Surviving the Apocalypse With My Yandere Ex-Girlfriend

Sheryl turned and nearly walked past the tent before she noticed him sitting across camp.

Their eyes met.

Her whole face changed in an instant.

Shock first.

Then fear.

Then a desperate look that begged him not to understand what he had already understood.

"Harry—"

He was on his feet before she finished saying his name.

The stump toppled backward behind him.

Sound around camp dulled. Voices became distant. The clatter of supplies, the murmur of people packing, the scrape of crates over dirt—all of it faded until there was only the pounding in his ears.

He walked toward her.

Fast.

"Harry, wait—" she said, stepping forward with both hands raised.

"Were you in there?"

Heads turned immediately.

Nothing pulled eyes quicker than shame.

"Son, lower your voice."

"Were you in there?"

His voice cracked hard enough to carry through the whole camp.

Sheryl looked around at the watching faces and shrank inside herself.

"It’s not what you think."

He laughed once. It came out jagged.

"I think you walked out of his tent looking like that."

"Harry," she whispered. "Please."

The flap opened again.

Bill stepped out behind her, tugging his belt straight, calm as a man walking into daylight after a nap. No guilt. No urgency. Not even embarrassment.

Harry’s vision narrowed.

Bill glanced at the crowd, then at Harry.

He then closed his eyes and sighed.

"I’m not doing this now."

Harry was already moving.

He crossed the distance in a burst and drove his fist straight into Bill’s mouth.

The crack of it snapped through camp.

Bill stumbled backward into the tent post, blood spraying from his lip before he even understood what happened.

Harry hit him again.

Then again.

Years of swallowed fear came out through his hands.

A hook to the jaw.

A straight shot to the nose.

Bill tried to cover up, but Harry tackled him low and both of them crashed into the dirt.

People shouted.

Nobody moved fast enough.

Harry landed on top and rained punches down wildly, grunting with each one.

"What the fuck did you do?"

A fist slammed Bill’s cheekbone.

"Did you touch my mom??"

Another to the eye.

"Answer me, asshole."

Harry said through gritted teeth.

Bill finally got an arm up to shield himself, but Harry grabbed his wrist and hammered his face with the other hand until blood ran into the dirt.

"Harry! Stop!" Sheryl screamed.

He didn’t hear her.

Or maybe he did and didn’t care.

Bill bucked hard beneath him, trying to throw him off. Harry slammed an elbow into his throat. Bill gagged, choking, hands clawing at Harry’s shoulders as he choked him now.

Seconds passed.

Two. Five.

Then, Bill smiled through it all.

Harry frowned.

"You think..."

Bill choked out.

"You think I’d go looking for your useless ass without any compensation...?"

Something burned inside Harry, hotter than anything else.

Someone grabbed Harry from behind.

He twisted free and punched blindly, catching a man in the temple and sending him staggering.

Then he went right back to Bill.

Bill had managed to sit halfway up.

Harry kicked him square in the chest and sent him flat again.

The camp erupted.

Some people shouted for Harry to stop.

Some shouted for Bill to get up.

Some just watched, hungry for something ugly to happen.

Bill reached for the handgun at his side.

Harry saw it.

He stomped down on Bill’s wrist.

A scream tore out of him.

The pistol flew loose into the dirt.

Harry dove, snatched it, and tossed it deep into the brush.

Now Bill looked scared.

Really scared.

His face was swelling fast. One eye already narrowing shut. Blood ran from his nose in sheets.

Harry grabbed him by the shirt and hauled him halfway upright.

"You ain’t shit without people behind you," Harry snarled.

Then he headbutted him.

Bill dropped limp to the ground.

For one beautiful second, nobody moved.

Harry stood over him, chest heaving, fists slick with blood.

He felt ten feet tall.

Then Bill’s men rushed him.

Three at once.

They dragged him backward by the shoulders and waist. Harry fought like something feral, kicking, thrashing, throwing elbows.

