast.”

John B is already halfway to the exit, voice sharp. “Where’s Sarah?”

Kiara shakes her head. “I haven’t seen her. But I saw Rafe. He’s walking the fence line like he owns it.”

JJ curses under his breath, teeth clenched. “Of course he is.”

You shoulder your pack on instinct, even though it’s mostly empty. Just the essentials. A flashlight. A knife. A few protein bars. You don’t wait to be told anymore. You just move.

Outside, the yard is chaos.

People swarm in clusters, some still in pajamas, others half-geared up, heads swiveling like prey. Soldiers bark orders, trying to herd the crowd away from the south gate. One of the guards near the tower has his rifle unslung and ready, finger twitching on the trigger guard. That alone sends ice down your spine.

JJ glances at you, his fingers brushing your elbow. “Stay close, alright?”

You nod, not because you’re worried, but because losing someone in all this chaos is a feeling you never want to know again.

Beyond the fence, you can just make out a line of new arrivals: sunburned, dust-coated, and in worse shape than any group you've seen come through so far. But it’s not the condition they’re in that sets you on edge—it’s their eyes. Hard. Watchful. Like they’re casing the place instead of seeking refuge.

And at the front of the pack, calm as ever, stands Ward Cameron.

He’s not saying anything. Not smiling. Not pretending to be charitable. He just meets the gaze of every soldier like he’s already made a deal they haven’t caught up to yet.

JJ steps up beside you. “He brought them in to flip leverage. Trade power for people.”

You nod slowly. “And now he’s got numbers.”

Pope runs up, glasses askew again, breath tight. “Command tent’s already closed ranks. Nobody’s saying anything.”

John B rounds on him. “Sarah?”

Pope hesitates. “I think I saw her near the med tent. But… she didn’t look happy.”

JJ’s hand grazes your back. “We need to find her.”

You nod again. Then the second siren goes off—shorter this time, sharper. Two bursts. You all freeze.

Kiara curses. “That’s a weapons-lock signal.”

Soldiers rush the fence line. Rifles up. Safeties off.

Ward raises both hands, calm and slow. He says something to the guard captain—too far away to hear, but it makes the captain’s shoulders square up like he’s been slapped.

Then the gate opens.

You stagger forward half a step, disbelief crashing through your ribs.

“No, no, no,” JJ mutters, pulling you back with a hand around your arm. “They’re not just letting them in.”

But they are.

The first wave steps through in a staggered, predatory formation—no panic, no desperation. Just calm calculation. One of them has a machete slung through his belt like a warning.

The guards didn’t raise weapons. That was the worst part. They just watched. Like they were waiting. Like they'd been told to let it happen.

John B pushes forward, eyes locked on Sarah, who’s appeared at the edge of the med tent, frozen in place. She sees the men enter. Sees her father behind them. Her eyes flick to you, wide and furious.

You see it before she even moves.

She turns—and bolts.

“Sarah!” John B shouts, taking off after her.

JJ’s already pulling you, his voice low and steady. “We can’t be near the front. Not when this goes bad.”

Kiara’s on your other side now, fingers already around the blade at her hip. “This is a takeover.”

“No,” you breathe, watching Ward stride through the gate like a man arriving to claim a throne. “It’s already done.”

54 notes · View notes

imsojules · 25 days ago

Text

After the tide turns – Part 6

pairing: jj maybank x fem!reader

tw: post-apocalyptic themes, angst, grief, blood, violence, graphic injury, references to isolation and loss, swearing, this part is slightly suggestive, inspired by the last of us, established relationship, english is not my first language!

a/n: hi everyone!! sorry for the looong wait i hope you love this one, your kind feedback was my fuel working on this (also, i’m a coward when it comes to writing smut, but maybe i’ll try it later) ❤️‍🩹

word count: 6k

taglist: @chuuuchuuutrain, @d3adfa1ry, @maddsgrace, @darkparablesfan, @yulianie, @they-call-me-whiskey, @sanriobuny, @bbyg4rl, @andrealux21

masterlist | previous | next |

You don’t remember the shoreline.

One minute, there’s ocean and blood and JJ’s hands pressed to your side, telling you to breathe. The next moments you feel the sand under your boots, your legs buckling, and someone catching you before you hit the ground.

Now you’re on your back, staring up at a sky that feels too blue for the world you just crawl out of. Someone’s shouting nearby—Pope, maybe. Sarah’s voice cuts in, sharp and panicked. There’s a crack of static from the radio.

Your mouth is dry. Your side burns like fire. You try to sit up and immediately regret it.

“Whoa—hey, no. No, no, no.” JJ’s voice is close, hoarse, and shaking just enough to give him away. He eases you back down, both hands bracing your shoulders. “You move again and I swear to God, I’m duct taping you to the damn sand.”

“I’m fine,” you mumble, eyes fluttering.

“Yeah? And I’m running for governor next year. Stay still please.”

Another shadow passes over and it's Pope with a med bag slung over one shoulder and a knife in the other.

He leans over you, his voice softens, almost a whisper. “You hang on a little longer, alright? We’re almost somewhere.”

You nod, barely. You’re not sure what somewhere is. Just that it isn’t here.

JJ shifts beside you, crouching low. “Okay, arms around me.”

Your legs work, kind of. Enough to make it vertical, with JJ bracing your weight like a crutch. The first few steps are rough. Your knees wobble. Pain flares under your ribs, but you stay standing.

Kiara moves ahead, scanning the treeline. “There’s a gas station about half a mile up. No movement. Roof’s still on. We can hole up there.”

JJ glances at her. “That’ll do.”

The walk is slow. You lean into JJ’s side like a second shadow. His arm wraps around your waist, steady, guiding your steps without rushing them. Every few paces he checks you, tilting his head to look into your eyes, asking nothing out loud.

The others move quietly ahead. Pope fiddles with the busted radio, catching scraps of static. John B goes with Sarah, who’s limping hard but says nothing.

The gas station appears out of the trees like it’s waiting. The sign is half fallen, hanging from one rusted chain. The windows are cracked, stickers sun-bleached and peeling. The pumps are rusted over and swarmed with weeds. One truck sits off to the side, long abandoned, vines curling through the shattered windshield.

JJ tightens his grip on you. “Almost there.”

Inside, it’s better than it looks. The glass door creaks when Pope pushes it open. The lights are dead, but sunlight cuts in through grime streaked windows. Shelves are knocked over, snacks scattered like ghosts of a time when people used to care about candy.

There’s no one here.

No rot, just a sour, chemical staleness and dust in your mouth.

JJ lowers you slowly behind the counter, onto a pile of folded jackets someone drags from the back office.

You wince as you sink down, the pressure making your side scream.

“Hey,” JJ says, kneeling beside you. “Deep breaths. You’re good. We’re here.”

He peels your jacket back and nods to Pope, who’s already pulling the med bag off his shoulder.

“This is gonna suck,” he mutters, crouching next to you.

“Don’t sugarcoat it or anything,” you rasp.

JJ stays next to you through all of it—cleaning, wrapping, taping. You try to hide how much it hurts, but you feel his hand squeeze yours tighter every time you flinch. He doesn’t let go.

“You’ll be okay,” Pope finally says. “It just needs time.”

JJ breathes out through his nose, quiet but heavy.

You look up at him. “You okay?”

“Ask me tomorrow.” He leans back against the counter beside you, dirt smudged and silent.

Outside, the wind rattles the old sign, whispering through the cracked windows. John B’s boots shuffle over the cracked floor as he glances toward Sarah, who sits slumped against the wall, eyes closed, breathing steady but slow. Her injured leg tucks carefully beneath her, resting.

He nods to Kiara and Pope. “You two check the shelves. I’ll take the back rooms.”

Kiara steps lightly past the fallen candy racks, fingers brushing over dusty cans. She pauses, lifting a rusted wrench, weighing it thoughtfully. “This could work.”

Pope crouches beside a shelf, peeling back a layer of grime from a few water bottles. He shakes one gently, it’s still sealed.

John B pushes open a creaking door to a dim storage closet. He steps inside, flashlight beam cutting through the dust. Boxes lean against shelves, some spilling old supplies.

From above, a faint creak sounds. John B freezes, light flicking upward.

“Probably just the roof,” Pope whispers, fingers tightening around his knife.

The sound above groans again, longer this time. Something shifts. Not quite footsteps, not quite wind.

John B holds his breath, light steady on the ceiling. Dust filters down in thin ribbons, stirred by movement or maybe just the air. He backs out of the closet slow, one step at a time, eyes never leaving the ceiling.

“I don’t like that,” Kiara murmurs, voice low. Her grip tightens on the wrench.

John B returns to the main room, flashlight dimmed with his hand. “Could be an animal,” he says, not believing it himself. “I’ll check upstairs.”

Sarah stiffens immediately. “No. You’re not going up there alone.”

John B turns toward her, his free hand resting on the edge of the counter. “I’ll be quick. We need to know what that was.”

He grabs a flashlight and a crowbar from the counter. Kiara steps forward, determination in her eyes. “I’m coming with you.”

John B nods, appreciating her resolve. ��Alright. Let’s move.”

Together, they head toward the narrow staircase leading to the second floor. The wood creaks under their weight as they climb, the beam from the flashlight cutting through the darkness. Dust swirls in the stale air, disturbed by their movement.

Kiara grips her wrench tightly, eyes sharp, listening to every sound.

At the top, the hallway stretches out, lined with old doors, some hanging crooked. The air smells of mildew and rust.

John B tests the first door, it creaks open to an office cluttered with scattered papers, but nothing useful. The next door opens to a storage room. Boxes of old inventory are spilled across the floor, some broken, others intact.

Suddenly, a faint scraping noise comes from down the hall.

They freeze, the beam of the flashlight sweeping toward the sound and exchange a look before moving cautiously toward the door. Shadows flicker near the stairwell door leading to the roof.

Prying it open, they step onto the roof, which is partly collapsed but still intact enough to stand on.

Just beyond the broken beams sits a small, rusted metal box. John B kneels and pries it open with the crowbar.

Inside are a handful of dusty but functional batteries, a pack of flares, and a half-full canister of gasoline.

Kiara exhales, a small smile tugging at her lips. “This could save us.”

—

The days blur.

You don’t remember sleeping, just closing your eyes when the sun disappears and trying to pretend that the wind isn’t sharp, that the ground isn’t cold, that the pain in your side doesn’t flare every time you shift. The batteries your friends found, give the flashlights a heartbeat just enough light to make the nights feel less like a grave.

But you’re upright now. Walking, sort of.

The group moves slow but steady, following cracked roads lined with trees that have long since swallowed everything manmade. Some paths are too overgrown, so they climb fences, crawl through cars, duck under sagging porches. Each mile west is harder than the last, but nobody says it.

Pope maps the route each morning with sticks in the dirt. Loops them into shapes that vaguely resemble towns, gas stations, something like civilization. He scratches them out before moving on, as if erasing hope before it has time to root.

Nobody’s slept well in days, and the canned beans Sarah found two towns back taste like rust and regret. You sit on a broken curb, legs outstretched, your side still bandaged tight. JJ’s next to you, silent, picking at a thread on his shirt.

“Tell me again,” he mutters, voice low and bitter, “why the hell we’re still walking toward Winslow.”

Everyone looks up.

Pope glances at Kiara, then at the ground. “You know damn well if our parents made it out—”

“If,” JJ cuts in, sharp. “Big if.”

Kiara stands. “That’s my mom and dad we’re talking about.”

“I know,” JJ snaps, not backing down. “I know. I want to believe, I really fucking do. But every time we chase hope, it turns into another blood soaked dead end.”

“We don’t stop,” Pope says, voice hardening. “Not until we know.”

Sarah nods. “He’s right. If there’s even a chance, we take it. Winslow’s got a signal. It’s inland, high ground. Maybe they really did secure it.”

“Or maybe they just got better at hiding the bodies,” JJ says.

You shift slightly, wincing at the pull in your side. “JJ…”

But he’s already pacing now, hands tight at his sides. “I’m not trying to piss on anyone’s hope, okay? I’m just saying there is too many places that looked like ‘safe zones’ and ended up mass graves with gates. What if Winslow’s just another one?”

Kiara steps toward him, jaw clenched. “What do you want us to do huh? Turn around? Go where, JJ?”

He pauses. That’s the thing—he doesn’t have a better answer. His frustration isn’t about the destination. It’s about what they’ve had to become just to get this far. About not being able to keep the people he loves about from bleeding out in his arms.

“I just…” he exhales, jaw tightening. “If it’s a trap, we don’t walk into it like sheep. That’s all I’m saying.”

“We’ll be careful,” John B says. “We’ll scout first. Stay smart.”

JJ stops pacing. His eyes flick to Kiara and Pope, softer now. “I'm sorry I want to find them too, okay? I do. I just don’t want the price to be all of us.”

The silence that follows isn’t angry, just heavy and worn out. Like everyone knows he might be right, but no one’s ready to turn around.

Kiara rubs her hands over her face. “We really have to keep moving. If Winslow turns out to be what we think it is, maybe we’re finally not just surviving anymore.”

JJ sits beside you again, quieter this time. “I really want that.”

You lean into his side, whispering, “Then don’t run from it yet.”

The next night drapes itself over the cracked highway, thick and suffocating. Every shadow feels heavier now, like the world is waiting for something to snap. Your side aches with every step, but the pulse of adrenaline dulls the pain.

JJ moves just ahead, eyes scanning the darkness. Kiara follows close, wrench ready. Pope keeps the radio slung loosely around his neck, static crackling faintly between dead channels. Sarah limps behind, and John B watches the treeline like a hawk.

The crunch of dry leaves snaps you all to attention.

“Hold up,” JJ whispers, sliding behind a fallen signpost.

You freeze, heart hammering loud enough to drown out the night. Then, from the trees, they come.

Hungry and ragged, the infected spill into the clearing, drawn by noise or scent, there’s no telling anymore. Their faces are twisted, skin mottled with pale fungus, eyes glassy and empty. They move slow but relentless, groaning low, arms outstretched like puppets caught in a terrible dance.

Kiara tightens her grip on the wrench. “How many?”

Pope counts quietly. “Five. Six.”

The group fans out silently, positioning themselves near the wrecked cars and overgrown bushes, ready to strike.

JJ’s voice is a harsh whisper. “No noise. No mistakes.”

You can feel your heartbeat in your throat, loud and frantic. Every breath a blade, but you force stillness. Your fingers close tightly around a rusted pipe someone picked up earlier.

One infected lunges towards Sarah. She stumbles, a raw cry ripping through the night air.

“Watch out!” John B rushes, shoving the creature aside with brutal force. It snarls, eyes flaring with a savage hunger.

Kiara swings her wrench with deadly precision, the sickening crack of bone echoing as heads snap back. The others move with practiced deadly efficiency.

You’re frozen for a moment, eyes wide, when a second infected breaks from the pack, suddenly charging toward John B. Before he can react, it’s trying to sink its yellowed teeth into John B’s forearm.

A shout rips through the night, John B’s shocked roar, the infected’s guttural growl.

“Get it off!” JJ yells, sprinting forward, wrench raised. He slams the creature with a brutal swing, knocking it back. Pope steps in, knife flashing in the moonlight, cutting into the infected’s skull with practiced ease.

John B staggers back, clutching his arm, face pale but fierce. Blood drips slow and sticky.

Your chest tightens, heart hammering. For a second, it feels like the world tilts, chaos crashing in. But John B’s jaw sets firm, his eyes fierce and steady.

