Solomon Smith woke to birdsong filtering through the pines, his head clearer than yesterday, the cold retreating like a bad memory. The fever had broken overnight, leaving just a faint sniffle and the echo of congestion in his voice. He stretched in bed, dark skin warm under the thin sheet, lean muscles shifting from a night of fitful rest. Eighteen felt young in the quiet house, but Dad's training made him feel capable—practical steps over panic. He swung his feet to the floor, the wood cool and familiar, and padded downstairs in boxers and a tee.
The kitchen smelled of last night's chili remnants, spices lingering faint in the humid air. He brewed coffee black, no sugar—Dad's habit—and toasted bread from the pantry loaf. Outside, the Ozark morning shimmered: dew-glistened grass stretching to the treeline, creek murmuring a half-mile off, air thick with pine resin and wild mint from the overgrown edges. Solomon's deep brown eyes scanned the horizon out of habit. No texts from his parents yet—signal spotty at the lake cabin—but he figured they were fine. Dad's a Marine. They're alive. They're coming back.
Chores called: he dressed in jeans and a faded gray hoodie, boots laced tight. Checked the generator first—fuel topped off, pull-start coughing to life for a test run. Then the garden: weeding rows of beans and tomatoes, rich loam crumbling under his fingers, earth scent grounding him. Sweat beaded on his dark skin despite the mild spring warmth, hoodie clinging slightly. He paused midway, wiping his brow, when the first scream cut the air.
High-pitched, raw—female, from the Thompson farm a half-mile east through the woods. Solomon froze, ears straining. Another scream, guttural now, like pain mixed with rage. He bolted inside, grabbed the binoculars from the study shelf—Dad's old pair, scratched lenses but clear enough—and the AR-15 from the safe. Magazine in, chamber empty for safety, sling over shoulder. Practical. Assess first.
From the upstairs window, he glassed the neighboring property: rolling fields dotted with cattle fences, the white farmhouse squat against the hills. Movement on the porch—Mr. Thompson, burly in his overalls, shambling after his wife. She was backing away, hand clamped to her neck, blood soaking her floral dress in dark crimson sheets that glistened wet in the sun. Her face twisted in terror, mouth open in another scream. Mr. Thompson lunged, unnatural—jerky, like his joints had locked wrong. He grabbed her arm, yanked her close, teeth sinking into her shoulder with a rip that Solomon could almost hear, even at distance. Blood sprayed arterial, bright red arcs painting the porch rails.
"What the hell..." Solomon muttered, binoculars steady despite his pulse kicking up. Mrs. Thompson collapsed, convulsing, as her husband tore another chunk—gory strings of flesh stretching from his mouth, jaw working mechanically. No emotion in his eyes, just blank hunger. Solomon's mind raced: the news riots, the "aggressive individuals." This wasn't drugs or rage. This was something worse.
He spotted Emily then—their daughter, eighteen like him, blonde and soft-curved from school hallways and shared bus rides. She burst from the side door, garden hoe in hand, tears streaking her face. Thin white tank top sweat-soaked, clinging to her full C-cup breasts, pale pink puffy nipples faintly visible through the damp fabric. Denim shorts hugged high on thick thighs, wide hips swaying desperate as she swung the hoe at her father's legs. Crack—the blade bit knee, bone crunching audible even distant. But he didn't fall, just turned with a wet growl, shambling toward her.
Solomon moved. Truck keys from the hook, AR slung, Ka-Bar knife on belt. He drove the gravel road fast, dust clouding behind, heart steady from training. "Breath control," Dad's voice echoed. "Assess, act." He parked at the treeline edge, hopped the fence low, moving through underbrush silent as he could. Pine needles muffled steps, but his boots snapped a twig—loud in the tension.
Closer now: the stench hit first, coppery blood mixed with voided bowels from fear. Mr. Thompson had Emily cornered against the porch rail, her hoe splintered from another swing. She sobbed, "Daddy, please..." He lunged again, fingers clawing her arm, drawing red lines on pale skin.
Solomon prone behind a fallen log, AR deployed bipod-style on the moss. Bone support from the earth, stance improvised but solid. Safety off. Front sight sharp, aligned in rear notch—Mr. Thompson's head blurry beyond. Breath pause at natural exhale. Trigger press smooth, surprise break.
Crack. The .223 round punched center forehead, exit wound exploding out the back in a spray of gray-pink brain matter and skull fragments that splattered the porch like wet confetti. Brass ejected hot into grass, cordite sharp in Solomon's nose. The body dropped limp, gurgling wetly as blood pooled black on wood.
Mrs. Thompson—now turned, eyes milky and vacant—staggered up from her own blood puddle, shambling toward Emily with a moan that raised hairs on Solomon's arms. He cycled the bolt calm, chambered fresh round. Sight picture again—front post on her temple. Pause, press. Crack. Her head snapped sideways, entry clean but exit messy: chunks of scalp and bone scattering, body crumpling atop her husband's.
Emily screamed, collapsing to her knees, hands over mouth. Solomon rose, AR at low ready—finger indexed straight, muzzle down but scanning. "Emily! It's Solomon—from next door. You okay?"
She looked up wild-eyed, blonde hair matted with sweat and specks of blood, tank top torn at the shoulder revealing more of her soft curve, pale skin flushed red from terror. Wide hips shifted as she stood shaky, round plush ass straining the shorts. Scent of fear-sweat and blood as he approached cautious, checking bodies for movement. Mr. Thompson's eyes stared blank, jaw slack with dangling flesh. No pulse—definitely dead.
"What... what happened to them?" Emily whispered, voice trembling, innocent in the horror.
Solomon shook his head, practical mask over his own churning gut. "Don't know. But it's like the news—people turning violent. Infected, maybe." He guided her away from the bodies, hand on her lower back—fabric damp, her skin warm and quivering under it. "Can't stay here. My place is safer—fortified, supplies. Come on."
She nodded numb, leaning into him as they walked to the truck. He helped her into the passenger seat—her thick thighs brushing his arm, soft belly fluff visible where the tank rode up. Solomon got behind the wheel, started the engine with a rumble, and pulled out slow onto the gravel road. Eyes on mirrors for followers, AR propped between seats. Emily stared out the window, tears silent, hands twisting in her lap.
The radio crackled to life as they drove—emergency broadcast looping: "...reports of widespread infection. Avoid contact with bodily fluids. Quarantine zones established in major cities. Stay indoors..."
Solomon turned it off, gripped the wheel tighter. The homestead approached in the distance—familiar silhouette against the hills, a beacon in the growing dusk. Emily glanced at him, blue eyes wide and searching. He kept focus on the road, but murmured the mantra silent to himself, steadying his breath.
Dad's a Marine. They're alive. They're coming back.
The moans faded behind them, but the weight of the world pressed heavier with every mile.