"Get off me!"

He drove his heel into one man’s knee. The man howled and collapsed.

Another caught a backhand across the mouth.

Still they swarmed him.

Sheryl got between them, screaming.

"Stop it! Stop it!"

Nobody listened.

Bill rolled onto one side coughing blood, then spat a tooth into the dirt.

He got to his knees slowly.

The whole camp watched.

Harry was pinned now by two men, one on each arm, but he still strained toward him.

"Come on then!" Harry shouted. "Come on!"

Bill wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stared at the blood there.

When he looked up, something cold had replaced the embarrassment.

He stood.

His legs wobbled once before steadying.

Then he walked toward Harry.

Sheryl stepped in front of her son.

"Bill, please—"

He shoved her aside so hard she fell.

Harry went wild.

"You touch her again!"

Bill reached Harry and hit him in the ribs with a savage hook. The held position let it land clean. Air exploded from Harry’s lungs.

Then another punch across the jaw.

Then one into his stomach.

Harry folded, coughing, but still tried to bite and claw forward.

Bill grabbed a fistful of Harry’s hair and forced his head up.

"You feel strong now?" Bill said through swollen lips. "You done performing?"

Harry spat blood in his face.

The crowd gasped.

Bill stared for half a second.

Then he pistol-whipped Harry with a revolver someone had handed him.

The metal split Harry’s eyebrow open.

He sagged in the men’s grip.

Sheryl crawled to him, sobbing.

"Please... please stop..."

Bill breathed hard, face ruined, one eye nearly shut.

He looked around at everyone watching.

"No more scenes," he said.

Nobody answered.

He pointed at Harry.

"Tie him to the truck until we move."

Sheryl clutched Harry’s arm.

"No—please—he’s just upset—"

Bill looked down at her.

"You should’ve thought about that before raising him weak."

Harry lifted his head through the blood.

Even dazed, he smiled.

Bill frowned.

Harry spat another red mouthful into the dirt between them.

"You still got dropped in front of everybody."

A few people looked away to hide their reactions.

Bill’s face darkened.

He kicked Harry in the side so hard he rolled over.

Then he stormed off, trying to keep what little dignity he had left.

The camp was silent except for Sheryl crying.

Harry lay curled in the dirt, face swelling, ribs burning, blood in his eye.

And through all the pain, one thought warmed him.

For the first time since the world ended—

Bill had bled too.

—

Windsor, Ontario

The sign stood crooked at the side of the cracked highway, half covered in vines and bullet scars.

WELCOME TO WINDSOR.

Below it, someone had spray-painted three words in black:

STILL STANDING. BARELY.

For a few seconds, none of them said anything.

The wind moved across the open road and carried the smell of river water, wet grass, and distant smoke. Behind them was the border they had crossed at dawn through a broken freight route and rusted fencing. Ahead of them was Canada.

The place people whispered about at campfires.

The place survivors swore had walls.

Saul sat straighter in the saddle, eyes fixed on the skyline in the distance. Buildings rose gray through morning haze. Some smoked. Some didn’t. It looked alive enough to hurt.

Cherie smiled first.

"We actually made it," she said softly, almost afraid saying it too loud would ruin it.

Jackson snorted beside her. "Don’t start crying now. We ain’t even got inside anything."

"I’m not crying."

"You got that crying voice."

"Shut up."

Saul let out a breath through his nose. It might have been the closest thing to laughter he’d managed in weeks.

They nudged their horses forward.

The road into Windsor was lined with abandoned cars pushed to the shoulders. Some had been searched clean. Some still had bones inside. Telephone poles leaned at angles, wires hanging low like dead vines.

Cherie rode closer to Saul.

"You never finished talking about the people back at the house," she said. "Before everything collapsed."

Saul kept his eyes ahead.

"There’s not much to tell."

"Yeah there is. You had a whole neighborhood fighting together. That matters."