“Fuck!” John B growls, heart pounding, breath ragged. “I’m good, I-”

JJ grabs his wrist. “Let me see.”

“I said I’m good,” John B snaps, but his voice wavers just enough to betray him.

Pope’s already at his side, flashlight in one hand, knife still wet in the other. “Show us, JB.”

Reluctantly, John B pulls back the torn sleeve. Everyone leans in waiting for proof of what they fear most.

No bite. Just a deep, ugly scrape where the creature’s teeth caught the fabric. JJ exhales like he’s been holding his breath for hours. “Jesus Christ, man.”

“It didn’t get through,” Pope confirms, inspecting it close. “He’s fine.”

John B sinks down against a nearby tree, breathing heavy. “Close. Too close.”

Nobody says anything for a second. Just wind in the leaves and the quiet, bitter pulse of fear still humming beneath their skin, then JJ mutters, “Next time, scream sooner.”

John B huffs a tired laugh, pressing the back of his hand to his forehead. “Didn’t want to cause a panic.”

Kiara snorts. “Bit late for that.”

You lean against a rusted car frame, the ache in your side flaring again. JJ looks over at you, eyes scanning for blood, for breaks, for anything.

You give him the smallest nod.

Sarah sinks down beside John B, her movements stiff, pain in her leg forcing a grimace. “Let me see it,” she murmurs, reaching for his arm.

He hesitates for a beat, then lets her take it. Her fingers are gentle, brushing the torn fabric back. She examines the scrape, biting her lip.

“It’s nothing,” he says.

She exhales, shoulders sagging. “This was too close. I really don’t want to sleep outside with these again.”

John B leans his head back against the tree trunk, letting the silence swallow the space between them. The night hums with leftover adrenaline. Somewhere far off, an owl calls, wind rustles high branches.

“We won’t,” he says, voice lower now. “We’ll find cover.”

JJ shifts beside you, glancing up at the stars barely visible through the canopy. “Yeah. Before anything else finds us out here.”

Pope zips the bloodied knife back into the pack, glancing down the road. “There’s a farmhouse marked on the old map. About two miles south.”

“Still standing?” Kiara asks.

He shrugs. “Only one way to know.”

“Cool,” JJ says, voice brittle. “Another building to hope doesn’t collapse or come pre-loaded with corpses. Sounds cozy.”

Kiara throws him a sharp look. “We don’t get options anymore, JJ. Just directions.”

You shift your weight, the cold biting through your clothes now that the fight’s over and the sweat is drying. “Then we go south.”

The group slowly rises, one by one. Sarah leans into John B as he stands, and he steadies her with one hand. Kiara helps Pope fold the bloodied tarp they’d used to drag supplies earlier. JJ helps you to your feet, his hand under your elbow, lingering longer than necessary.

“Two miles,” he mutters. “You think you’ve got that in you?”

You nod. “I’ve got one more run in me.”

JJ doesn’t smile, but his eyes flicker, like for a second he believes you. Or needs to. He squeezes your arm once, firm. “Then let’s just fucking go.”

The road south isn’t much of a road at all, just a gravel vein strangled by weeds and broken fences, stretching into dense trees. The moon hangs low, swollen and yellow, casting long shadows that twitch when no one moves. It’s quiet again, not peaceful just empty. The kind of silence that means something used to live here.

They pass a rusted sign half-buried in ivy. The words barely readable, but Pope squints up at it anyway.

“St. Boniface Academy,” he reads aloud, brows knitting. “Catholic school, maybe?”

“Creepy as hell,” Kiara mutters.

“Bet it’s haunted by every kid who ever got detention,” JJ says, adjusting his grip on your waist.

“Let’s check it out,”

The trees thin out, revealing the hulking shadow of the school just beyond a sagging gate. Three stories of crumbling brick and shattered windows, like a relic ripped out of a fever dream. Ivy crawls up one side like it’s trying to pull the place back into the earth.

JJ steps forward slowly, head tilted. “No obvious rot. Roof’s still on. Doesn’t smell like death yet. I’m calling that a win.”

You all file in through the twisted front gate. A sign above the entrance hangs at a crooked angle, the name of the school half-faded, half-burned. You can still make out the motto: “In veritate victoria.”

Kiara scoffs. “Victory in truth. That aged well.”

The front doors are busted, swinging inward on rusted hinges. Inside, the main hall stretches wide and dark, moonlight painting jagged shapes through broken glass. Lockers line the walls, some dented, some hanging open like yawning mouths. A school banner hangs limp from the ceiling, shredded and ash-stained.

John B steps inside first, flashlight flicking through the gloom. “Check the main floor. We need a room with a lock, and no skylight.”

Sarah limps beside him, hand skimming the wall for balance.

JJ helps you through the doorway, steady as always, even though his jaw’s clenched and his knuckles are scraped raw.

“You good?” he asks, glancing down at you.

You nod, breath shaky. Then your eyes flick to his, too tired and so tense.

“What about you?” you ask, quieter. “You’re bleeding.”

He huffs a short laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Great. I’ll start panicking when you do.”

You frown, not letting go of his gaze. “No, you won’t.”

He doesn’t answer this time just squeezes your side a little tighter and keeps walking.

Pope finds a door to what was probably the nurse’s office. It still locks. There's an old cot, metal and rusting, and cabinets full of dust and forgotten pills.

“We’ve had worse,” he says, flicking the lock with a click.

Everyone drifts in, unpacking with quiet, methodical exhaustion. John B sets Sarah down on the cot. Kiara props a chair against the doorknob just in case.

JJ lowers you onto an old beanbag that must’ve belonged to the school’s sad excuse for a chill-out zone. It smells like mold and axe body spray, but you’d sit on broken glass right now if it meant staying off your feet.

He kneels beside you again then sits back, legs stretched out, head leaning against the wall. For a second, he closes his eyes. Not sleep, just that shell-shocked kind of stillness that comes after too many near-misses.

And for the first time in days, you let your head fall back against the cold wall and think: maybe this place can keep you safe, just for a little while.

—

You wake with a stiff neck, the pain in your side dull but persistent. JJ’s already up, moving quietly near the door, checking the lock on the cot’s door again. Around you, the others begin to stir—Sarah carefully testing her leg with gentle caution.

JJ catches your eye. “You ready to see what this place actually looks like in the daylight?”

You nod, swallowing the tiredness.

The group gathers near the door, Kiara pushing a chair aside as John B locks up their makeshift shelter.

The hallway smells of dust and old books, mixed with the faint metallic tang of rust. Lockers line the walls, some open, some dented or jammed. A faded mural of children reading lines one wall—cheerful, ghostly in the quiet.

Kiara kicks a locker door open, dust motes swirling. “At least no one’s been living here.”

Pope moves ahead, flashlight ready even though the light pours through broken windows. “We’ll check classrooms, the gym, the cafeteria. Anything useful.”

He finds a supply closet and pulls open the door, revealing dusty cleaning tools and a box of canned food which is expired but maybe worth the risk.

John B calls out from the hallway. “Found something.”

You all rush to the main office, where he’s standing beside a metal filing cabinet. The drawers creak open to reveal papers—maps, blueprints of the school, and a weathered folder labeled Emergency Supplies.

Kiara flips through it quickly. “Looks like there was a plan to stockpile food and meds here. Guess it never got fully used.”

JJ sighs, rubbing his forehead. “Figures. Always one step behind.”

You crouch beside the filing cabinet, your fingers brushing over a folded piece of paper—an evacuation route marked in shaky handwriting.

“Maybe this is what they used to try to get out,” you say softly.

Sarah nods, eyes distant. “Or maybe it’s just another dead end.”

The group falls silent for a moment, the weight of the place settling in.

Kiara breaks it. “We take what we can and hold tight. This might be the best spot we get for a while.”

You glance down the hall toward a narrow door marked “Maintenance.” JJ gestures toward it, eyes bright with a sudden idea.

The corridor feels cooler here, the stale air shifting as you step closer. A flicker of anticipation runs through the group.

Kiara pushes the door open, revealing rows of grimy shower stalls, tiles cracked and stained but intact. Water pipes line the walls, some dripping faintly.

A collective breath catches.

JJ steps forward, testing a faucet, and water sputters before flowing steadily.

“Running water,” he grins, a spark lighting up his tired face. “We hit the jackpot.”

Kiara laughs, a breath of relief breaking through. “I’m going first — fuck y’all, get out.”

John B scans the room, then calls out, “There’s a storage closet down the hall, might be towels or soap.”

Kiara’s already stripping down, grinning. “Don’t wait up, losers.”

You lean against the wall, watching the others start to relax in a way you haven’t seen since you arrived. Water drips from the pipes, echoing softly off the tiled walls. It’s almost surreal, like a promise of normalcy.

A few minutes later, John B returns with a small stash of shampoos and soap bottles cradled in his arms like precious cargo. “Alright, let’s get clean, people.”

You watch the others file out one by one, the sound of water dripping and muffled voices fading down the hall. Kiara comes out first, wrapped in a towel, her hair still damp and smelling faintly of soap. Sarah follows, rubbing a towel over her hair, while Pope and John B linger near the storage closet, grabbing a last bottle of shampoo between them.

Finally, the room falls quiet, steam curling softly up from the shower drains.

JJ looks at you, eyes tired but something lighter flickering behind them. “Your turn?”

You nod, voice low but steady. “Come with me? I don’t think there’s much water left.”

He hesitates, then meets your gaze. “Alright.”

Just then, Kiara’s voice calls out from the doorway, loud and teasing. “Don’t make babies, guys.” She laughs a little before disappearing down the hall.

JJ smirks, shaking his head while you roll your eyes and too tired to respond.

The warm water cascades over your skin, steam wrapping around you both like a soft blanket. JJ’s eyes catch yours, tired but gentle, and with a small nod, he steps closer.

“Let me,” he murmurs.

His hands are careful as they reach out, fingers tracing the tender edges on your side — aching but already starting to heal. His touch is feather-light, reverent, like he’s memorizing every inch of you. You close your eyes for a moment, letting the vulnerability settle between you.

You reach back in return, palms warm, hands move slowly, gently washing away the grime and pain with soft, deliberate strokes.

JJ leans into your touch, the tension in his shoulders easing as you carefully tend to him. “Feels… better,” he says quietly, voice rough but sincere.

You smile a little without him seeing, heart swelling with something fierce and tender all at once.

His hands lift to your hair, fingertips threading through the wet strands, washing shampoo out with care as if trying to scrub away more than just dirt.

You can’t even remember the last time you two had a quiet moment like this, just the two of you. You press your forehead to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your skin — a grounding, quiet rhythm.

The world beyond the shower fades, replaced by the warm water. Slowly, JJ lowers his head until his lips brush yours and it’s so soft and searching, like a question. You don’t hesitate. The kiss deepens, brief but full of everything you both need.

When you both finally step out, wrapping yourselves in towels, you notice a small scrap of paper taped to the shower door. JJ peels it off carefully and reads aloud:

“We figured you two deserve some peace and quiet. Don’t do anything crazy.— Sarah”

You let out a tired breath and lean your head back against the wall, mind drifting as you try to sort through the swirl of everything. You want to reach for him, to close the distance between you but you know you can’t. Your body still aches and the last thing you want is to push yourself too far or rush what needs time. The weight of that unspoken truth sits heavy on your chest.

“I miss…” Your voice trails off, hesitant. “I miss being close like that.”

JJ’s lips twitch, half a sigh. “Yeah,” he says, voice low. “Me too. But we gotta be smart. Can’t exactly… you know, jump into that right now.”

You nod, grateful he understands without pushing.

You both dry off slowly, the warmth of the shower lingering on your skin, but the chill of the air reminding you that you need to get dressed. JJ grabs one of the clean shirts Sarah found in the storage closet, holding it out for you with a small, gentle smile. You accept it quietly, pulling it over your still damp hair and feeling the soft fabric settle against your skin.

He dresses quickly in his own worn clothes, the familiar routine comforting in its simplicity. The quiet between you is easy, filled with unspoken understanding. Neither of you rushes, savoring the calm.

JJ leads the way back down the hall toward the corner where the bean bag sits, a makeshift throne in the middle of your shelter. You collapse onto it together, his arms wrapping around you instinctively, holding you close.

The silence stretches, but it’s not heavy or uncomfortable. Your head finds its place against his chest again, and you listen to the steady thump of his heartbeat—a steady, grounding rhythm that somehow makes everything feel less scary.

“I want to sleep for weeks,” you murmur, voice thick with longing. “Just sleep… and maybe eat all the food we can find when I wake up.”

JJ’s hand brushes your wet hair back gently, thumb tracing lazy circles against your scalp.

“Babe, that’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

You scoff, turning your face slightly into the worn fabric of his shirt.

After a long pause, JJ shifts slightly. You expect him to settle in, but instead, he leans over and grabs something off the nearby supply crate. He tosses it toward you gently a familiar, beat-up protein bar. “It’s the last chocolate peanut butter one. I was saving it. But you earned it.”

You tear the wrapper open carefully, then snap the bar in half and hold one piece out toward him. “We’re sharing.”

JJ stares at the half of the protein bar in your outstretched hand like it's something sacred.

“You sure?” he says, voice soft, teasing around the edges. “You just said you want to eat everything we have. This is prime loot.”

You shrug, trying to smile. “I want you to have it.”

JJ takes it, fingers brushing yours, and for a moment he just looks at you like he’s searching for something behind your tired eyes. Some spark. Some glimpse of how you used to be, before the the long days of running and hiding and hurting.

Your thoughts are somewhere else, so he doesn’t say anything about it. Just lifts the piece of the bar like a toast and grins.

“Love you more than I love this protein bar,” he says, words light, but voice a little rougher than before. “And I fucking love this protein bar.”

You go still.

It’s not like he hasn’t said it before. But it’s been a while. And something about hearing it now, tucked between bites of sugar and exhaustion, makes your chest ache in a different way.

Still, you manage to meet his eyes.

“Hey,” you whisper, your voice just above a breath. “I love you.”

And JJ softens. He leans forward and kisses you slow and lingering. Then he rests his chin on top of your head and wraps both arms tighter around you, like he knows that you’re trying. That you’re here, even if it’s hard to reach you sometimes. He misses you and he can't do this without you. JJ wonders if you know that.

You shift slightly, just enough to look up at him. “You okay?”

JJ lets out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh, but there’s no real humor in it.

“Yeah,” he says, then shrugs, eyes on the ceiling like maybe the answer’s up there. “I mean… not really. But you’re here. So I’m dealin’.”

He says it like it’s that simple. But you can feel the way his hand flexes against your back, the way his jaw’s a little too tight.

“You’ve been quiet,” you say gently.

JJ hesitates. You can practically see him weigh it and then watch him decide against it.

“I thought I was gonna watch you die,” he says finally, barely above a whisper. You feel him stiffen under your hands, the weight of what he hasn’t said yet pressing against the silence between you.

“JJ,” you interrupt gently, pressing your palm against his chest, feeling the rapid thud beneath your hand. “It wasn’t your fault.”

His breath hitches. “You scared the fuck out of me.”

You lean in, your body trembling as the memories from the boat crash over you. He tightens his hold, pretending not to feel the way your hands shake against his shirt. Your warm breath against his skin is everything he could ever ask for.

—

The days slipped by faster than anyone expected, folding into one another beneath the cracked windows and faded walls of the school. No one was eager to leave the safe, familiar cage of running water and locked doors, even though a restless tug pulled at all of you there are some family out there, somewhere, waiting.

Mornings bled into afternoons without much distinction. You could almost forget the world beyond these walls, but only for a little while.

