Solomon Smith sat watch through the slitted peephole in the boarded window, AR-15 propped against his knee, the house settling into a tense hush as midnight crept closer. The lantern glowed low on the coffee table, casting long shadows across the living room—flickering orange on the plywood barriers he'd nailed up earlier, the scent of fresh-cut wood mingling with the faint metallic tang of blood still clinging to Emily's clothes from the farm. She dozed fitful on the couch nearby, blonde hair splayed across the pillow he'd given her, soft curves rising and falling under the blanket. Her tank top and shorts were hidden now, but the memory of her trembling form lingered—wide hips curled fetal, thick thighs pressed together for comfort.
Outside, the Ozark night hummed uneasy: crickets chirping sporadic, wind rustling pines like whispers, distant moans carrying on the breeze—low and guttural, more of those things wandering the fields. Solomon's deep brown eyes scanned the dark, lean frame alert despite the lingering sniffle from his cold. Practical mindset held: ammo count in his head (thirty in the mag, two spares in pockets), Ka-Bar knife on belt, shotgun by the door for close work. No panic. Just readiness.
The power flickered then—lights buzzing dim, generator in the shed sputtering like it sensed the wrongness outside. Emily stirred awake, blue eyes wide and fearful in the unsteady glow. "What's that?" she whispered, sitting up slow, blanket pooling around her waist. The hoodie he'd lent her gaped open slightly, revealing the thin tank beneath—pale skin flushed from sleep, full breasts shifting with her movement, nipples faint points against the fabric from the chill draft seeping through cracks.
"Generator acting up," Solomon said calm, voice low. "Might cut out. We'll manage." He rose, checked the breaker panel in the hall—fuses fine, but the hum outside faltered again. Lights died for a beat, plunging them into lantern-only dimness, then surged back weak. Emily hugged her knees, thick thighs dimpled against her chest, round ass settling deeper into the cushions. "What if they come? Those... things."
Solomon met her gaze steady. "Then we handle it. But you need to know basics first." Practical—Dad's lessons echoed: teach early, build confidence. He grabbed the old .22 rifle from the safe—light recoil, good for starters—and cleared it triple: mag out, chamber empty, safety on. Set it on the table between them. "Come here. I'll show you."
She hesitated, eyes darting to the weapon like it might bite, but scooted closer on the couch—wide hips brushing his thigh, warmth radiating through her shorts. Scent of her up close: faint floral mixed with dried sweat, a hint of fear still. Solomon handed her the rifle gentle, his dark hands steady on the stock. "Four rules first. Repeat after me: Treat every weapon as loaded."
She echoed shaky, voice soft and uncertain, fingers trembling as they gripped the wood. "Treat every weapon as loaded."
"Never point the muzzle at anything you're not willing to destroy." He guided her hold—high grip, thumbs forward—correcting without lingering. She repeated, blue eyes locked on his, absorbing slow.
"Finger off the trigger till sights on target and you've decided to shoot." Her index finger straightened along the frame instinctive now, plush body leaning in focused.
"Be sure of your target and what's beyond." She nodded, repeating firm this time, though her breaths came quick.
"Good." Solomon set up dry fire: no ammo, just reps. "Stance—feet shoulder-width, lean aggressive." She stood awkward at first, tank top riding up to show soft belly fluff over shorts waistband. He adjusted her hips light—palms on wide curves, fabric warm—then stepped back. "Sight picture: front post sharp, aligned in rear. Target blurry beyond."
They practiced in the dim room: her mounting the rifle to eye level, breath pause at exhale, trigger press smooth without jerk. Hands shook at first, wide eyes flinching on the "click," but reps steadied her—ten, twenty, muscle memory building. "Surprise break," Solomon murmured. "Don't anticipate." She improved, blonde hair falling over one eye as she concentrated, full breasts rising with each controlled breath.
Power cut fully then—generator dying with a final cough, lights out, only lantern flickering. Darkness pressed against the boards, moans louder now—three distinct, shuffling closer on gravel. Emily froze, rifle trembling in her grip. "They're here..."
Solomon switched to AR, low ready. "Stay behind me. Watch the door." He moved to the window slit, peephole giving a narrow view: three shamblers in the driveway, milky eyes reflecting lantern leak, ragged clothes torn and bloodied. One—former neighbor maybe, face half-gone—led, arms outstretched, low growl vibrating the glass.
First one reached the porch steps, boot thudding wood. Solomon aimed through the slit—front sight on forehead, breath pause. Crack. The .223 punched clean, skull exploding out the back in a wet spray of gray matter and bone shards that splattered the railing like thrown paint. Body dropped twitching, brass tinkling on floor inside.
Second shambled faster, drawn by noise—fresh-turned maybe, jerky sprint short and clumsy. Solomon cycled calm, reacquired. Crack. Round took the eye socket, exit wound vaporizing the rear—brains chunking wet on gravel, arterial blood spurting dark arcs in the dim.
Third grabbed the porch rail, hauling up—face inches from the board, moan guttural through the slit. Solomon switched to shotgun—pump racked loud, chambering slug. Boom. Recoil jarred his shoulder, muzzle flash blinding brief as the slug obliterated the head at point-blank: skull disintegrating in a gory mist of pink and red, fragments peppering the window like hail, blood spray seeping through cracks in hot copper stink.
Emily vomited then—hunched over, retching onto the floor, soup and bile acrid in the air. Solomon scanned quick—no more threats—then set the shotgun down, safety on. "Easy," he murmured, kneeling beside her. Wet cloth from the kitchen, wiped her mouth gentle, dark hands steady on her pale chin. She trembled, tears fresh, but leaned into the touch—soft curves pressing close.
"Sorry," she whispered, voice small. "I couldn't..."
"You did fine." He helped her up, guided to the bathroom—lantern in hand, shadows dancing. She stripped the stained tank and shorts shy, back turned but glimpses in the mirror: full breasts heavy and pale, puffy nipples hardening in chill, wide hips flaring to thick thighs and round plush ass dimpled soft. Solomon averted eyes practical, handed her his flannel shirt from the hook. She slipped it on—buttons straining over her curves, nipples pressing faint against the checkered fabric, hem grazing upper thighs.
Back in the living room, he cleaned the vomit quick—practical, no fuss—while she curled on the couch again. Generator stayed dead; they'd fix tomorrow. Solomon relit the lantern lower, sat watch renewed. Emily shifted closer after a while, head on his shoulder once more—warmth seeping through flannel, scent cleaner now, vanilla faint. "Thank you," she murmured, blue eyes meeting his in the glow. "For everything."
He nodded quiet, arm around her loose. First real hint: her gaze lingered on his steady hands, his calm in the chaos. Tension hummed subtle, but he held back. Not yet. Night watch stretched on, moans distant now, the house holding against the dark.
Dad's a Marine. They're alive. They're coming back.