He was quiet for a while.

Then he gave in.

"Mr. and Mrs. Larkin from two doors down. Old as hell, but mean enough to survive anything. Mrs. Larkin broke a raider’s hand with a frying pan."

Cherie laughed.

"There was Devin," Saul continued. "Mechanic. Could fix damn near anything. Barely spoke."

"Sound like you," Jackson said.

Saul ignored him.

"Then Terrence and his wife. Good people. Let folks sleep in their basement when it got bad."

He paused.

"And then there was Bill."

Something in his face changed.

Cherie noticed immediately. "Bill?"

Saul’s jaw tightened.

"Yeah. Bill."

"What about him?"

Saul looked out over the road like he could still see the man somewhere behind them.

"He sure was a character."

"That sounds polite," Cherie said.

"It is."

He rubbed a thumb over the reins.

"Always gave me bad vibes. Smiled too much when things went wrong. Always around when folks argued. Always had an answer nobody asked for."

Jackson had been riding a little ahead. He slowed and turned back just enough to catch the name.

"You talking about that dick?"

Saul glanced at him.

Jackson spat into the road.

"I always hated him. Swears he knows it all."

Cherie smirked. "Strong opinion."

"He’s full of shit," Jackson said. "Plus, I’m pretty sure he had eyes for Mom."

Saul looked at him sharply.

"You serious?"

"I’m telling you." Jackson shrugged. "Always moving creepy around her. Always offering help when Dad wasn’t around."

Saul’s face darkened.

"You never said that."

"You never asked."

Cherie looked between them. "Well that’s not ominous at all."

Jackson leaned in his saddle. "If infected didn’t get him, someone probably finally punched his shit in."

Saul didn’t answer.

The road narrowed between concrete barriers ahead. Sandbags were stacked in defensive lines. Burned-out vehicles had been arranged to create a choke point.

Then came the crack.

A gunshot split the morning.

Cherie’s horse screamed.

The bullet hit the pavement inches from its front legs. The animal reared violently, nearly vertical.

"Whoa—!"

Cherie was thrown sideways and hit the ground hard, shoulder first.

Her horse bolted down the road, reins flying.

"NO!" she screamed, scrambling up to one knee. "NO!"

Saul and Jackson were already moving.

Both drew fast.

Saul leveled his pistol from horseback.

Jackson swung a rifle off his shoulder.

Figures stepped from behind the barriers.

Six of them.

Military uniforms, but altered for the new world. Heavier armor stitched over chest plates. Thick gloves. Gas masks hanging at their sides. Canadian flag patches sewn onto sleeves. Rifles steady. Faces cold and alert.

Not cruel.

Just trained.

One man stepped forward with a megaphone clipped to his vest.

"OFF YOUR HORSES!"

Another voice barked from the barricade.

"WE’RE CONDUCTING A SCREENING!"

Jackson shouted back immediately.

"We don’t want any trouble, dipshits!"

Three rifles clicked toward his chest.

"Jackson," Saul muttered.

"Sorry," Jackson said, not sorry at all.

Cherie rose slowly, wincing, dirt on her cheek.

The lead soldier kept his rifle trained but spoke clearly.

"Under Emergency Quarantine Order Seven, Dominion Continuity Act, all unauthorized entrants are subject to mandatory infection inspection, neurological response checks, and decontamination search. Refusal grants us legal right to detain or neutralize."

Jackson blinked.

"What the fuck did he just say?"

"He said get down," Saul answered.

The soldier pointed at the ground.

"Hands visible. Weapons dropped five feet away. Any twitching, any aggression, any visible ocular redness and this ends badly."

Cherie looked at Saul.

His pulse hammered in his throat.

Walls.

Soldiers.

Law.

Structure.

It was real.

Canada had survived enough to make rules.

But rules meant guns.

Rules meant cages too.

And one way or another, the three were about to find out what this was all about.