Outside, a low, distant groan sometimes drifted through the cracked walls, the unsettling, ragged sound of infected far enough to be a warning, close enough to remind you why the school was sanctuary and cage alike.

You move slowly down the hallway, fingers trailing over chipped paint and scuffed lockers, the faint echo of your footsteps swallowed by silence.

Kiara kneels by a shattered trophy case, picking up a dusty, cracked basketball. She presses her palm against it, then gives it a gentle bounce. The hollow thump echoes off the walls, stirring something deep in the quiet.

Kiara looks up, catching your eye with a half-smile that’s more invitation than question. “Hey,” she says, “you wanna see what’s out back?”

Together, you slip through the double doors at the end of the hall. Outside, the air hits you with a rough rush, sun glaring off cracked pavement overrun with wild weeds.

The courtyard is a forgotten battlefield of rusted playground equipment tangled with thorny vines, and beyond it, the edge of the forest crowding close.

Kiara’s footsteps crunch over broken glass and dry leaves as she leads the way, eyes sharp, scanning for anything useful or dangerous. A weathered picnic table sits beneath a twisted tree, its bark scarred and peeling. She pulls out a battered canteen from her pack, takes a sip, then gestures to you. “Water’s holding up, but we should check the creek on the far side. A possible a fishing spot.”

The path is narrow and overgrown, tangled with brambles and wildflowers struggling through cracks in the earth. You and Kiara push through, branches scraping at your arms, until the sound of running water grows louder, fresh and cool.

The creek glittered in the sunlight, water babbling over smooth stones and pooling in clear, inviting patches. The air smelled like earth and fresh water, a sharp, clean scent that felt like a balm on your skin.

You’re crouched at the edge when you hear your boyfriend’s voice.

“C’mere, you evil little chicken.”

You look up.

JJ is shirtless, barefoot, knee-deep in swamp water, lunging wildly after a duck. A real duck. Mottled brown, wings flapping like it, too, has had enough of the apocalypse.

He lunges forward suddenly, but the duck, either perfectly aware or just annoyed, flaps its wings and quacks indignantly, splashing water everywhere. JJ lands flat on his face in the mud with a wet thud, sputtering and dripping. Water and moss explode around him as the duck glides away with a perfectly smug little honk.

You blink. Then you laugh.

JJ’s chest heaves, cold creek water soaking into every muscle as he pushes himself up from the muddy bank. His lips twitch, stubborn, but it’s your laugh—the first real laugh in weeks—that cuts through the fog of exhaustion and fear clouding his mind.

God, he thinks, I forgot what that sounds like. Like sunlight breaking through cracked clouds. You are everything when you are smiling.

He watches your shoulders shaking with amusement, and for a moment, the world slips away. The way your laughter curls around him is warm and so alive, it’s like a tether pulling him back from the edge.

He scrambles back to his feet, dripping and muddy, hands trembling slightly—not from cold but from relief. The duck quacks somewhere in the reeds, victorious, and JJ grins like a damn fool.

“Alright, alright,” he says, shaking water from his hair. “You want me to catch that feathered little bitch? I’ll catch him, just wait.”

You raise an eyebrow, smirking, and JJ’s grin only grows wider. He’d forgotten what it felt like to see you happy.

He didn’t realize until just now how much he’d missed it. Needed it. You laughed today and JJ would throw himself more ducks if it means you’ll do it again tomorrow.

52 notes · View notes

imsojules · 2 months ago

Text

After the tide turns – Part 4

pairing: jj maybank x fem!reader

tw: apocalypse, blood, military control, mentions of drugs, murder, swearing, inspired by the last of us, no proof read for this one, established relationship, english is not my first language!

a/n: 💩 is getting real!! I really wanted post this sooner, but when I’m telling you I wanted to cry and bang my head into my laptop while working on this I really mean it. What is english language is even about.. anyway, please let me know what you think ♥

word count: 5.3k

taglist: @chuuuchuuutrain, @d3adfa1ry, @maddsgrace, @darkparablesfan, @yulianie

masterlist | previous | next |

The gates slam shut behind the new arrivals like a final verdict. Steel jaws snapping closed around the QZ, sealing the fate of everyone inside. The sound echoes off the concrete, a harsh punctuation that reverberates through your chest. No frantic warnings. Just the grinding machinery of control clicking deliberately into place.

Ward Cameron steps forward like a man born to command moments like this. His stride is calm, measured, hands clasped behind his back as if inspecting property already his. His gaze sweeps the camp with the quiet assurance of a monarch surveying a conquered province.

Behind him, his men fan out like clockwork, moving with choreographed precision. One climbs the watchtower, boots striking metal silently, a ghost moving through the early morning haze. His movements carry the ease of someone holding the codes even the guards don’t have. Another slips through the barracks door, rifle lowered but ready, fluid and practiced. The guards don’t resist; they part without hesitation.

Rafe brings up the rear, the familiar smirk barely masking the sharper edge beneath. His revolver gleams under the rising sun—not merely a weapon, but a symbol. Before the Cameron convoy rolls in, Rafe deals in black market shipments: ammunition, scarce medical supplies, contraband luxuries capable of shifting loyalties in the quiet desperation of the camp. Rumors whisper of this shadow economy like a secret currency, and Rafe is its undisputed merchant prince.

This takeover isn’t just military. It’s business.

Every smooth move, every silent nod, every guard stepping aside without question is part of a plan cut in dark rooms and sealed with whispered promises over greasy tables. Rafe is the muscle and the merchant, securing his foothold in the new order.

Ward’s voice crackles over the loudspeakers. The words promise order backed by federal decree, but they sound less like salvation and more like a contract being enforced.

“You will not be harmed, so long as you comply,” he intones, voice smooth and measured, wrapping the camp like chains. “Lay down all unregistered arms. Civilian patrols are suspended. Essential workers, report to requisition points. Everyone else—remain in your shelters.”

You know compliance means survival only for those willing to obey without question.

Rafe’s black-market connections ensure Ward’s men are stocked and untouchable, while the camp slips quietly beneath their control.

You don’t realize you’ve frozen until JJ’s rough grip snaps around your wrist— grounding you.

“Back to the tent,” he murmurs, voice low, tight, like something’s coiling deep inside his chest.

But your feet refuse to move.

Rafe swaggers through last, the lazy grin barely masking the hard edge of a man who hasn’t spent the night behind the guards’ barracks. Like a visitor sliding in under the guise of diplomacy the day before, now he moves like he owns the place.

His sidearm shimmers, a quiet declaration holstered in plain sight. He chews a toothpick, eyes scanning the camp with bored indifference, as if nothing here matters.

He isn’t hunting anyone specific.

He’s just watching. Waiting.

JJ tugs again. “We have to move.”

Around you, the camp shifts. Something subtler—whispers rippling between tents, civilians pulling back like water retreating before a storm surge. A child vanishes into the folds of a mother’s jacket.

Kiara appears at your side, blade reversed and sliding fluidly along her arm as if it’s a natural extension of her body. Pope slides up quietly beside her near the depot wall, breath ragged, eyes wide and sharp with disbelief.

“What the hell is this?” he demands, voice low but strained.

Kiara doesn’t spare him a glance.

“They’re taking the zone,” she answers quietly. Her voice is flat and distant.

“They’ve already taken it,” JJ mutters.

Kiara’s shoulders are rigid, jaw set in stone. Her blade stays hidden against her forearm, reversed and ready, but she doesn’t draw it. Her eyes scan the soldiers like a wolf studying a trap.

Then a single gunshot cracks through the air. It echoes like dry thunder, sharp and deliberate—a warning bell struck with lethal intent. It isn’t a warning shot. It’s punctuation.

Ward’s voice returns.

"This settlement is now under interim authority of the Coastal Reclamation Committee," he says, each word falling with deadly precision. "Backed by Federal Reinstatement Order Seven. You are no longer under FEMA oversight."

A new regime has just announced itself.

"If you cooperate," he adds, voice low and warm, "you will eat. You will be safe."

JJ spits into the gravel. “Safe, my ass.”

Kiara stands beside you, blade sheathed again, fists clenched. Her eyes are dark with something else. She’s not trembling. Not panicked. But it’s there in the tightness of her gaze.

Her family isn’t here. They’re in the North Sector.

Safer, for now but only if the sectors stay open.

You step toward her.

“Go,” you say quietly.

Her brow furrows. “What?”

“You have to go. Now. Get to them before the sectors close. If they seal us in—”

“No,” she snaps.

“Kiara, your parents need you. If the gates lock—”

Behind her, a FEMA banner flaps lazily in the wind—already half torn, the emblem faded from sun and time. You realize then: this isn’t just about surviving. This is about refusing to be erased.

JJ steps in. “We need to move. If they’re sweeping zones, we’ll be next.”

“Where?” Pope demands, voice shaking.

But none of you know the answer. Ward’s voice continues to echo through the camp—polished, soothing, full of promises he never intends to keep.

JJ’s eyes flick toward you, the faintest tremor betraying his steel. He’s fighting the urge to break—anger, fear, exhaustion all mingling just beneath the surface.

—

Each day bleeds into the next with mechanical efficiency— just quiet control, wound tight like wire around every throat. The streets between tents stay still. Not peaceful. Just subdued. People walk with their heads down and their voices lower, if they speak at all. The air itself feels heavier now, like even the wind is afraid to breathe too loud.

The guards patrol move in pairs, always the same slow rhythm, eyes sharp, rifles slung casual but ready. They don’t ask for compliance. They expect it. And somehow, that’s worse.

You work the depot now. They call it “essential,” like that word means something anymore. JJ calls it “playing dead.” Do what they say, keep your mouth shut, don’t look too long in anyone’s direction.

The depot is little more than a lean-to patched together with scrap wood and tarps, its interior cramped and dim, smelling of dust, damp earth, and the faint, sour tang of sweat. Crates pile high on uneven floors, creaking softly under the weight of scarce supplies—canned food, frayed rope, faded blankets.

You stand behind the battered counter, your fingers cold and stiff from the chill creeping in through the thin tent fabric. The quiet is a fragile thing, like glass teetering on the edge of breaking.

Then the tent flap shifts—a slow, deliberate movement that makes your heart hitch. Rafe Cameron steps in, the familiar swagger in his step impossible to miss. His boots hit the dirt floor with a lazy scrape, announcing him like a storm rolling in on the horizon. That crooked toothpick is jammed between his teeth, half-chewed and half-defiant, the same grin tugging at the corner of his mouth that’s gotten so many people into trouble even before.

He leans against a crate with the ease of a man who believes the whole world should bend around him—calm, collected, dangerous. His eyes scan you slowly, cool and assessing, like he’s weighing you for some unspoken gamble. The casual cock of his head makes it clear he’s not just passing through.

From the inside of his jacket, Rafe pulls out a small, crumpled bag. The faint shimmer of pills and powders catches the weak lantern light, a secret treasure in a place where hope is scarce and pain is constant.

“You look like you could use a break,” he says, voice low and smooth like dark whiskey poured over ice. “Something to take the edge off. Just for a little while.” His grin widens, daring you to react.

You rifle through the supply list without looking up. “Not interested.”

He chuckles, a slow, rough sound that scrapes the silence. “Come on, don’t play the saint with me. Everyone’s interested in something.” His gaze locks on your hands, then slides up to meet your eyes with a flicker of challenge. “Even you.”

Your jaw tightens, refusing to show any crack in your calm.

Rafe’s eyes narrow, sharp as broken glass. “You feel like you’re just not like them, huh? You think you’re better? Stronger? Smarter?” His voice drops to a low rumble as he steps closer, heat pressing in.

“Good.” He pushes off the crate with a casual shove, boots scraping as he moves. “Means you’ve still got fight left inside you. But if you ever want to forget this hellhole for a while... you know where to find me.”

His words hang in the air, heavy and intoxicating like smoke. The tent flap rustles behind him as he steps back into the gray light outside, leaving a faint trace of cigarette smoke and something darker.

When the depot work finally lets you go, the sun starts bleeding gold across the tops of the barricades. Your back aches from lifting crates, your fingers numb from the constant cold. You don’t say goodbye to the others—just nod, scrawl your initials on the inventory sheet, and step out into the stillness.

The walk back is muscle memory. Past the burned-out bus used for storage. Past the kids trading battery scraps for dried fruit. Past the watchtower, where the same guard leans on a rusted rifle and doesn’t bother to look twice.

Your tent squats behind a barricade of corrugated metal and old tires, patched with mismatched tarp and duck tape. It’s sagging and smells faintly of kerosene and damp socks, but it’s home. Sort of.

Inside, it’s dim and narrow, lit by a single battery lamp hanging from a bent coat hanger.

JJ’s the first to glance up from his cot. He’s lying back, arms crossed behind his head, eyes watching the ceiling like it owes him answers. His eyes flick to yours, and he starts to sit up slowly, as if he doesn’t want to spook the moment.

“Took your sweet time.”

You drop your pack with a sigh. “They’re saying a shipment’s coming tomorrow. Again.” you mutter, peeling off your jacket and draping it over a nail.

JJ snorts, dry and tired. “Yeah. Right after Santa and the Tooth Fairy.”

You bend over to grab your shower bag from under your cot—a well-worn mess of a thing, with a half-dry towel spilling out of the zipper. You sling it over your shoulder without thinking, already reaching for the tent flap.

But then JJ is there, quietly. He leans close, like he’s always belonged right here, between you and everything else. His hand finds yours with a steady, gentle grip, and before you even have time to think, he lifts your fingers to his lips, kissing them softly. Your fingers curl a bit tighter around his.

You glance at the others—John B crouched by the crate with the busted walkie, Pope nose-deep in a tattered book—but they’re quiet.

John B finally speaks. “You good?”

You pause. Not at the question but at the way he asks it. Like he already knows the answer.

You don’t turn around. “Rafe stopped by the depot today.”

“What the hell did he want?” JJ snaps.

“He didn’t do anything,” you say, voice flat. “He just showed up. Smiling like he runs the whole damn place.”

John B’s stare hardened. “Did he threaten you?”

“No,” you say, too quickly. Then quieter: “Not exactly.”

Pope looks up now, pen frozen in midair. “What does that mean?”

You exhale loud and finally face them. “He offered me something. Pills. Whatever mix he’s pushing now. Said I ‘looked like I needed it.’”

JJ swears under his breath, voice low and sharp. “Son of a—”

“I said no.” You say it firmly, meeting JJ’s eyes.

John B sits up, slow like he’s trying not to explode. “He’s testing us. Seeing who he can buy. Who’ll fold first.”

“He’s already bought half the guards,” Pope mutters.

You nod. “And the other half are scared of what happens if they don’t play along.”

You roll your shoulders, trying to shake the weight off. “I’m going to shower. Before curfew lockdown hits.”

You don’t wait for them to respond—just step toward the tent flap, your hand brushing back your hair as if you could scrape the day off your skin.

The showers aren’t far, just past the rows of tents and the flickering lampposts. A thin trail of steam curls up from the old pipes, promising a brief reprieve from the grime and tension that cling to your skin. You want nothing more than to let the water wash the day’s dirt and fear away.

Suddenly, a faint, unsettling harsh and uneven sound shatters the silence wrapping cold tendrils around your spine, making your skin crawl. Something is wrong. Terribly, horribly wrong.

Drawn forward by a mix of dread and helpless curiosity, you follow the voices until the path opens onto the clearing by the central plaza. Floodlights blaze down with a cruel, merciless glare, painting everything in harsh, stark whites and deep, choking shadows. The crowd presses in a suffocating wall of faces, eyes wide with horror, mouths set in frozen grimaces.

