Solomon Smith eased the truck into the driveway, gravel crunching under tires as the engine ticked down to silence. The homestead loomed ahead, familiar and solid against the fading light—two-story farmhouse with boarded-up potential already in his mind. Emily Thompson sat rigid in the passenger seat, blonde hair tangled and blood-specked, hands clenched in her lap. Her thin white tank top was torn at the strap, clinging damp to her full C-cup breasts, pale pink puffy nipples faintly outlined through the sweat-soaked fabric like shadows on frost. Denim shorts rode high on her thick thighs, wide hips shifting uneasy as she stared blank at the dashboard. The scent of her filled the cab: sharp fear-sweat mixed with the metallic tang of her parents' blood, faint floral shampoo underneath like a memory of normalcy.
He killed the engine, scanned the treeline out of habit—nothing moving yet, just cicadas winding down into evening hush. "We're here," he said calm, voice low and steady. Practical. No room for his own churning gut; Dad's training kicked in—assess, secure, survive. Emily didn't move at first, eyes wide and glassy, virgin innocence shattered in her tear-streaked face. Eighteen, soft and curvy, country-raised but sheltered—school crushes and bus rides, not this.
Solomon got out, AR slung over shoulder, and rounded to her side. Opened the door gentle. "Emily. Come on inside. You're safe now." She flinched at his touch on her arm—dark hand on pale skin, contrast stark in the dusk—but let him guide her out. Her legs buckled slightly, plush thighs trembling, round ass brushing his hip as she leaned for support. He half-carried her up the porch steps, her weight soft and yielding against him, scent intensifying up close—warm skin under the blood, a hint of vanilla lotion from better days.
Inside, the house felt cooler, air thick with lingering chili spice and gun oil from his morning clean. He locked the door behind them—deadbolt thunk solid—then sat her on the couch. "Stay put. I'll get water." She nodded numb, knees drawn up, shorts riding higher to show the soft fluff of her lower belly peeking over the waistband. Wide hips spread slightly on the cushions, curves plush and inviting in vulnerability, but Solomon pushed it down. Not the time. Practical first.
He fetched a glass from the kitchen—well water cool and clear—and a clean hoodie from his room upstairs. Back down, he handed her the water first. "Drink slow. You bit? Scratched deep?" She shook her head, gulping shaky, water dribbling down her chin onto the tank top, darkening the fabric further. He knelt practical, eyes level with hers—deep brown meeting blue—and checked anyway. Lifted her arms gentle, inspected pale skin for breaks: faint red lines from claws, but no punctures. Thighs next—thick and dimpled soft, inner curves pale and unmarked. No bites. Good.
"Here," he said, draping the hoodie over her shoulders. Oversized on her frame, gray fabric swallowing her curves, but buttons strained slightly over her breasts as she zipped it halfway. Nipples still faint points against the inner layer, but hidden now. She clutched it like armor, tears spilling fresh. "They're... they're gone. Mom and Dad... they just... turned."
Solomon nodded, no empty words. "Saw it. Had to end it quick. I'm sorry." He stood, moved to the windows—practical action to steady them both. Hammer and nails from the toolbox, plywood sheets from the shed dragged in earlier. He boarded the ground-floor panes methodic: measure, cut with the handsaw (teeth whining through wood, sawdust scent sharp), nail in place with rhythmic blows. Thunk-thunk. Emily watched wide-eyed from the couch, blonde strands falling over her face, hands twisting in the hoodie hem. "What are you doing?"
"Securing. Those things—whatever they are—might come looking. Noise draws 'em, from what I saw." He didn't elaborate, just kept working. Sweat beaded on his dark skin again, hoodie sleeves pushed up to reveal lean forearms corded from chores. The radio on the kitchen counter crackled static—emergency loop repeating: "...infection spreading rapidly. Symptoms include fever, aggression, loss of cognitive function. Avoid bodily fluids. Federal aid incoming..." Solomon switched it off mid-sentence. No help there yet.
By dusk, the windows were fortified, shadows long across the living room floor. Emily had stopped crying outright, but her breaths came shaky, plush body curled small on the couch. Solomon lit a lantern—battery-powered, soft glow flickering like candlelight—and sat in the armchair across from her, AR propped nearby, safety on but mag seated. "You eat today?"
She shook her head, lower lip trembling. "Couldn't... after."
He nodded, rose again. Kitchen raid: canned soup heated on the propane stove, steam rising savory with chicken and noodles. Brought her a bowl, spoon clinking. "Eat. Need strength." She took it hesitant, hands brushing his—pale fingers soft against his dark skin, warmth lingering brief. She ate slow, virgin awkwardness in her movements, like the world had tilted and she was relearning balance. Solomon ate his own bowl standing, watching the boarded windows for shadows.
Night fell proper, Ozark darkness thick outside—crickets chirping erratic, distant moans carried on the breeze like echoes of the Thompsons. Emily set her empty bowl aside, eyes heavy but fearful. "What now?"
"Watch rotation. You sleep first. I'll take first shift." He dimmed the lantern lower, shadows dancing on walls. She nodded, lay back on the couch cushions, hoodie pulled tight. But sleep didn't come easy—tosses and whimpers, plush curves shifting under the blanket he draped over her.
Hours in, as Solomon scanned the dark through a peephole slit, she stirred. "Can't sleep," she whispered, sitting up. Blonde hair tousled, face pale in the low light, tank top visible where the hoodie gaped—nipples puffy points from chill. She scooted closer on the couch, thick thighs brushing his as he sat beside her. "Can I... just sit with you?"
He nodded quiet, no pushback. Practical comfort. She leaned into his side eventually, head on his shoulder—soft weight pressing, scent of her hair floral against his nose. Her breathing slowed, body relaxing into trust, wide hips nestled against his thigh. Solomon felt the warmth of her, curves yielding soft, but kept his arm loose around her shoulders. No romance, not yet—just quiet protection. Mine to keep safe, the thought flickered unbidden.
Outside, a moan echoed closer—shuffling steps on gravel? Solomon tensed, hand on AR grip, finger indexed straight. But it passed, fading into the woods. Emily slept fitful against him, breath warm on his neck. He repeated the mantra silent, deep brown eyes fixed on the door.
Dad's a Marine. They're alive. They're coming back.
The night stretched on, heavy with unknowns.