Solomon Smith wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his dark forearm, the Ozark heat pressing down like a wet blanket even in the late afternoon shade of the pines. The homestead felt fuller now—four voices echoing soft in the house where there'd been one, scents layering the air: Emily's faint floral from bucket washes, Sophia's lingering motor oil, Olivia's warm bread from the preserved jars she'd started baking with. The redhead had taken to the kitchen instinctive, heavy curves shifting as she kneaded dough on the counter—sweater slipping off one shoulder again, large pale areolas peeking faint under the knit, plush thighs thick in looted leggings as she stood barefoot on the cool floor.
But supplies stretched thinner with four mouths, and the looter tracks from Olivia's place nagged at him—humans circling closer. Practical: one more scout. Mia Park's family farm, four miles east along the creek—Korean-American neighbors, raised her hunting with her brothers. If anyone held out alone, it was her.
He geared up solo this time—AR slung, shotgun in truck rack, backpack light for speed. The girls protested brief: Emily's blue eyes worried, full breasts pressing the flannel as she hugged him tight at the door, wide hips warm against his; Sophia's dark gaze sharp, toned body tense in tank and shorts, dark nipples outlined firm; Olivia's hazel eyes soft, plush all over brushing him shy as she handed a wrapped loaf—"For luck." Solomon nodded calm, deep brown eyes meeting each—quiet authority in the touch on their shoulders. "Back by dusk. Barricade if I'm late."
Truck rumbled out alone, backroads dusty and overgrown—weeds whipping undercarriage, cicadas screaming in the heat. Solomon's lean frame jostled with bumps, black tee clinging sweat-damp to his chest. Creek glinted parallel to the path, water low and muddy from dry spell.
The Park farm appeared sudden: barn dominant, red paint peeling, house windows dark and intact—no kicked doors, good sign. But movement on the barn roof: a figure prone, rifle steady, cracks echoing sharp across fields. Mia—black hair in a tight ponytail whipping wind, petite but curvy frame in a tight camo tank that hugged perky C-cup breasts, small dark nipples visible clear through the thin sweat-soaked fabric from heat and effort. Cutoff shorts rode high on pronounced hips, juicy round butt up slightly as she sighted—legs toned from running trails, slim waist flaring dramatic.
Shots precise: .308 cracks—headshots on a cluster of five shamblers in the yard below, skulls popping in distant pink mists, bodies crumpling wet thuds into grass. Brass tinkled off the tin roof as she worked the bolt smooth—hunting muscle memory, no waste.
Solomon parked offset in treeline, approached low and visible—hands up, AR slung. "Mia! Solomon Smith—from school side of the creek."
She rolled quick, rifle swinging his way—black eyes sharp behind sights—but lowered when recognition hit. "Solomon? Get up here—ladder's side."
He climbed fast—metal rungs hot under dark palms, boots clanging. Roof gave wide view: fields dotted with downed shamblers, blood pools glistening, flies swarming thick. Up close, Mia's scent hit: pine from woods mixed with gunpowder sharp, sweat salty on her skin. Petite frame strong—perky breasts rising quick breaths under camo tank, small dark nipples hard from adrenaline breeze; cutoff shorts hugging juicy round butt as she stood, pronounced hips swaying balance.
"Family?" he asked direct.
"Gone first week. Brothers turned on a hunt—had to..." Her voice trailed, but steady. "Holding since. Ammo low, food lower."
Solomon nodded impressed—her shots clean, no panic. "My place fortified. Three others—Emily, Sophia, Olivia. Come with. Strength in numbers."
She hesitated brief, black ponytail flicking as she scanned horizon—more moans distant, horde thin but persistent. "Yeah. Better than solo." Grabbed her rifle (old .308, scoped good), backpack stuffed with ammo and dried jerky. Down the ladder quick—juicy butt flexing in shorts, pronounced hips brushing his arm accidental as he steadied her.
Yard clear now: they finished stragglers drawn by her shots—Solomon's AR bursts controlled, recoil jarring shoulders, heads exploding gory sprays of bone and brain across fence posts; Mia's bolt-action precise follow-ups, brass hot ejecting near his boots. Stench thick up close—rotting flesh sweet-sour, blood copper heavy in heat.
Truck loaded: her gear in back, Mia in passenger—petite curves settling seat, camo tank clinging translucent sweat, small dark nipples prominent as AC kicked weak cool. "Impressive shooting," Solomon said calm, pulling out.
"Grew up with it. Brothers taught—deer, targets." She smiled faint, black eyes meeting his deep brown—quiet respect mutual.
Drive home uneventful—backroads clear, sun dipping purple over hills. Homestead approached welcoming: girls on porch watch, waving relieved. Emily rushed first—full breasts bouncing tee, thick thighs in leggings as she hugged Mia tight, wide hips pressing. Sophia clapped shoulder firm, toned body grease-fresh from chores. Olivia offered bread shy, plush curves sweater-clad, heavy breasts swaying gentle.
Inside, house rules quiet-established: Solomon's word final on defense—quiet authority accepted natural, no pushback. Watches rotated: two up always, skills shared starting tomorrow. First real group meal: Olivia's bread with canned stew heated thick, jars of Mia's jerky added—scents rich and savory filling rooms, laughter tentative but warm around table.
Night fell: bedrooms shared tension beginning—girls in guest room piled mattresses, Solomon on couch watch. Scents layered intimate: floral, oil, bread warmth, pine-gunpowder from Mia. Bodies close in the dim—Emily's soft plush curling near Olivia's heavy curves, Sophia's firm athletic between, Mia's petite juicy nestled edge.
Solomon scanned boards from armchair, deep brown eyes steady. Group five now—fuller, stronger. But moans outside persistent, human tracks in mind. Fortify harder tomorrow.