In the center, bound and kneeling on the cracked concrete, is a man you don’t know but whose terror screams across the cold night like a curse. His skin is pale, his hands raw where the chains bite into his wrists. His head lifts slowly, eyes wild, begging silently for salvation.

A soldier steps forward, his boots thudding deliberate on the cracked ground. He moves like a predator savoring the kill, raising his rifle with terrifying calm, every muscle taut and rehearsed.

The silence swells to a crushing weight, smothering your chest. Time stretches, each second a razor scraping the raw edges of your sanity. Then the man screams—a soul-wrenching, bloodcurdling cry that splits the night, a sound so full of pain it feels like the world itself shatters.

The rifle fires. The crack is a thunderclap in your ears, a violent explosion of sound and finality.

The body convulses, then collapses forward with a sickening thud, chains rattling against the concrete like the clatter of a death knell. The crowd erupts into a wave of gasps and stifled sobs, but the shadows swallow their cries instantly.

A woman’s sob breaks through—raw and ragged, trembling with a grief too deep to bear. A child clings to a man’s leg, face buried in torn fabric, whimpering as the nightmare swallows them whole.

Your stomach churns violently. Your legs threaten to give out, knees buckling under the weight of what you’ve witnessed. Your breath comes in shallow, jagged gasps. You feel your hands tremble, nails digging into your palms.

You stagger back a step, your heel catching on a crack in the concrete. The stumble jolts you, but it’s not enough to break the spell, the frozen horror rooting you to the spot. The stench of gunpowder and blood burns your nose. You can taste it, sharp and metallic at the back of your throat.

You barely make it out of the clearing, the brutal shot still ringing in your ears, the weight of what you saw pressing down like a stone in your chest. The loudspeakers crackle somewhere in the distance, announcing curfew with a cold, unyielding voice.

You’re almost halfway back to your tent when you hear hurried footsteps behind you, crunching sharply on gravel and broken concrete.

“Damn, there you are,” JJ calls out, voice tense but relieved.

You freeze for a moment, heart hammering so hard you think he might hear it from across the yard.

Then, ahead, you see him. JJ’s silhouette framed by the flickering light of a lone lamppost, his chest heaving like he’s been sprinting. His eyes catch yours instantly wide, frantic, full of questions.

John B and Pope aren’t far behind, the two of them moving with cautious urgency, scanning the dark spaces between tents. Pope’s gaze is sharp, calculating, watching shadows like they’re already enemies.

JJ reaches you first, closing the distance in just a few quick steps. He stops right in front of you, breath ragged, and for a second, he just stares, as if trying to analyze your face.

“Are you okay? We heard a shot-”

You swallow hard, struggling to steady your voice. “I saw… a soldier. He shot someone.”

JJ’s jaw knot with tension. “God... why didn’t anyone stop him?”

John B steps up beside JJ, glancing warily toward the plaza. “No one’s stopping anything around here,” he says bitterly, voice low. “Not anymore.”

Pope’s eyes flick between the three of you, unblinking. “Curfew’s on now. We shouldn’t be out here.”

JJ’s hand slides from your arm to gently grip your shoulder, grounding you both. His breath is hot and ragged against your skin.

You try to collect yourself. “There was a kid watching.”

You see it hit him. His face twists, something ugly and aching flickering across it before he covers it with his hand, scrubbing at his mouth like he’s trying to erase the thought. “Jesus.”

For a long moment, neither of you says anything.

—

You stir awake slowly to the distant sound of boots crunching gravel, someone yelling nearby. You blink up at the patched ceiling, barely lit by the low wash of cloud-filtered sunlight. JJ’s still next to you, head tipped back, eyes closed but not sleeping. His thumb absently runs along your shoulder, like he doesn’t even know he’s doing it.

“Morning,” he mutters, voice raspy.

“Did you sleep?” you ask quietly.

He snorts. “Not really.”

A beat passes. He pulls his arm away gently and sits up, rubbing the back of his neck. “C’mon. The guys are probably already in the mess.”

The mess tent buzzes with low conversation and clinking metal, but the energy is wrong—too quiet in some places, too forced in others, like everyone’s pretending to be okay just loud enough to drown out what they really feel.

JJ slides into a spot at the back, and you follow him, settling next to him on the worn bench. John B and Pope are already there, mid-conversation, which dies the second they see you.

Pope gives a soft nod. John B offers a small, quiet smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Hey.”

“Hey,” you answer, but your voice is thin.

The silence that follows stretches a little too long.

JJ is the first one to break it. “Coffee’s cold,” he mutters, nodding toward the cup in front of him. “Surprise, surprise.”

You nod absently, but your hands stay folded in your lap. You haven’t touched the food they gave you—gray eggs, something trying to pass for fruit. None of it tastes like anything. Most of the real food’s long gone, and anything with yeast or fermentation is banned outright now—too risky since the infection’s roots. Bread, beer, even old canned stuff—it’s all suspect. One bite of the wrong thing, and it could be over.

“So,” Pope says finally, “didn’t hear anything on the radios this morning. Not even a curfew recap.”

John B doesn’t look up from his mug. “Yeah. Maybe they think silence is scarier now.”

JJ glances at you, then quickly away. “They’d be right.”

It hangs there.

You close your eyes for a second. The man’s face flashes behind your eyelids—wide-eyed, terrified, every part of him shaking. And then the scream. You press your thumb hard against your palm like you can dig the sound out of your memory.

“I didn’t know what to do,” you murmur, voice tight. “I just stood there.”

“No one blames you,” Pope says immediately. “You weren’t supposed to be there. You didn’t choose to see that.”

JJ’s jaw tightens. “But they wanted someone to see it. That’s the part I can’t shake. They wanted it to spread.”

“But what if it doesn’t change anything?” you ask, the words slipping out raw. “What if it’s just... fear now? Every morning, every second.”

John B gives you a half-smile. It’s tired, but genuine. “We’ve been through worse. Sort of.”

“Not exactly the same vibe as treasure hunting,” Pope snaps, tone heavy with irony.

JJ smiles, faint but sincere, and bumps your knee. “Doesn’t matter. We’ll get through this too.”

A ripple of murmurs rolls through the mess tent—trays shift, heads turn—just enough commotion to make you glance toward the entrance.

Sarah stands in the doorway, wind‑tangled hair framing a face pulled tight with fatigue. She clocks the room then spots your table and weaves through the maze of benches.

She drops onto the end of the bench beside Pope, hands wrapped around a dented metal mug she hasn’t even filled. For a heartbeat no one speaks; the hush around the five of you feels suddenly deeper, like the tent itself is eavesdropping.

John B breaks it first, voice low. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” she says, but her eyes flick to you—an unspoken you saw it too. “Listen, I don’t have long.”

Pope leans in. “What was the real reason they shot that guy?”

Sarah’s voice drops to a razor’s edge. “He was moving Rafe’s stash. Out of the zone. South QZ.”

John B’s brow furrows. “Why?”

She shrugs. “No clue. Might’ve been a trade. But it was the Coastal sector. Completely locked down. No shipments in weeks.”

You glance up. “Then why’s today’s drop coming from there?”

Sarah hesitates. “Exactly.”

Pope frowns. “Nobody said anything about that.”

“They won’t,” she says. “They don’t want panic.”

And then you hear it—

CLANG.

The checkpoint bell rings once, slow and loud. Metal on metal. That unmistakable sound:

Inbound shipment. Gate Three.

—

You stand at the edge of the depot yard, clipboard clenched so tight your knuckles blanch, trying to ignore how your fingers twitch uncontrollably. Around you, the usual skeleton crew lingers—two guards, half-asleep and slumped against the cracked concrete, rifles dangling from loose grips.

You lift your eyes.

A shadow crosses the barricade wall—tall, boxy, slow-moving. One of the old FEMA trucks, paint worn down to raw metal in patches, pulling up like a ghost from the past. Two more trucks follow behind, tires grinding against cracked asphalt.

The convoy stops.

You take a small step forward. One guard lifts a hand, as if willing the moment to hold steady.

The passenger door creaks open.

A man in standard QZ gray steps down. His sleeves hang past his wrists, and his eyes look distant, unfocused. He moves slowly, as if his body doesn’t know where it is.

Behind him, another figure stumbles off the second truck. Then another. None say a word.

Your skin prickles.

“Manifest?” you ask, voice barely steady.

The first man turns to you—bloodshot eyes, pale skin marred by dirt and exhaustion. He shakes his head, then holds out a folded paper. His hand trembles.

You take it, unfolding the sheet carefully.

Names. Too many names. You flip the page.

And your breath catches.

Your mother’s name, printed clear as daylight.

Your world tilts.

You don’t remember moving, but suddenly you’re at the truck, boots crunching gravel.

“Back away,” a guard mutters, but his voice is thin, uncertain.

More passengers climb down—slow, unsteady, fragile.

Then you see her.

Her hair is longer, tangled. Her shoulders thinner, slumped as if the weight of everything she’s been through is pressing her down. Her jacket zipped up tight against the warm air, like a shield.

But it’s her.

Your chest tightens. Your heart clenches and shatters at once. You blink, once, twice, like your eyes are lying to you. But the shape doesn't change. It’s her. It’s really her.

“Mom?” The word escapes before you can stop it—soft, trembling, like a prayer finally answered.

She looks up.

Her eyes find yours.

In that instant, something inside her cracks. She takes two tentative steps forward.

Her mouth opens, voice rough and ragged. “You shouldn’t be here.”

The words scrape out of her throat, jagged and raw.

Your pulse hammers in your ears. You step closer, heart breaking open.

“I thought... I thought you were gone,” you say, your eyes filling with tears.

She flinches, like you might break. “I tried… I tried so hard to stay away.”

Tears glisten in her dirt-streaked face. “You need to leave.”

You reach out, but she pulls back, swaying.

One hand clutches her ribs, blood dark and spreading beneath her sleeve.

Your stomach twists, the sick taste of fear curling your tongue. No. No, this can’t be happening. Not now.

“Mom… what happened?” Your voice cracks, desperate.

She shakes her head, voice barely a whisper. “Don’t… don’t touch me.”

She sinks to her knees.

That’s when you see it.

A bite mark, half-hidden under her jacket.

Cold ice spreads through your stomach, freezing every thought, every hope.

Too late.

From the third truck—a scream.

Not fear.

Rage.

One evacuee leaps like a wild animal, tackling a guard, teeth flashing. Blood spatters the side of the truck.

The crowd scatters.

She looks up, tears cutting clean lines through dirt and sweat.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispers, voice breaking.

Your mind races, memories flooding in—her laughter, her warmth, the way she held you when you were afraid. And now this... this monster wearing her skin. This isn’t how it was supposed to be. Not like this.

You take a step toward her, but a deafening gunshot cracks through the depot yard.

One of the guards drops the infected evacuee mid-lunge, but it doesn’t matter. Three more are already on top of him before his rifle even hits the ground. The second guard turns to run—too slow. A woman in tattered clothes barrels into him, jaw clamping down on his throat with a wet, animal crunch.

Your knees buckle. You stumble backward, catching yourself hard against a rusted supply crate. The clipboard slips from your hand and clatters to the dirt. As you steady yourself, your hand brushes cold metal—a crowbar, half-buried under a torn tarp.

Without thinking, you grab it. The weight anchors you, gives your shaking fingers something to hold.

All around you, the evacuees transform.

Some scream. Some convulse. Some simply go still for a heartbeat too long… then snap upright, jerking with unnatural speed. A man with blood down his chin slams himself headfirst against the depot fence, snarling through broken teeth.

A siren starts to wail somewhere inside the QZ. Distant, confused. Too late.

Your mother is still kneeling. Shaking. Her breathing is ragged now, wet.

You drop down in front of her. “Mom, we have to move. Please—”

She lifts her face. Her eyes are glassy, unfocused. Sweat drips from her temple. “You have to go,” she rasps.

“I’m not—”

From the depot gate, a series of sharp pops—more gunfire. Screams rise, closer now. A flaming body stumbles from the second truck, crashes into a stack of fuel drums.

The explosion hits like a thunderclap.

You’re thrown off your feet, the blast wave ringing in your ears. Smoke swallows the world in an instant. Flames roar to life, leaping skyward and casting long, jerking shadows of the infected as they pour from the trucks.

The QZ alarm shifts to evacuation tone. Sharp, urgent. That sound—the one you were never supposed to hear.

You crawl back to your knees, coughing, blinking through the smoke. Your mother is still there. Still breathing.

You reach for her, and she reaches back—but then freezes. Her breath catches.

Another evacuee stumbles into view behind her, growling low, movements twitchy and sharp. You react without thinking—grabbing a loose piece of rebar from the ground, swinging hard.

It connects with a sickening crunch. The evacuee drops.

You stare at what’s left of their skull, chest heaving.

Your mother is crying now—quiet, defeated sobs that cut through the chaos like a blade. “You need to run.”

The depot is burning. People are running. The screams are growing fainter—not because they’re stopping, but because they’re being overrun.

You hear boots pounding gravel. A figure stumbles through the smoke—JJ, blood on his jacket. “We have to move—now!”

You hesitate, looking back.

Your mother’s hands are in her lap. She’s shaking, and that light—her light—is dimming fast. She meets your eyes one last time, and in it, you see everything she’s trying to say:

I love you. I’m sorry. Go.

JJ yells again. “Come on!”

You rise slowly, heart breaking in real time. She doesn’t move to follow.

As you turn and run into the smoke, past fire and rubble, past bodies and memories, a second explosion rocks the yard.

This one doesn’t knock you over. But it takes what’s left of her with it.

The shockwave chases you, heat licking at your back like the breath of some hellish beast. You don’t turn around. You can’t. The part of you that wants to is screaming, clawing at your insides, but you shove it down. Keep moving. Just keep moving.

JJ’s hand grabs your arm, steadying you as you trip over broken pavement. “This way,” he growls, his voice hoarse. “Evac route through the maintenance tunnel—go!”

You don’t answer. Your throat is raw, heart thundering. Smoke wraps around you like a shroud, turning the world into a blur of shadow and flame. Behind you, the depot is a furnace.

You and JJ duck under a collapsed security gate, stumbling into a narrow side alley flanked by rusted-out storage containers. Somewhere behind you, gunfire rattles—short bursts, then silence. Too much silence.

JJ yanks open a hatch embedded in the cracked asphalt. “Down!” he barks.

You hesitate at the edge. The ladder descends into pitch black.

The tunnel is damp, the air thick with mildew and old decay. JJ seals the hatch behind you, and darkness swallows the world until his flashlight flickers to life, casting your long shadows ahead like ghosts.

You don’t speak as you move. Each step echoes with the weight of everything lost.

After what feels like miles, the tunnel begins to slope up. Your legs burn. Your lungs ache. At last, a second hatch looms above. JJ pushes it open carefully, peering out before giving the all-clear.

You emerge into a narrow corridor on the outer edge of the quarantine zone—once a service route, now a forgotten gap between fences. You can still hear the sirens behind you, distant and broken. The sky above is dull orange with smoke, but the streets here are quiet. For now.

You collapse against a wall, hands trembling. JJ crouches beside you, watching the way your shoulders shake, the way you stare at nothing.

“She was alive,” you whisper.

JJ nods slowly. “And she saved your life.”

You close your eyes. Try to hold onto that. Try to believe it.

I should’ve gone back,” you choke out. “The others… what if they didn’t make it out?”

“They did.”

You look up sharply. “What?”

“I saw them,” JJ says, voice tight. “They were heading for the fuel yard. Right after the first truck lit up”

He swallows hard, eyes searching yours. “They made it out. They had to.”

