Solomon Smith leaned against the truck hood in the midday heat, the Ozark sun beating down relentless through scattered clouds, humidity thick enough to taste—pine resin and distant creek mud on the breeze. The homestead fence held strong behind him, reinforced with fresh boards from the shed, but supplies were dipping: canned goods thinning, ammo counts memorized down to the round. Practical scouting run today—Harper farm, three miles north, backroads through woods. Olivia Harper lived there, redhead from school, shy and bookish, eighteen like the others. Worth checking.
Emily and Sophia prepped in the driveway: Emily in looted leggings now—soft fabric hugging her thick thighs and wide hips, round plush ass outlined as she bent to load water bottles, full C-cup breasts swaying under a thin tee, pale pink puffy nipples faint in the sweat. Sophia in cargo shorts and tank, athletic legs toned and grease-streaked from morning generator tweaks, firm B-cup chest with dark protruding nipples pressing the damp cloth, narrow waist flexing as she checked the .22.
Solomon geared heavy: AR slung, shotgun in rack, Ka-Bar on belt, backpack with meds and cans for trade or aid. Dark skin warm under his black tee and jeans, lean frame coiled ready. "Quiet approach," he said calm. "Park offset, clear yard first. Humans worse than dead—remember the barn."
The girls nodded—Emily's blue eyes anxious, plush body shifting weight; Sophia's dark gaze hard, defined butt tensing as she climbed in back. Truck rumbled out, gravel crunching, dust trailing in the humid air. Backroads wound through pines—branches scraping paint, cicadas deafening in the heat. Solomon's deep brown eyes scanned constant: treelines for shamblers, road for tracks.
The Harper place appeared over a rise: modest farmhouse with overgrown garden, porch sagging, no smoke from chimney. But fresh signs hit immediate—tire tracks in the mudded drive, deep and recent, boot prints scattered like a raid. Human looters, not long gone. Solomon killed the engine early, parked hidden in woods. "Wait here. Cover."
He moved low through brush, AR at ready—finger indexed, breath controlled. Stench faint first: rot from inside the house, sweet-rotten meat mixed with voided decay. Yard clear but disturbed—door kicked in, splintered wood fresh. Moans low from within, shuffling steps on creaky floors.
Solomon pie'd the doorway careful—slicing angles like Dad drilled, muzzle tracking. Living room chaos: furniture overturned, blood smears dried brown on walls, a body in the hall—Mr. Harper maybe, throat torn open, maggots wriggling in the gash. Two shamblers in the kitchen: former family, faces half-eaten, milky eyes turning toward him with wet growls.
First lunged clumsy—fresh enough for a stumble-run. Solomon sidestepped, Ka-Bar drawn fluid: blade up under chin, thrust hard—steel punching through soft palate into brain with a gritty crunch, hot blood spurting down his dark forearm, metallic stink sharp. Twist pull free—gore stringing from the tip, body dropping limp with a thud, brains oozing gray-pink from the wound.
Second grabbed from behind a counter—Mrs. Harper's bloated form, jaw unhinged. Solomon pivoted, shotgun off sling in a blink—pump racked loud. Boom at close range: slug vaporizing the head in a gory explosion, skull fragments and scalp chunks spraying the cabinets like thrown stew, arterial remnants fountaining brief before the body crumpled, guts spilling partial from old bites.
He cleared rooms methodic—bedrooms empty, blood trails leading to pantry door barricaded from inside with a chair. Faint whimper behind. "Olivia? Solomon Smith—from school. It's clear."
Scratch at the door, then slow push—chair scraping. The door cracked open, and Olivia Harper stumbled out: red hair matted and wild, face pale and gaunt from starvation, oversized sweater slipping off one pale shoulder, heavy D-cup breasts swaying free and heavy beneath the thin knit—no bra, large pale areolas visible faint, sensitive inverted nipples peeking shy as fabric shifted. Leggings torn at the knees, plush thighs exposed—very thick and dimpled soft, wide hips flaring dramatically, very plush ass jiggling with weak steps. Gentle stomach pooch pronounced from hunger, skin creamy and cool to his steadying touch.
"Solomon..." she whispered hoarse, hazel eyes flooding tears as she collapsed into him—soft all over, heavy breasts pressing warm against his chest, scent of unwashed fear and faint preserved jam from hidden snacks. "They... came back. Bit everyone. I hid..."
He supported her weight practical—no bites visible, just bruises and scrapes. "You're coming with. Truck's outside." She nodded weak, clutching a backpack—cookbooks salvaged, jars of preserved peaches and tomatoes clinking inside. "Brought what I could..."
Outside, moans drew closer—noise from shots pulling a small horde from the woods, five shamblers shambling yard-ward. Solomon guided Olivia fast—her plush thighs rubbing chafed, heavy breasts bouncing with hurried steps, sweater gaping more to show wide pale areolas fully now, nipples hardening inverted in the breeze.
Emily and Sophia covered from the tree line—.22 cracks dropping two: Emily's shot shaky but head-hit, gray matter spraying; Sophia's precise, skull exploding wet. Solomon finished the rest: AR bursts controlled—recoil jarring shoulders, brass tinkling hot on grass, heads popping in pink mists, bodies crumpling with wet thuds.
Into the truck—Olivia in back with Sophia, plush body sagging exhausted against the seat, torn leggings riding up very thick thighs. Emily passed water forward, full curves leaning concerned. Drive home quick but cautious—eyes on mirrors for looter return, tire tracks fresh in mind.
Back at the homestead, Solomon carried Olivia inside—her weight soft and yielding, heavy breasts pressing his arm, wide hips cradled easy. Set her on the couch gentle, fetched soup heated slow. She ate ravenously, red hair falling over face, sweater slipping further—plush all over flushing warm with food. Emily fussed nearby, thick thighs kneeling to help, round ass up as she adjusted blankets. Sophia inventoried the jars—practical nods at the preserves.
Group now four: scents layering the room—Olivia's faint sweetness from jars, Emily's floral sweat, Sophia's oil. Solomon watched quiet, deep brown eyes assessing. House fuller, but threats closer—those boot prints meant humans circled.
Night approached heavy, moans distant but persistent. Fortification next—practical, always.