It's You and Me Against the World, Kid (Post-Apocalyptic fantasy)

[Remiel]

why, oh why, had she gone into the shack?

Why, oh why, had she gone into the shack?  She should have known that the foundation would have rotted out, but she was hungry, and exhausted, and it had looked abandoned.  She should have known better.  A misplaced step in the wrong place, and the floor had given way with a splintering "crack", and she had fallen, feet-first, into some kind of basement, cellar or crawlspace beneath the main structure.  The thin films of light that filtered in through the boarded-up windows in the room above didn't reveal much, although by the looks of things generations of rats had lived and died here.

"Shit!" she swore.  Her leg was badly scraped; it was probably bleeding.  Her hands were cut and bruised, as well.  She clenched and unclenched her fists; no more than the usual pain.  That was a good sign, at least.

She was looking around for something to step on, perhaps some sort of debris she could pile up and clamber up in order to haul herself back aboveground, when she heard it: the breathy, gutteral, rasping moan -- the unmistakable sound of a Deadie.  The groan of the wooden floor, accompanied by a shuffling step, signified that it had heard the noise and was coming closer.

"Shit!" she said again, but quieter this time.  Barely a whisper.

In the near-darkness, she couldn't see much at all.  Shadows, silhouettes of pipes, of crumbling bricks, rolls of insulation.  She pondered whether to try to fish in the pocket of her jeans for her lighter or to hold her breath and hope that the Deadie lost interest.  But there was always the chance that it would stumble into the hole she had created, that it would fall into the crawlspace with her.  And that wasn't a pleasant thought.

Nevertheless, she went still.  Please go away, she thought. Please go away, please go away, please go away.

The shuffling stopped.  There was silence for a moment.  Two moments.  Three.  She slowly exhaled, wondering if the Deadie had wandered off. 

But then a face appeared in the aperture of the floor above.  A grey, mottled face, with wildly rolling cataract-milky eyes and jagged teeth.  It must have smelled her; it gave a warbling growl, and dropped to its knees.  One stiff, decaying arm, yellowing fingernails scratching, thrust downward, reaching for her.  Swiping wildly in the darkness. 

She shrieked.

It crawled forward, hand outstretched, moving slowly forward, thick, rancid-smelling saliva dripping from the corpse's slavering jowls.  Soon the bulk of its mass would be over the hole and then it would pitch forward, toppling down, down into the darkness with her.  She shrieked again, making panicked cutting motions at the air with her pocket knife, as if to ward it off, but which served to do little.

And then...

Then there was a solid, meaty "thunk" sound, and the Deadie dropped lifelessly, its ghoulish countenance disappearing from view.  Its down-outstretched arm twitched, once, twice, then went slack.

There was a grunt--a male grunt--and then what looked like a lumber axe was pulled back from the skull of the Deadie with a wet splurch.   And then a hand--a rough, calloused, but definitely living hand--was thrust down at her, but fingers together, palm upward, as if to help her up.

"Take my hand!" a voice called down to her.  "Hurry!"

(note to Staff: the above image is cosplay of Joel and Ellie in The Last Of Us 2, in which Ellie is 19.)

The premise behind this idea is simple: your character is a woman in her mid-to-late twenties (or, heck, even early twenties if you prefer) in a post-apocalyptic setting.  Mine is significantly older, let's say in his early 40s.  He chances upon her in some sort of situation where she needs help or assistance, rescues her, and from then on the two travel together.

Obviously, at the top of her mind is the chance that, without civilization or any kind of law and order, he could decide to rape her, or worse--but, for whatever reason, he doesn't.  There's obvious sexual tension in the air, but his code of ethics simply won't allow him to touch her.

At least, until she makes the first move.



Smut vs. Plot:  There's plenty of room for smut here, but it won't happen right away.  What I'm more interested in is seeing how our characters gradually overcome their distrust and fear and learn to depend upon each other for survival and, who knows?  Perhaps in time, grow to love each other. 

Setting:  For the setting, I was thinking of something like the Walking Dead--it's an easy reference and doesn't require much in the way of world-building.  The Walkers--or "Deadies"--would be slow and shambling, easily enough dispatched on their own, but very dangerous in a mob, as a single bite is lethal.    But I'm not completely married to this idea, and if you think you've got a better one, I'm all ears!

Posting Frequency:  I typically tend to post once a week, although I'm trying to get better and will make 2-3 times a week as my target.  I understand that real life happens, and I promise I won't get too impatient as long as I know what's going on.

Requirements:  Pretty much the only thing that I'm going to insist upon is OOC (out of character) Communication.   It doesn't matter if it's through PMs or through Discord, etc.  but I need to know that you and I are on the same page before we begin, and in case one or the other of us has a wrinkle they'd like to throw into the plot.  I'd also like to know if you anticipate any extended absences coming up, or if you have any emergencies that preclude your writing, and I promise to give you the same consideration.  In my experience, OOC Communication is absolutely essential for writing chemistry.

Pretty much anything else is negotiable, including ons/offs, the setting itself, what happens to our characters, etc.

Let me know if any of this piques your interest!  Thank you for reading.