Then a new sound cuts through the quiet.

A low, rattling breath. Wet. Gurgling.

JJ’s head snaps toward the end of the alley. His flashlight beam sweeps across peeling brick, broken pallets—and a figure slumped just beyond a dumpster. It twitches.

He raises his weapon, but you grab his arm. “No,” you breathe. “Let me.”

You step forward. The shape groans, dragging itself toward you. Its eyes are wrong—cloudy, animal. Its fingers scrape the concrete like claws.

You don’t hesitate this time.

You swing the crowbar, fast and hard. It collapses with a sickening thud.

And silence falls again.

50 notes · View notes

imsojules · 2 months ago

Text

After the tide turns – Part 5

pairing: jj maybank x fem!reader

tw: post-apocalyptic themes, death, grief, blood, violence, graphic injury, swearing, inspired by the last of us, established relationship, not fully proof-read, english is not my first language!

a/n: hope you enjoy this one, your support means the world 🤍

word count: 5.9k

taglist: @chuuuchuuutrain, @d3adfa1ry, @maddsgrace, @darkparablesfan, @yulianie, @they-call-me-whiskey, @sanriobuny

masterlist | previous | next |

JJ had seen you cry before.

He’d seen the way your mouth would tremble when you were trying to pretend you weren’t upset. The kind of tears that came in silence, tucked under the hum of an overworked fridge and half-watched sitcom reruns playing to an empty room. You always tried to hide it. Always said it was “just a bad day,” like that explained away the hollowness behind your eyes.

And JJ never pressed. Never demanded more than what you gave. He just pulled you in his arms wrapped tight around you and tried to fix what he could. A dumb joke. A warm blanket. A hand tracing slow circles on your back.

But nothing could have prepared him for this.

You fold forward, burying your face in your hands. The sob that bursts from you isn’t the quiet, controlled kind JJ has seen before—it’s raw and ragged, shaking your whole body. It’s the sound of something breaking beyond repair.

JJ steps closer, slow and careful, like he’s approaching the edge of a cliff. His arms wrap around you, pulling you flush against his chest, his breath warm against your hair. You tremble into him, your tears soaking through his shirt.

His mind flickers back to the last time he saw you cry about your mother. How she’d wanted you to accept that offer from a university states away. A good school. A future laid out in clean, shining lines. But it would’ve taken you far from the Outer Banks. Far from him.

JJ had tried to play it cool. Tried to be supportive, cracking jokes about long-distance and how he could totally survive without you. But the truth sat like a bruise in his chest every time he pictured you gone.

And like always, he reached for the duct tape of hope—clinging to whatever fragile thread he could find to keep you both together.

—

JJ had been halfway through a microwave burrito when he heard it.

The first little gasp from the bathroom. Then a muffled, choked sob.

He glanced at the clock—1:22 a.m. You’d been in there almost twenty minutes. Said you just needed to “wash your face.”

JJ abandoned the burrito mid-turn and crossed the apartment in three strides.

“Babe?” His voice was light. “Did the face wash betray you again? I told you not to trust anything with ‘soothing oat enzymes.’ That’s how they get you.”

No answer.

He knocked once, then pushed the door open.

You were sitting on the floor in front of the sink, knees drawn to your chest, face buried in your arms. Your shoulders trembled, and the mirror was fogged even though the water wasn’t running. The light above buzzed like it didn’t want to be there either.

JJ’s breath caught.

“Hey,” he knelt beside you, his voice uncharacteristically small. “What’s going on?”

You didn’t look up.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured. “I didn’t mean to freak out. I just… I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

JJ let out a slow breath. “Like what?”

He waited, patient.

“I feel like I’m falling behind,” you whispered. “She wants me to go so far. She’s worked so hard for me to have this future, and now I feel like if I say no… I’ll be letting her down. And if I say yes, I won’t even be able to come back as often as I planned. Flights aren’t cheap, JJ.”

He sat back on his heels, paused for a moment, then nodded like it all made perfect sense.

“Right. So what you’re sayin’ is… it’s time to rob a bank,” he said without missing a beat.

You blinked.

“I mean it,” he said seriously. “Full masks, getaway car, the whole deal. I’ve seen enough Fast and Furious. I think I could be very fast. You could be the furious one.”

That startled a laugh out of you. A short one—but real.

He grinned, encouraged. “We’ll hit every bank from here to Raleigh. Buy a jet. You’ll fly home every weekend, first-class. We’ll build a runway on the beach.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re an idiot.”

“I’m not saying I Googled how to fake my death and assume a new identity just to follow you across the country… but if you hear about a guy named Jet Jackson in your dorm, maybe don’t ask too many questions.”

He grinned seeing you trying to give him a smile, then softened as he cupped your cheek.

"You picked me. I'm not letting some fancy zip code change that."

You choked out a teary laugh. “Shit, I love you.”

JJ blinked, like the words had landed somewhere deep. And then he leaned in.

The kiss was slow, careful. His hand slid to the back of your neck, thumb still resting against your cheekbone. The taste of salt lingered between you, and when he pulled back, his forehead rested gently against yours.

His voice was quiet, but sure.

“Yeah,” he murmured, eyes on yours. “And I love you, too.”

He stayed with you on that cold bathroom tile, your head on his shoulder, whispering bad ideas and wild plans while calling you “Boss” like you ran a criminal empire until the sun started sneaking in under the door.

But that was then.

Now, your knees are scraped raw, the cuts pulsing sharp with every breath. Your hands won’t stop shaking, and blood clings beneath your fingernails. The ache in your chest feels like it might tear you straight in two. You’re not on a bathroom floor anymore.

You’re crouched in a corridor, lit by a burning sky with the taste of ash on your tongue, tucked into JJ’s arms as the end of the world crashes just a few streets over.

He doesn’t speak. His eyes dart rapidly, scanning the shadows and broken streets beyond, every muscle tense and alert—trying to catch any sign of danger. A few tears slip down JJ’s cheek, unbidden and silent, but still, he holds you tighter, his grip fierce, like his silence can build a wall around you, like if he doesn’t let go, maybe the rest of it won’t get in.

And in the middle of it all, JJ thinks he would give anything for a plane ticket to be the only thing you were still worried about. Or a tuition bill. A bad grade. Anything but this.

Fuck, he would give anything for that.

Instead, he presses his face to your hair and breathes you in like a prayer. And somewhere inside his chest, something splinters open.

JJ holds on, because right now, it’s the only thing he still knows how to do.

It takes a long time before the sobs subside. Your breath coming in short, ragged gasps. JJ is saying something quiet and steady but it sounds like it’s underwater.

Because all you can see is her.

Something twists deep in your stomach. You turn, stumbling toward a half-collapsed wall, and vomit until there’s nothing left—just dry heaves and the sound of your heart breaking.

JJ doesn’t flinch. He rests a hand on your back, warm and solid, the other still gripping the crowbar smeared with blood.

You wipe your mouth with the back of your sleeve. The shaking doesn’t stop.

Everything feels distant like you’re floating outside your own body, watching it fall apart from somewhere just out of reach. You keep repeating it in your head, like it’ll eventually make sense. Like the words will click into place and explain how the hell this happened so fast.

She’s gone.

And what burns worst is that you didn’t get to say it.

Not one goddamn word.

JJ’s voice cuts through the haze, soft and sure, like he’s reading your thoughts “She knew,” he says softly. “You didn’t have to say it. She knew.”

A new sound rips through—howls. Not human, not even close.

JJ jerks back, eyes scanning the smoke-thick street. “We have to move.”

He grabs your hand again and pulls you into motion. You both duck between twisted metal and scorched pavement, navigating through the broken edge of the QZ. Sirens still blare in the distance—pointless now. The fences are gone. The gate’s gone. Order is gone.

Everything’s gone.

You round a corner and nearly slam into a man—bloodied, wild-eyed, swinging a length of pipe.

JJ shouts, “Friendly!” but the guy’s already mid-swing.

JJ blocks it with the crowbar, metal clanging against metal. He stumbles back, breathing hard.

“I thought you were one of them,” he gasps. “They—they’re everywhere.”

JJ doesn’t answer. Just pushes past him, pulling you along. No more time for explanations.

—

The world narrows into movement and breath. Left foot. Right. Duck low. Don’t look back.

JJ leads you through the wreckage, hand gripping yours tight enough to leave marks. The guy with the pipe disappears into smoke behind you—just another shadow in a city drowning in them.

“Fuel yard,” JJ pants. “They’ll be there. Or close.”

You nod.

You don’t say much. Your throat feels sealed shut.

Because you still have to find them. If there’s anything left to hold on to, it’s them.

JJ pulls you into a collapsed side street. The buildings here are half-eaten by fire, windows jagged and blackened. You both move through the husks of what used to be laundromats and offices, stepping over overturned carts and shattered glass.

He pauses under the eave of a gas station sign dangling by one chain.

“We cut through Market Row,” he says. “It’ll get us to the rail crossing faster.”

You just nod again.

And that’s when the scream hits.

High. Human. Female. Not infected.

JJ stiffens. “That’s Sarah.”

He’s already moving before you can stop him. You sprint after him, lungs searing.

You reach the alley behind the busted-out café and see her on the ground, pinned behind a fallen trash container, trying to drag herself out. John B is crouched beside her, one arm wrapped tight around her waist, the other holding a bloodied wrench like a sword.

JJ doesn’t even slow.

A runner explodes from the shadows at the end of the alley—twisting, snarling, too fast. JJ meets it mid-charge.

The crowbar swings wide and cracks across its skull with a wet, bone-splitting crunch.

The body drops like a ragdoll.

He doesn’t check to see if it’s dead, just grabs John B by the jacket, drags him up, and pulls Sarah with him, one arm slipping around her waist to take her weight.

You reach them, heart pounding like a war drum. Sarah collapses against you, eyes wide, wild.

“I’m okay,” she gasps, voice cracked. “I—I twisted my ankle. We were heading for the tracks. We thought we heard Kiara. We thought—”

JJ spins to John B. “You seen them?”

“No,” John B chokes. “Gunfire, yeah. Close to the freight yard. But I don’t know if it was them.”

JJ’s eyes flick toward the rising smoke in the distance. Then he sets his jaw.

“We keep moving,” he says. “We don’t stop.”

John B glances at Sarah’s leg, then back at JJ. “She can’t run, man.”

JJ doesn’t blink. “Then I’ll carry her.”

“No,” Sarah says through gritted teeth. “I can walk. Just not fast.”

JJ turns to you. His voice is all steel now. “You take left. I’ll keep her up. John B—back watch.”

“Got ya,” you said. And suddenly, just for a moment, the fog lifts. You have something to do. A direction. A plan.

The four of you move quickly, weaving through Market Row like ghosts—silent and low. JJ supports Sarah on one side, her breath hissing through her teeth with every other step. John B stays close, wrench in hand. You watch the left, just like JJ told you. Every alley, every shadow, every flicker of movement.

The world is quieter here. Like the destruction hasn’t fully caught up yet.

Then, ahead—half-hidden behind a scorched cargo container and a tangle of brush—you see it.

A rusted steel door, barely hanging from its frame. The tunnel.

JJ reaches it first. His fingers hover over the edge, listening. Then, quietly, he pulls it open. A waft of cold, damp air curls out from the blackness inside.

“This is it,” he mutters.

JJ catches your eye as you step through. “Stay sharp. If they came this way, they might’ve left something behind.”

The tunnel swallows you whole.

It’s darker than you expect—lit only by the occasional flicker of blown-out emergency lights and a cracked green glowstick left behind by someone. Your footsteps echo. Somewhere far off, water drips in rhythmic taps. Everything smells like rust and mildew.

JJ stops short.

You hear it too.

Voices.

Faint. Familiar.

The four of you freeze, barely daring to breathe.

JJ edges forward, crowbar lifted.

The tunnel bends hard to the left, and when you round the corner—there they are.

Kiara and Pope.

They’re huddled near a rusted generator, a small flashlight set between them, barely casting light. Kiara’s back is against the wall, her knife drawn, face tight with exhaustion. Pope has the rifle, scanning the dark.

Kiara sees you first.

“Y/N?”

Her voice breaks in the middle.

Then she’s on her feet.

You drop your crowbar and run. The second her arms wrap around you, it feels like we made it—even if you're both too shaken to believe it yet.

Pope pulls JJ into a quick, rough hug. Slaps John B on the back. “Didn’t think I’d see you again.”

“Yeah, well,” JJ says, trying for a smile. “We don’t die easy.”

John B claps Pope on the shoulder before sinking to the floor. Sarah slides down beside him, wincing. “Clean twist,” Pope says after one look at her ankle. “You’ll be alright.”

JJ doesn't say anything. He just walks to a patch of wall and finally lets himself slide down. His legs are shaking. His hands won’t unclench.

You sit beside him, your back against the cool stone. Your eyes fall shut. You listen to the soft hum of Kiara’s flashlight. The quiet voices. The breath of people you thought you might never see again.

Pope fiddles with a radio, his fingers tight on the worn edges.

Sarah’s ankle throbbed with every small movement, the swelling already dark and angry beneath her torn sock. She grimaced, biting back a curse as John B carefully peeled off her boot, exposing the twisted joint.

While John B tended Sarah, you noticed JJ shift again, his face tightening for just a moment. The faint flicker of Kiara’s flashlight painting his face in half-light.

When you reached out and brushed a hand along his back, your fingers found the edge of a dark, wet patch clinging to his shirt. The fabric was sticky, warm. You eased it up, revealing mottled bruising and a ragged slice just beneath his shoulder blade.

JJ winced but didn’t pull away.

“You’re hurt,” you inhaled sharply.

He didn’t meet your eyes.

“JJ, when?”

He pauses, then mutters, “Back at the depot."

You swallowed hard. Guilt slid into your throat like glass.

Carefully, you dug through Pope’s half-unzipped pack until your fingers closed around a cloth and a half-used bottle of antiseptic. You dampened the fabric and pressed it against JJ’s wound as gently as you could.

He flinched. Not much, but enough.

“Sorry,” you whispered.

He shook his head. “You’re fine. Just… keep going. I’m good.”

“You’re not good.”

Around you, the others settled into a rare quiet. The distant roar of sirens and the distant crackle of fires outside seemed almost unreal here, muffled by thick stone and heavy air. Pope kept fiddling with the busted emergency radio, turning the knob like if he hit the right frequency, a familiar voice might come through. Static answered every time.

JJ shifts against the wall again, wincing as he tries to stand.

You rise with him, your legs stiff, heart still unsteady.

Across the tunnel, Kiara paces in short, tight lines, her blade glinting in the low flashlight beam. Sarah’s slumped against the wall, her head on John B’s shoulder, both of them staring at the floor like it might tell them what to do next.

“We can’t stay here,” JJ says finally, voice low but firm. “Not after dark.”

Pope nods without looking up.

JJ glances toward the mouth of the tunnel. The light outside is already shifting—sharper, more golden. Late afternoon. “We’ve got maybe three hours. Maybe less.”

Sarah sits up slowly, wincing. “And go where? Both QZs are gone.”

The words drop like a stone. No one argues. Because it’s true.

Then Pope speaks—quiet, heavy.

“My dad didn’t even wait for the gates to fall. He knew.” His voice is bitter.

“He and Kie’s mom were already planning to move people out. Said if the Camerons stayed in charge, it was just a matter of time before the QZ cracked open like a soda can.”

Kiara nods, jaw tight.

“They had contacts near Winslow. People trying to build something better out there. My mom said they were prepping a convoy.”

