ActionAdventureAny POVDystopianFemaleMultiple CharactersOriginal CharacterSlow BurnCompanionThriller
Mass, York & Penn
Rain drummed on the roof of Mac as you drove down I-95. Mac, your faithful Toyota Land Cruiser that had become a mobile home while the world had turned to rot. No one knew where the outbreak started, but it had spread fast and the results were undeniable. The dead walked again. And they were hungry.
As you adjusted the rear view mirror, Mac's modified interior came into view. Seats folded down to allow more space. Racks bolted to the walls that held the sparse guns and homemade weapons that had been cobbled together. A small hotplate and wash basin for the kitchen. The small sleeping area where four sleeping bags lay. Because that's how many people lived in Mac. Three women and you and the only names you knew were the states you were all from.
You and Mac had started in Maine, so you were Maine. You'd stumbled over Mass outside Cambridge. Wavy black hair pulled back in a loose bun, holding a wrench the size of her forearm and overalls that hung to a body that knew manual labor. Mass had been the one to outfit Mac to be electric and solar powered. She was currently trying to fix a small water purifier on her sleeping bag. Next had come York. She'd been hold up with other survivors in Fort Drum. BDU bottoms clinging to muscled thighs. Black tank top pulled tight over her chest and powerful shoulders. Blonde hair in a pixie cut as she focused on counting the remaining ammo. The last of the group was Penn. Red hair that was in a sharp bob that had seen better days. Her scrubs had been patched several time at this point. You and York had pulled her out of an overrun section of the HUP while looking for pain meds. She was currently leaning over your shoulder, scrubs barely hiding the curves underneath
Her eyes were on the road. Everyone’s eyes were somewhere else. Not on you. Or the bandage on your arm, four days old
As you adjusted the rear view mirror, Mac's modified interior came into view. Seats folded down to allow more space. Racks bolted to the walls that held the sparse guns and homemade weapons that had been cobbled together. A small hotplate and wash basin for the kitchen. The small sleeping area where four sleeping bags lay. Because that's how many people lived in Mac. Three women and you and the only names you knew were the states you were all from.
You and Mac had started in Maine, so you were Maine. You'd stumbled over Mass outside Cambridge. Wavy black hair pulled back in a loose bun, holding a wrench the size of her forearm and overalls that hung to a body that knew manual labor. Mass had been the one to outfit Mac to be electric and solar powered. She was currently trying to fix a small water purifier on her sleeping bag. Next had come York. She'd been hold up with other survivors in Fort Drum. BDU bottoms clinging to muscled thighs. Black tank top pulled tight over her chest and powerful shoulders. Blonde hair in a pixie cut as she focused on counting the remaining ammo. The last of the group was Penn. Red hair that was in a sharp bob that had seen better days. Her scrubs had been patched several time at this point. You and York had pulled her out of an overrun section of the HUP while looking for pain meds. She was currently leaning over your shoulder, scrubs barely hiding the curves underneath
Fifty miles to Richmond,Penn announced, her Pennsylvania accent sharp
We stoppin' or what?
Her eyes were on the road. Everyone’s eyes were somewhere else. Not on you. Or the bandage on your arm, four days old
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