She swallows hard. “They told us to wait. Said they’d come back for us once they got through the western corridor.”

Kiara rubs her face, the flashlight casting long shadows across her jaw.

“If they made it to Winslow… they could be alive.”

“If,” Pope echoes. Then he looks down at the radio he’s been clutching since you arrived. “I’ve been trying to reach anyone.”

“No one’s coming,” he mutters, defeated.

JJ looks at each of them. “Which means we stop thinking someone’s gonna save us. We have to go.”

“Then what?” John B asks. “What’s the plan tomorrow, or the next day? We just keep running around this island until we starve?”

“There’s a way off,” JJ says. “There has to be.”

Sarah speak up. “The marina. South of the freight yard. Coastal Watch used it.”

Pope’s already nodding. “Boats. If they’re still there.”

“They’re probably gone,” Kiara says.

“Yeah,” JJ agrees. “But probably’s not good enough to sit here and wait to die.”

Pope glances down at a small worn bracelet on his wrist. He twists it slowly, then tucks his hands away.

“We keep moving,” Kiara says softly. “They wouldn’t want us stuck here.”

JJ catches your eye.

“You and me up front. I want to be out of this tunnel before the light goes.”

You nod once. No hesitation.

You leave the tunnel as a group—two by two, like JJ said.

The air hits like a wave. Damp, smoky, thick with the ruin of what used to be civilization. The sun is low, casting everything in burnt gold and long shadows.

Behind you, the tunnel mouth yawns open like a wound.

The group moves through the treeline just off the highway, low and fast.

The sun’s a melted coin sliding toward the horizon. Light filters through pine needles and fractured glass. The smoke in the sky makes everything feel like an old photograph—faded, burnt at the edges. The crackle of burnt pine needles underfoot mixed with the sharp tang of smoke and salt.

It’s Pope who spots it first.

The house looked like it had been beautiful once.

Peeling blue paint clung to the siding in brittle curls. A wraparound porch sagged under its own weight, one support beam snapped and dangling like a broken limb. Wind pushed through the trees overhead, carrying smoke and the bitter tang of ash. A rusted truck sat out front, vines crawling through its shattered windshield like veins. The whole place had the feel of a memory that got left behind too long.

“There,” Pope murmured, pointing with the barrel of his rifle.

JJ’s eyes tracked it instantly. He didn’t say anything. Just adjusted his grip on the crowbar and kept moving. You followed close, your shoes crunching quietly across broken pinecones and brittle leaves. Behind you, Kiara and Pope fanned out while Sarah leaned heavily into John B, her ankle dragging, each step sharp.

The front gate was collapsed, flattened under the truck’s front end. JJ hopped it in one stride. You helped Sarah over while Pope circled around the back. Kiara tested the porch with one foot, then eased up the steps, her blade already drawn.

JJ reached the front door first.

The knob was jammed. Locked, maybe but it hardly mattered. He wedged the crowbar into the frame and leaned his full weight into it. The door gave with a splintering pop, swinging open slow. The hinges groaned like they hadn’t been used in a while.

Inside, the house was wrecked.

Curtains shredded. Drawers pulled out and dumped. A TV lay face-down in the middle of the floor, its screen spiderwebbed and dark. Family photos still clung to the walls, crooked and half-fallen, smiling faces frozen in time. One couch was overturned. The other had a long rust-colored stain soaked into the cushion, like someone tried to clean up and gave up halfway through.

JJ didn’t pause. He swept the living room with his eyes, fast and methodical. “Clear,” he called.

Pope’s voice echoed from the back hall. “Basement’s locked from the inside. If anything’s in there, it hasn’t gotten out.”

John B turned to the group. “We board the windows, stay quiet, and nobody sleeps alone.”

You moved like a team, automatic and quiet. Pope blocked off the back entrance with a fallen bookshelf and tied a rope from the front doorknob to the banister just in case. John B pulled a mattress down from upstairs and dropped it in the hallway, where everyone could see each other. Kiara used broken furniture legs to wedge the windows shut.

You found a half-full first-aid kit under the kitchen sink—bandages, antiseptic wipes, a cracked bottle of ibuprofen nearly full. Better than nothing.

Behind a stack of chipped mugs and a rusted coffee tin were cans, still sealed.

“Jackpot,” you whispered.

A can of chicken noodle soup. Another with a faded label you could barely make out: beef stew. And stuffed in the back corner of the lowest cabinet, two half-smashed boxes of protein bars—crushed a bit, but still good. A few cans of tuna and a jar of peanut butter. Not much, but enough if you rationed smart and didn’t get careless.

You grabbed them all and carried them out like you were holding a treasure.

JJ looked up first. “What is that?”

You dropped the haul onto the coffee table with a dull clatter. “Dinner,” you said. “Or what passes for it.”

Kiara was already digging through the drawers for something to heat the soup. She found a dented pot under the stove and filled it with a little clean water from a bottle.

“Keep the flame low,” Pope said to her, nodding toward the fireplace. “We don’t need smoke giving us away.”

Kie lit the fireplace with a pack of waterlogged matches and a strip of cloth soaked in lamp oil. The flame cast long shadows on the walls, warping the faces in the family portraits until they barely looked human anymore.

When the soup was warm enough, you all shared it from the pot, passing the spoon around in a circle. No one complained. No one took more than their share.

JJ handed you the spoon, his fingers brushing yours.

“You holdin’ up?” he asked.

You met his tired blue eyes. “Trying,”

He gave you that look—half checking, half calling you on your bullshit—but didn’t press. Just gave you a small nod and leaned back beside you, his thigh pressed to yours, his gaze locked on the low-burning fire.

The soup was salty and thin, but it hit like a hug in your chest. Outside, the trees groaned in the wind. The world was still breaking apart.

—

Sunlight filtered through the gaps in the palm fronds above, casting gold-streaked patterns on the sand. The air was thick with humidity, the kind that clung to the skin before the heat of the day even fully arrived. The waves lapped quietly in the distance, gentler now than the chaos of the night before.

Sleep slipped away as the warmth of morning settled over you. For a moment, you weren’t sure where you were, then you turned your head and saw JJ.

He was still asleep, or something close to it. His brows were furrowed like he was caught in some half-conscious tug-of-war between pain and exhaustion.

You pushed yourself upright slowly, muscles stiff from sleeping on the uneven mattress. Careful not to jostle him, you studied his shoulder, fingers ghosting over the edge of the bandage wrapped beneath his shirt. It was holding but blood had already bled through in patches, dark and spreading. His breathing was shallow but steady.

You reached out and gently peeled back part of the cloth to check the wound beneath. Angry red, the edges were inflamed, and the skin around it was hot to the touch.

You let out a breath and glanced around. Sarah and Pope were still asleep a few yards away, curled up near what was left of the fire.

You pressed the bandage back into place and glanced down at JJ again. His lips twitched like he was about to say something in his sleep, but the sound never came.

“Hey,” you said softly, brushing his golden damp hair off his forehead.

JJ stirred at the sound of your voice. His lashes fluttered, and after a beat, his eyes cracked open—cloudy with sleep.

You leaned back on your heels and gave him a once-over. His shoulder was still red but it wasn’t as hot as it had been last night. The swelling looked like it had started to go down too.

“You’re staring,” he rasps.

“Yeah, well,” you mutter, “you’ve looked better.”

JJ lets out a soft groan, tries to shift onto his elbow before immediately thinking better of it.

“Alright,” he breathes, eyes squeezing shut. “That’s fair.”

You run your fingers along the edge of the bandage again.

“You know, for a nurse, you’re alright. Might have to keep you around.”

“Shut up,” you say, but you don’t pull your hand away.

He looks at you for a long beat. Really looks. Not like someone skimming for a threat—like someone memorizing something they’re scared to forget.

Somewhere near the kitchen, you hear John B coughing quietly. Kiara whispers something back. A floorboard creaks as someone shifts.

The stillness doesn’t last.

Sarah groans softly as she sits up, bracing a hand on the wall. “God,” she mutters. “Feels like I got trampled.”

John B gets to his feet and stretches, wincing as his spine pops. “Everyone ready?”

You give a slight nod and help JJ sit up fully.

“Marina’s still the plan?” Sarah asks, pulling her boot halfway on before stopping with a grimace.

“Weather’s shifting. Wind’s stronger from the east now—means that smoke cover’s gonna thin out soon. If we’re moving, it’s gotta be now.”

“It’s the only one we’ve got,” Pope replies as he gets up. “We cut through the floodplain south of the main road. Stay off the grid. Hopefully that gives us cover from patrols and infected.”

Everyone moves with purpose now. Quiet, but sure.

Kiara checks the back door. Pope double-knots his boots and does a final sweep of the map he found. John B helps Sarah to her feet, steadying her as she leans hard on him, breath catching. You all know this could go sideways.

“Alright,” JJ says, his voice steady and low. “We stay tight. Eyes up.”

The air thickened with salt and decay as you crept through the chain-link break in the fence. The marina unfolded in front of you like a ghost town—rows of boats bobbing gently in the water, docks creaking under the breeze. Most vessels were sun-bleached, some half-sunk. But one, maybe two, looked like they could still run.

Kiara moved ahead, crouching low behind a toppled bait shack. “Look,” she whispered, pointing.

A small fishing boat. Covered, intact. No obvious damage. A fuel can was strapped to the stern.

“Looks like it’ll float,” Pope said.

You nodded once. “Let’s check it.”

The five of you moved like shadows across the dock. Wood groaned beneath your feet, but the wind and waves masked most of the noise. JJ stepped aboard first, checking below deck while you climbed up after him.

“It’s good,” he said. “Keys are gone, but we could hotwire it.”

Before you could respond, Kiara hissed, “Hold up!”

You dropped flat against the deck. Behind the rusted hull of a nearby trawler, figures emerged. Three. Maybe four. Armed.

“Shit,” JJ muttered.

You all froze.

A man’s voice cut through the stillness. Calm. Measured.

“We saw it first.”

One of the survivors stepped out fully now—mid-thirties, beard scruff, rifle slung lazily over one shoulder like it was part of his spine. A woman flanked him, pistol in hand. The third, a younger guy, barely looked older than you. All three wore worn backpacks. Scarred boots. Desperate eyes.

“You wanna talk about that?” John B called, raising both hands. “We don’t want a fight.”

“Neither do we,” the man replied. “It’s the only one that floats, and we’ve been watching it for three days.”

JJ muttered under his breath, “Then why didn’t they take it?”

You answered softly, “Waiting on someone. Or too scared to go alone.”

The man spoke again. “You’ve got numbers. Maybe gear. But we’ve got time, and a damn good reason to get off this island. So here’s the deal—you can hand over your weapons and we all leave together. Or we fight, and only one group sails.”

Behind you, Pope adjusted his grip on his makeshift spear. Kiara whispered, “We won’t all fit.”

You felt JJ’s shoulder brush yours as he stood. Slowly. Calm, but not backing down.

“You shoot at us,” he said to the man, “you lose your only ride off this hellhole.”

The other survivor stared, then let out a long breath. “You’re bluffing.”

JJ just gave him that crooked half-smile. The one that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Wanna find out?”

Tension stretched like wire between the docks. Nobody moved.

Then the younger guy—the one with wide eyes and a hunting knife—stepped forward.

“There’s room for six,” he said quietly. “Maybe seven. If we leave the extra gear.”

The woman shot him a look. “No.”

“We’re wasting time!” he snapped.

JJ’s gaze swept from you to John B, then fixed on the strangers. “Half the supplies. Nobody points a gun. We leave in ten.”

A long pause. The leader’s jaw ticked.

Then finally he nodded.

“Deal.”

No one lowered their weapons, but no one fired either. Everyone moved fast, tight-lipped, calculating the angles.

You helped JJ down to the dock while Pope and Kiara offloaded supplies—just the essentials. One backpack of meds. Two water jugs.

Sarah limped aboard with John B steadying her, her eyes locked on the horizon like it might vanish if she blinked. The strangers stayed clustered at the stern, casting quick glances, hands twitching near their weapons even after they agreed.

JJ climbed back to the console, his jaw tight as he hotwired the ignition. The wires sparked, then caught. The engine coughed twice before roaring to life.

The boat lurched forward. Everyone grabbed for something to steady themselves.

The strangers kept to their side of the deck. Silent. Watching. You could feel it in your spine—the way they didn’t blink enough. The way the woman’s hand never fully left her pistol.

You stayed close to JJ. One hand on the railing, the other instinctively near the knife at your belt.

The island shrank behind you. Smoke curled in the sky like a dying signal. The water stretched wide and open in every direction. For a moment, it was quiet. Too quiet.

Then came the click.

It was soft, almost lost beneath the hum of the engine. But you heard it.

So did JJ.

He turned slowly, just in time to see the bearded man raising the rifle—no longer slung lazy, but aimed with deadly certainty.

“Off the wheel,” the man said. Calm. Cold. “Now.”

JJ didn’t move. “We had a deal.”

The woman cocked her pistol and stepped forward. “You really thought we’d share this boat with six warm bodies?”

“You needed us to get it running,” Pope said, voice low.

“Yeah,” the younger guy said, sounding regretful. “And now we don’t.”

You were already moving—hand on your knife, mind racing.

“Jay,” you said, slow and even. “Turn hard right. Now.”

He didn’t hesitate.

The boat jerked sharply. The rifleman stumbled. The woman missed her footing and her shot went wide, screaming into the air.

But as you struggled, her other hand whipped out fast—a blade flashing. Before you could react, it plunged deep into your side.

You gasped, the air whooshing out of your lungs. Hot, searing pain exploded through your ribs.

JJ’s eyes went wide, sharp as a blade. “Shit!” he barked, voice cracking.

Kiara was already there, sweeping up the fallen pistol and turning it on the woman.

Pope rammed the butt of his spear into the leader’s stomach. He doubled over with a grunt, and John B hit him square in the jaw with the wrench.

The younger guy stood frozen. Knife halfway raised.

JJ reached him first.

“You don’t want to do this,” JJ said, breathing hard. “You don’t.”

The boy’s hand trembled. His eyes darted between you all—your blood, the way you held each other like you’d crawled out of fire together.

Then he dropped the knife.

“Get ‘em off,” Sarah snapped, limping toward the edge. “Now.”

Pope grabbed a flare gun. “You want a warning shot, or you want to swim?”

The bearded man spit blood. “You’re gonna regret this.”

JJ leaned in, voice low and razor-sharp. “Yeah? Maybe.”

You forced them overboard, one by one. Threw a life vest after them. Nothing else.

The younger one didn’t fight. He just slipped into the water with a shaky breath and never looked back.

The rest screamed curses that were swallowed by the waves.

You stepped back from the railing, chest heaving, watching the strangers flail in the dark water.

Blood blossomed hot and fast through your shirt, spreading thick from the gash on your side. JJ caught you the moment your knees threatened to buckle, holding you tight as he lowered you down.

“Hey—hey, no, no,” he said quickly, catching you around the waist. “You’re okay. You’re fine.”

But the blood soaked through your shirt fast.

Your fingers clutched at him instinctively. “I didn’t see it,” you whispered. “She—she had another—”

JJ pressed a hand hard to the wound. “I’ve got you. Just breathe. I’ve got you.”

Behind him, Pope shouted, “We need pressure—bandages, something!”

Kiara tore open the med pack. “Here!”

JJ pressed the cloth against your side, blood already darkening the white fabric. “Hey, eyes on me. Okay? You’re okay.”

You winced, teeth clenched, trying to breathe through the fire in your side. “Hurts.”

“I know,” he said, voice rough. “But you’re still kickin’, alright? You hear me? Just hang on,”

Pope crouched beside you, helping JJ wrap the gauze tight. “Not too deep,” he said. “She missed the artery. We got it fast.”

The engine hummed beneath you, the water stretching out ahead. The boat rocked with each wave, but JJ’s grip never wavered. His hand over yours. His breath ragged and hot on your temple. You clenched your jaw. Focused on the rise and fall of his chest. Tried to match it.

Somewhere behind you, John B steered. Pope kept watch. Kiara counted the supplies left.

The boat sped into the horizon—your friends battered, bleeding, alive. The mainland waited, whatever that meant now.

45 notes · View notes

imsojules · 12 days ago

Text

After the tide turns – Part 7

pairing: jj maybank x fem!reader

tw: post-apocalyptic themes, angst, blood, a lot of violence in this one, graphic injury, gore, isolation and loss, swearing, inspired by the last of us, established relationship, not fully proof-read, english is not my first language!

a/n: hey sweets!! i stayed up all night finishing this chapter because next week’s gonna be super wild, and i really wanted to get this one out since i knew i wouldn’t have time otherwise. honestly, the story feels such a mess right now, but please bear with me, i promise i'll try to do my best to make everything make sense in the end💖 thank you so much for being here and reading, ily all tons! 😊

word count: 5.8k

taglist: @chuuuchuuutrain, @d3adfa1ry, @maddsgrace, @darkparablesfan, @yulianie, @they-call-me-whiskey, @sanriobuny, @bbyg4rl, @andrealux21

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“Don’t get too hot out there,” you call over your shoulder, up to where JJ’s sprawled out like a sun-drunk cat.

“I’m not,” he mutters. “Just soaking in the view.”

Kiara snorts. “Pretty sure that’s code for doing nothing.”

The creek rushes soft and steady at your feet, cold enough to make your knees ache. Your sleeves are rolled to the elbow though it doesn’t help much, your shirt’s clinging to you anyway, soaked straight through. You’ve been scrubbing the same sweatshirt against a chunk of rusted corrugated metal Pope scavenged a few days ago. It’s acting like a makeshift washboard, and it almost works.

JJ’s lying in the grass, shirt rucked halfway up his stomach, one arm tossed over his eyes. His hair’s gotten longer, curling just past his ears now, the kind of soft that makes your fingers itch. He hears you laugh — that small, unguarded sound that keeps him sane — and tips his head enough to see you through the sun-glare. You're shin-deep in cold water, hair frizzed at the edges, hips tilted just enough to make his brain short-circuit.

Shit, you're beautiful like this. Elbows covered in soap, dirt on your cheek, grinning at Kiara like you’ve outrun the end of the world for a second.

“JJ,” Pope calls from where he’s sorting clothes by the rock pile, “you planning on helping, or are you just solar-charging?”

He props himself up on his elbows. “Supervision is a critical role.”

“Doing laundry is a critical role,” Pope replies dryly from the rock pile, where he’s trying to sort shirts into “clean,” “sorta clean,” and “never gonna be clean again” piles. “You’re just good at sitting.”

Sarah’s sitting on a fallen log, sleeves rolled, face damp from the walk down. She peels her socks off slowly and grins. “Let the boy pretend he’s useful. It’s the closest thing to a vacation we’ve had in a while.”

JJ drags himself up with a groan, muttering as he tugs off his boots. The creek bites cold against his skin as he steps in, jeans rolled to the knee. His shirt’s left in the grass behind him. “Need a break?”

You don’t answer right away. Just rinse out a sweatshirt and pass it to him, water running in rivulets from your fingers. “You showing up for the easy part?”

“I show up for the important part.”

“That so?”

He takes the sweatshirt without argument, dunks it under the water, and starts wringing it out. There’s something steady about the motion, both of you elbow to elbow, moving through it without a word.

Over by the rocks, Kiara is elbow-deep in a pail, wringing out a pair of cargo pants with grim determination. “You guys remember how clean clothes used to smell?” she asks. “Like laundry detergent and, like, not death?”

John B groans. “I’d give my left foot for a dryer sheet.”

“I’d give your left foot for socks without holes,” Pope mutters.

JJ holds up a wrinkled t-shirt and squints at it. “I don’t even know whose this is. I don’t wear tie-dye.”

“That’s mine,” Sarah calls without looking. “Try not to drown it.”

He turns it over, shrugs. “Honestly might be better if I did.”

You reach over and flick water at him. “You’re all talk.”

“Hey. I came down here, didn’t I?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Yeah. Only because Pope guilt-tripped you in front of everyone.”

The rest of the afternoon drifts by in pieces. Shirts hung like flags between two trees. A sun-faded blanket used to catch anything that slips loose. Kiara and Sarah argue over whether to boil water for the socks, “just in case” while John B passes out for twenty minutes facedown in the grass.

The sun’s warm on your back, and it almost feels like normal, but the edges of your brain still itch with everything left undone — packs half-zipped back at the school, maps creased open to Winslow, but you’re trying not to think too hard about it. One more night, maybe two, and then you're gone again.

You glance over. JJ’s standing beside you now, arms crossed, watching the laundry sway like it’s the most peace he’s seen in weeks. His hair’s a little damp, curls sticking to the nape of his neck, sun catching the golden strands near his temples.

“Not a bad haul,” he says.

You hum in agreement, eyes scanning the line of clothes fluttering gently between the trees.

By the time you start back toward the school, the sun’s low enough to drag shadows across the path, gold flickering between the branches. Damp clothes are bundled up and slung over shoulders. Pope’s hauling the wash tubs, mumbling about how he’s “not a damn mule.” while you hear John B’s trying to tell Sarah that raccoons are technically a survival food and she threatens to test that theory on him.

The school slips into sight just as the sun’s last light filters faintly through the needles. The old building’s door creaks as you push it open, the familiar musty scent of chalk dust hitting you like a welcome slap. The group shuffles inside, tired but quiet, the kind of silence that’s comfortable and worn-in.

The old floorboards creak softly beneath your boots as you cross the classroom you’ve claimed as your “bedroom,” settling down by the cracked window where the fading light catches dust motes drifting slowly in the air. JJ drops his bundle next to the table with a quiet thump.

He sits beside you, close but not crowding, and you nudge the battered pot toward the center of the room like it’s a centerpiece. The beans are overcooked, a little crusty around the edges, but warm.

“Tonight on Survive or Starve,” you announce, ladling the contents into mismatched bowls, “we’re making crispy post-societal bean flambé with an earthy dust garnish and a bold bouquet of candle wax.”

Pope squints suspiciously at his portion. “You better hope that’s seasoning and not actual dirt.”

Kiara and Sarah curl up against the far wall under a threadbare blanket, quietly debating which old radio host had the best late-night show. John B is already half out, feet splayed and dusty, mouth hanging open in a lazy snore.

Laughter bubbles up around the room, and for a minute, it almost feels like a night that doesn’t end in a loaded gun under someone’s pillow.

You glance sideways at JJ. His hair had dried into lazy waves, catching the light like they'd soaked up sun instead of water. “You know,” you murmur, “I could cut that.”

He turns to you, brows raised. “Cut what?”

You reach up and tap the top of his head. “That mop. You’re starting to look like a sad surfer Jesus.”

JJ smirks. “Only if you promise not to butcher me.”

“No promises,” you say, already pushing yourself up to grab the scissors Kie found in the art room earlier. “But I’ll be gentle.”

JJ sighs, dramatic. “This is how I die.”

You pat the spot in front of you. “Sit down, Maybank. Trust me.”

He does. He always does.

You work slowly, careful not to tug too hard. The scissors Kiara found aren’t exactly salon-grade, but they’re sharp enough. You start slow just trimming around his ears and he doesn’t flinch. If anything, he leans into the quiet of it.

“You always this calm when someone’s got blades near your face?” you murmur.

“I’m trying not to breathe too loud in case it throws off your cutting rhythm.”

“That’s generous of you.”

You feel it in the way his shoulders drop, how his breathing slows when your knuckles brush the back of his neck. “Almost done.”

“Shame,” he murmurs. “It’s kind of nice.”

When you finally lean back, he tips his head from side to side, testing the weight of it.

He blinks a couple of times, like he’s still getting used to it. His hand lingers near his hair but doesn’t move. Then he smirks, shaking his head. “Damn,” he says, “I can actually see now. And didn’t even nick an ear.”

You grin, squeezing his hand gently. “Don’t jinx it. But you’re welcome.”

—

You leave the scissors on the windowsill, right where the light hits them. Morning sun flashes off the blades, scattering soft reflections across the chalkboard.

The school feels heavier somehow, like it’s watching you pack. You move slow. Not out of dread, just not in a rush to let go of the calm that held you a little longer than expected.

JJ’s crouched next to you, fiddling with the little handheld radio they’ve never managed to get working. He doesn’t say anything, just twists the dial back and forth like he’s hoping the static might shape itself into something useful.

“You’re not gonna find anything,” Pope says without looking up from his gear. “That thing hasn’t worked since the tunnel.”

JJ shrugs. “Doesn’t mean I shouldn’t try.”

You glance up from your pack. “You holding out for a weather report?”

“Nah.” He taps the casing once, gently. “Just wanna hear someone’s voice that isn’t ours.”

Kiara kneels by her blanket, smoothing the corners like it matters. Pope counts batteries under his breath. Sarah tests her healing leg with a small wince, then straightens her spine like pain’s just background noise now.

John B swings his rifle into place. “Let’s not waste the good weather.”

JJ waits for you at the front door, hand on the handle, sunlight leaking in through the cracks.

Before anyone says it’s time to move, Kiara clicks her flashlight on twice, then once more.

“Still doing that?” Pope asks, digging through his pack.

“It’s for luck,” Kiara says flatly. “We could use some.”

Sarah flicks hers in rhythm, barely looking up. “It’s tradition now.”

John B does his, too. “Can’t mess with fate.”

JJ rolls his eyes but pulls his from his belt loop and clicks along. “Pretty sure if fate was real, it already hates us.”

They all look at you. You fish yours out, click-click, then click. It buzzes faintly in your palm.

“There,” you say. “Now we’re cursed as a group.”

“That’s the spirit,” Pope mutters.

JJ stands, brushing off his hands, and nods toward the door and you follow him out. The others fall in behind. As you all start walking the school behind you settles back into stillness, just a place again. A shelter that gave what it could.

The gravel path fades into cracked asphalt, then into dirt and weeds and roots that pull at your boots. Pope trails with the map, fingers tracing the lines as if willing the route forward. Sarah stays close to John B, who scans the tree line like he’s daring anything to step out.

JJ walks a few paces ahead, boots crunching in soft rhythm. You pause for a moment, your hand resting lightly against the spot on your side that still aches beneath your shirt. His head turns slightly when he hears you behind him, like his body knows you’re there before his mind does. You adjust your pack and fall into step beside him.

The trail bends at a fallen tree, low and wide enough that you have to duck beneath it. JJ goes first, hand brushing the bark as he crouches. When you come through behind him, he reaches up—fingers ghosting across your back, steadying you like he’s done it a hundred times.

Just when the wind stills enough that the only thing you can hear is the hush of branches and Pope flipping a page—

pop-pop-pop.

Gunfire. Distant, but not too distant. Maybe a half-mile west, muffled through the trees.

You freeze mid-step, shoulders tightening like a string’s been pulled.

Another shot echoes, sharper this time. Three rounds in a controlled burst.

JJ leans toward you, voice low. “Wanna guess?”

You try to focus past the birds that’ve gone dead silent. “AR platform. Maybe a military leftover. Loud but tight.”

JJ clicks his tongue. “I’m going with a modified .223. Civilian, semi-auto, sounds like a suppressor’s starting to wear.”

You squint at him. “You always add extra details to sound more convincing.”

“And you always fall for it.” He grins.

Pope waves a hand, snapping the two of you back. “Shut up. Let’s keep moving—quietly.”

JJ falls in behind you this time, close enough that you can hear the fabric of his sleeve brush your backpack with every step.

The forest doesn’t feel as open now. The sun’s still out, the birds haven’t come back, and you can’t help glancing back toward the direction of the shots.

You keep walking, boots crunching over pine needles and broken twigs, while JJ walks just behind you, close enough that you feel the warmth of him at your back. It’s comforting in a way, but even he’s quiet now.

The trail winds a little sharper ahead, forcing the group to move single file. You duck under another fallen limb, steady yourself on the trunk and that’s when you smell it. Copper and mold and something else. You stop short. JJ catches it too.

“Wait,” he mutters.

Kiara nearly bumps into you from behind, silent but slowing. The others do the same.

You step carefully over a patch of roots, and then you see two bodies slumped against the slope of a shallow ridge, half-covered in moss and leaves. Old enough to not be fresh, but recent enough that the scene still hums with tension.

“Shit,” Sarah breathes behind you.

They were not infected. Weapons stripped. One still has a broken bootlace dangling from his ankle. The other—her arm bent wrong, a pack half-zipped at her side. Both bodies are dressed in matching gray-blue jackets, stiff-looking canvas with a strange patch sewn just under the collarbone. You can’t make out what it means. A circle maybe, with crude lines inside it. Not military. Not Fedra. Nothing you recognize, but they match.

You glance around, suddenly aware of how quiet the woods have gone again.

“Grab what we can,” Pope says, voice tight. “Then we keep moving.”

You nod and move in closer.

As you drop into a crouch beside JJ, he eases the flap of the pack open, careful like whatever’s inside might still bite. The zipper’s halfway torn, hanging crooked over the edge. Inside, beneath a crushed can of fruit and a clotted roll of gauze, lies a black walkie-talkie. Scratched, dirt-caked, and still faintly blinking. JJ stares at it for a second, not moving.

You reach for it just as he does but he lets you take it. Doesn’t speak, just shifts his weight beside you, eyes scanning the tree line like he’s waiting for it to answer first.

There’s another on the woman’s belt. JJ unclips it, flips it over. The screen’s cracked but glows faintly when he hits the button.

“Think anyone’s listening?” you ask.

“If they are, they’re not answering,” JJ says, stuffing one into the side pocket of your pack. “Still good to have.”

Pope keeps his voice low. “Grab what you can. We shouldn’t linger.”

John B keeps watch while Kiara gathers what little else is salvageable—a half-empty water flask, two lighters, and a strip of duct tape.

You stand, brushing dirt off your palms, trying not to look at the woman’s twisted arm again.

The group shifts without a word, boots moving over cracked branches and soft rot. Pope takes the lead, map gripped tight in his hands, tracing faded pencil lines like they’ll anchor him to something solid. You follow in the middle of the line, JJ’s shadow tagging yours, your fingers brushing the radio like it might suddenly spark to life.

It’s maybe twenty minutes before the trees start to thin again. The canopy breaks just enough to let in a sickle of sun, slicing across a clearing tangled in overgrowth.

The clearing opens up all at once — wide and brittle underfoot, grass gone dry, sun beating down in strips through the high trees. An old sedan sits rusted near the far end, half-swallowed by brambles.

Pope squints toward the opposite side, map still in hand. “We can cut through, pick up the road before it gets dark.”

Then it starts —a burst, a sound that doesn’t belong. Gunshots rip through the trees, shattering branches and sending leaves flying. You don’t see where the fire comes from, only hear the panic crack open.

“Shit—GO!” Kiara’s voice cuts sharp and frantic. John B’s yelling something, but the words get lost beneath the chaos.

JJ grabs your wrist, hauls you low behind the busted car in one breathless move. His hand is warm and tight, too tight it hurts. “Stay down,” he barks.

“Pope!” someone yells.

You look just in time to see Pope stumble, crash to the ground. He doesn’t scream, but his hand’s clamped to his thigh. Blood soaks through the denim in seconds.

“Pope!” you scramble forward. “Pope—hey—”

“Fuck,” JJ’s already there, crouched beside him, hands moving fast. “You’re good. You’re fine.”

“I’m not fucking fine,” Pope grits out, eyes wide with pain. “They got me—shit, they—”

Another burst of gunfire whips past. JJ jerks instinctively, throwing himself over Pope, curling tight to shield him. Behind you, Sarah’s dragging Kiara behind the old signpost. John B fires two shots, then dives behind a rotting tree trunk.

JJ stands up just enough to fire a shot over the hood, then drops again hard beside Pope, his shoulder jerking as another bullet slams into the dirt inches from him.

You don’t have a gun, just the knife tucked in your boot. His breath’s coming short, chest tight like someone’s sitting on it and his brain’s spinning while he’s doing the math in his head, too fast and too frantic.

I can’t protect both of you.

“Go with them!” he shouts over the roar of gunfire, voice cracking like glass, jerking his head toward where Sarah and Kiara are already retreating behind the old signpost, John B covering them. “We’ll go after you! Now!”

Every inch of you wants to stay. Your body is screaming at you to move forward, to drop to your knees beside him, to help somehow, anyhow but there’s nothing you can do. You’re unarmed, exposed, useless here—he knows it and you know it, and the terror in his voice is worse than the bullets. You take one step and freeze again. “I’m not—”

JJ spins toward you, raw panic splashed across his face, eyes wide with fury and fear. “Yes, you ARE!” he snaps, louder now. “I’ve got Pope—just get the fuck out of here, I’ll be right behind you, just GO!”

And you do.

He fires two reckless rounds back into the trees just to give you cover, hands already slipping in Pope’s blood.

You grab your pack, crouch-run, slipping behind the sedan, heart hammering so hard it drowns out everything else, each breath is a knife between your ribs. You disappear into the trees so fast it feels like a punch, and JJ doesn’t even get the luxury of watching you go. He hears the last snap of twigs under your boots, and then nothing. One second you're right there, and the next, the forest swallows you whole. Gone.

He tells himself that’s a good thing. That means you listened. That means he did his job.

Pope’s blood is spilling faster than JJ’s hands can stop it. He’s not a medic. He’s not even good in the moments that require calm or reason. He’s better with fire, with rage, with his fists. He drags Pope deeper into the woods, boots sliding on wet moss, breathing ragged, while his blood leaves streaks on bark.

Another shot cracks overhead, splitting a branch above them.

“JJ,” Pope chokes, barely upright. “I—I can’t—”

“You can. You will,” JJ growls. “Keep your damn eyes open.”

Pope stumbles. JJ hauls him up again, practically carrying him now.

Another shot rings out. Closer this time, real close.

And then a feeling like someone’s shoved a burning iron straight through his upper arm — a rip, and everything blurs.

JJ goes down hard, shoulder-first, gun skittering into the brush. The world whites out in the edges. It feels like someone cracked open his ribs and poured fire inside. He hits the dirt with a grunt, rolls, tries to breathe, but air isn’t coming fast enough.

Rolling behind a moss-covered log, he drags his pistol back up. One bullet left, maybe two, he can’t remember. The forest falls into a heavy silence, broken only by the crunch of slow, deliberate footsteps.

A calm, controlled voice cuts through the quiet: “Drop it.”

JJ freezes, pressed tight against the tree trunk, trying to disappear into the shadows.

“Come on out. Hands where we can see ’em.”

Figures start to emerge, shapes threading through the trees with the kind of patience that means they’re not in a rush. Tall outlines, wide shoulders, rifles slung with confidence. These aren’t raiders or scavengers hoping for luck. They’re practiced and coordinated.

He’s dead. He knows it.

He raises the barrel anyway — not out of strategy, but defiance. “Fuck you,” he mutters, voice low and cracked and shaking with too much rage to hide. “Come make me.”

One of them steps forward, walking calmly out of the trees like this isn’t a death sentence waiting to happen. “JJ?”

JJ’s blood goes cold. “...What?”

The man keeps walking, slow and steady, hands loose at his sides. His rifle stays down. His face comes into focus. He is leaner than it should be, eyes older and harder. There’s a beard now, uneven and scruffy, and a jagged scar along his jaw that JJ swears wasn’t there before. But JJ knows that face. He knows that voice like he knows his own.

Luke Maybank.

Alive. And here.

He hasn’t seen this face in a long time, but he still dreams about it. Some nights it's covered in blood. Some nights it’s begging for forgiveness. JJ doesn’t lower the gun, but he doesn’t fire either. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

Luke looks him over, calm but unreadable. “Didn’t think it was you at first. Thought I was hearing ghosts.”

“Are we… are we not dying now?” Pope wheezed, shifting in the dirt, blood seeping like ink.

“Still up for debate,” JJ muttered, voice low, eyes fixed on Luke.

Luke steps forward, slow and measured, like he’s approaching something wild that might still bolt. His voice softens just a notch as his eyes flick toward Pope and the blood running down JJ’s arm “You’re hit.”

“No shit.”

“Winslow’s ten clicks west. We’ve got supplies. Meds. I’ll take you.”

JJ opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. His throat works around a thousand things — shock, memory, disbelief. His fingers twitch around the pistol grip.

It lowers, an inch. Then another.

JJ blinks like he’s trying to clear fog off a mirror. Everything in him is screaming, loud and scrambled. He glances toward Pope, who’s not moaning anymore, just still. Too still.

Then Luke nods toward the bloodied boy at JJ’s feet. “You two are not gonna last long if we keep standing here. What’s it gonna be, son?”

JJ’s jaw tightens. The pistol wavers, then dips all the way down. He shoves it back into his waistband without looking.

“Help me get him up.”

Luke raises a hand and gestures behind him. Two more figures appear from the trees like shadows — one squat and square-shouldered, the other tall, lean, face half-covered by a red scarf. Neither of them speak. One kneels beside JJ immediately, assessing the wound with a practiced calm.

“Through and through,” she says, already cutting JJ’s sleeve open. “But you need pressure on this now.”

“I’m fine,” JJ mutters. He isn’t.

“You’ve got maybe ten minutes before you pass out,” she snaps, tying a bandage tight around his upper arm. He presses a hand to his arm, tries to slow his breathing, tries to swallow the spike of guilt that’s pressing against his ribs like a knife.

“Let’s move.”

The clearing is behind them now, fading into trees and tangled underbrush, but JJ stands frozen in place. His body’s angled toward Pope, who’s half-conscious and slumped in the stranger’s arms, but his head’s turned toward where he last saw you and the others, where you vanished into the trees, running for cover.

You’re gone. He told you to run. He told you he’d be right behind.

“I have to get back,” he says suddenly.

Luke turns. Raises a brow. “Not like this. You wouldn’t last fifty feet.”

The fire in his arm roars again. He swallows, the taste of iron thick on his tongue. Every part of him is fighting it. His gut, his spine, the way his legs want to run even if he doesn’t know which way to go.

But Luke’s not wrong.

Pope’s barely conscious. The people with them are armed, trained, and moving fast. And JJ doesn’t have a map. Doesn’t even have a direction anymore, just a gut full of panic and the memory of your face when he shoved you toward the tree line.

He turns again. Looks back one more time, scanning the trees for a flash of movement. A sound. A miracle. His heart caves in on itself, but he moves.

Because Pope needs him. Because you would’ve told him to. And you… you would’ve told him to survive. Because as much as it’s killing him, he knows what you would’ve done if the roles were reversed.

—

You don’t know how long you’ve been running. Long enough for the gunfire to fade behind you, long enough for the trees to grow dense and the panic to harden like stone in your chest. You run because JJ begged you to and his voice cracked in a way that made something inside you split.

The forest is a blur of movement and shadow, branches clawing at your sleeves, roots threatening to catch your boots. Your breath comes in sharp, broken gasps, like every inhale scrapes your lungs raw. Your legs burn. Your ribs ache. Your body screams at you to stop — but you don’t. You can’t.

Eventually, the trees swallow the light. Everything turns narrow and dim. You stumble down a shallow slope and drop behind a moss-covered ridge, collapsing to your knees in the wet earth. For a second you let the weight of it all hit you.

Your hands won’t stop shaking. Your throat’s on fire. You press your face to your sleeve and bite down hard to keep the sob in your chest from clawing its way out.

You can’t cry now.

And then you twist, looking over your shoulder like you can will them into view.

Nothing.

No flash of blond curls. No Pope limping after him, muttering a curse. No sign of John B or the others. The silence is deafening.

“Come on,” you whisper. “Please. Come on.”

Still nothing. Just the wind, the rustle of leaves, the drumming in your ears that might be your heartbeat or the trees closing in.

Then you smell it. You don’t see them at first, but you feel, that sour, rotting stink that clings to the inside of your nose. Two infected burst from the shadows, sudden and sharp like predators. Their ragged breath hisses between cracked teeth, eyes feral, glowing faintly in the dark.

They wear torn, blood-spattered bulletproof vests—remnants of a war they’ve lost. The vests are ripped and scratched, hanging heavy on their twisted frames.

One drags a mangled foot, flesh shredded but it moves with a terrifying speed, limping yet relentless. The other’s jaw is split open, frozen in a silent scream, saliva and dark blood dripping down its chin.

They sprint toward you, fast, fueled by some unholy mix of rage and decay. The sharp snap of their bones and the wet slap of their feet on mossy earth echo like a death march.

Your fingers tighten around the knife handle until your knuckles turn white. Your heart hammers in your chest, threatening to burst.

Before they reach you, you leap. The knife slashes deep into the first one's neck with a wet, squelching sound. It staggers, gurgling, muscles twitching uncontrollably, before it collapses, limbs flailing like broken puppets.

The second snarls, lunging faster than you expect. You swing your fist into its shattered face—bones crunch beneath your knuckles, teeth shatter, and the infected claws slash deep into your forearm, pain flaring white-hot.

Your knife slides beneath its split jaw, stabbing deep into the soft tissue at the base of its skull. It thrashes, muscles jerking like a marionette controlled by death itself, before going utterly still.

When you finally move again, your limbs feel foreign. Heavy, like you’re made of soaked cloth and wire. You creep back out and keep going, quieter this time. You stick to the edges of the trail, eyes always on the shadows. The wind’s picking up.

It’s another twenty minutes before you see them.

At first, it’s just the flick of a shoulder between trees, the movement too fast to register. You freeze, heart in your throat, but then a voice slices through the hush — Kiara’s, sharp and familiar: “Careful with that, Sarah—”

Your legs move before your brain catches up.

“Wait!” you shout, stumbling toward them, pushing through a tangle of branches that scrape your arms and tear at your pack. “It’s me!”

They spin fast — Kiara already reaching for her knife, John B swinging his rifle up, Sarah scrambling back— then their eyes widen as recognition hits.

“Oh my God,” Sarah says, her voice breaking open in disbelief.

Kiara’s the first to reach you. Her arms wrap around you before you can stop moving, grounding you like a rope tossed from a lifeboat.

“Holy shit,” she breathes. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

You shake your head even though your legs are shaking, even though your chest won’t stop trembling. “I’m fine,” you say. “I’m okay.”

Kiara doesn’t let go right away. You feel her grip tighten for just a second longer before she pulls back to look at you, eyes darting over your face like she’s trying to make sense of you being here — alone.

“Where are-?” she asks. Not frantic, not panicked.

“They were right behind me,” you manage, but the words come out like they’re chipped from stone. “JJ said to run. He said he’d cover Pope. I—” You stop, breath stalling in your chest. “He promised he’d be right behind.”

“Shit,” John B mutters, running a hand through his hair. “Shit, shit.”

The guilt starts clawing at your ribs. Maybe if you’d waited longer. Maybe if you hadn’t listened. Maybe if you’d gone back, just for a second, just to—

For a second, none of them say anything. Then John B quietly lowers his rifle, glancing back in the direction you came from.

“We have to assume they’re headed to the fallback point,” Kiara says, already slipping back into motion. “If they’re alive, they’ll head there. That’s the plan.”

“We wait for them,” Sarah adds. “We stay put. They’ll come.”

You drop down beside a fallen log, pressing your back to the bark. The weight of your pack slides off your shoulders. Your hands are still trembling. You stare down at your fingers like they belong to someone else. JJ said he’d be right behind. He never lies to you.

You sit with your back to the log, knees drawn up, the forest pressing in around the four of you like it's waiting for something. Every crack of a branch, every breath of wind, has your head snapping up. You’re listening for footsteps that don’t come. A voice. A curse. JJ’s laugh, or even Pope’s dry sarcasm. Anything.

But the woods stay quiet.

John B paces. Sarah’s trying to keep her hands busy, repacking her med kit for the third time. Kiara hasn’t moved much — she’s crouched near the base of a tree, knife tapping rhythmically against her thigh, eyes flicking constantly to the dark line of trees behind you.

You keep glancing behind you, past the trees, back the way you came — where the gunfire was, where JJ and Pope still are. You tell yourself they’re right behind you, just a little slower, just taking the long way. But the silence says otherwise.

Kiara’s the one who breaks it. Her voice is low, steady. “Here. Drink.”

You take the canteen without thinking, your fingers brushing hers. The water tastes off, but you drink anyway. It gives your jaw something to do other than clench. You hand the canteen back and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, even though the water barely touched your thirst.

You keep scanning the trees like something might shift. Like maybe they’ll step out of the shadows and this will all rewind.

“They should’ve caught up by now,” you say, and it sounds steadier than you feel. You hug your knees tighter to your chest, blinking against the sting in your eyes. “They should be here.”

Sarah looks up from her half-packed med kit. “If they made it out, they’re headed this way.”

“If,” you echo. The word tastes like rust.

Kiara glances over, eyes sharp. “Don’t go there.”

You stand before you can stop yourself, pacing three tight circles near the edge of the log. “We left them,” you say, heat rising in your chest, your throat.

“I have to go back,” you say, the words solid and fast, like they’d been waiting just beneath your teeth.

“Absolutely not,” Kiara fires back. “Not alone.”

“Then come with me.”

“No.”

You blink, stunned by how fast she said it.

“You’re not thinking straight,” she adds, quieter now. “We don’t know what’s out there.”

“We do,” you snap. “Infected. Gunfire. Blood. And JJ and Pope are still in the middle of it!”

“You go charging in there alone, you’ll die,” John B says. He’s standing now, shoulders stiff, rifle slung tight over his chest.

A silence stretches over the group like a tarp, heavy and suffocating.

Sarah speaks up gently. “Let’s circle back. Just to the edge. We’ll stay out of sight. Look for signs. Maybe they doubled back, maybe they’re hiding. But we stick together. That’s how we do this.”

You exhale, fists clenched so tight your nails are biting into your palms. You almost reach for your flashlight. Like one more click could pull them back from wherever they are. “Okay,” you whisper. “Okay. Let’s move.”

John B steps forward, calm but focused, his rifle slung tight against his chest. His jaw’s set, gaze sharp.

He leads you back into the trees, boots moving with practiced silence over damp leaves. You scan every inch of shadow as you walk, heart climbing back into your throat. The wind’s stronger now, shoving through the branches above like it’s trying to rush you forward.

“Eyes sharp. We look for sign—blood, tracks, anything.” He glances back at you, and this time his voice softens just enough. “We’ll find them.”

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