The Two of Us

Chapter 2: That's a Bite!

"Where are you going?" I ask as he walks toward the door. Zane glances at me, those deep blue eyes momentarily unreadable. His movements are deliberate, like a predator sizing up the terrain.

"Home," he says, his tone clipped.

"Can I come with you?"

"Sure," he growls.

I grab the cans of beans, put them in my backpack, and tag along, a mix of curiosity and gratitude bubbling within me. Zane's stride is purposeful, and I match his pace, my Converse sneakers echoing in sync with his worn boots. The silence between us is comfortable, like we've already shared a lifetime of unspoken understanding.

The world outside the convenience store is bathed in the soft glow of a fading sunset. The remnants of the day linger, casting long shadows that dance along the deserted streets. It's a strange beauty, a post-apocalyptic painting where every brushstroke tells a tale of survival.

"So, Zane Steele, huh?" I say, breaking the silence. "Sounds like the name of a protagonist in a gritty novel or an action movie."

He shoots me a sidelong glance, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips. "Maybe it is."

I raise an eyebrow, intrigued. "You're mysterious, you know that?"

"It helps in this world," he replies cryptically.

"And how old are you?"

"19. You?"

"I'm 18."

"Good..." he mutters.

"What brings you to this charming ghost town?" I ask. He pauses for a moment, considering his response.

"Just looking for stuff," he finally answers, his tone guarded. I get it; we're all carrying our own baggage in this new world. No one's story is simple anymore.

"Stuff?" I prod, determined to crack the surface of his enigmatic demeanor.

"Supplies. Anything that helps to survive another day," he replies, his eyes scanning the streets for potential threats.

Survival. It's the thread that ties us all together in this world. "I get that," I say, my mind wandering to the cans of beans I found in the convenience store. "Sometimes, it's the little victories that keep us going."

Zane nods, a silent acknowledgment of shared understanding. The air between us is heavy with unspoken truths, like there's a whole conversation lingering in the spaces between our words.

We continue our stroll through the empty streets, the silence occasionally broken by the distant moans of the undead. As we turn a corner, the remnants of a playground come into view. Swings sway gently in the breeze, an eerie lullaby for a world that once echoed with children's laughter. I can't help but wonder what this place was like before it became a graveyard for memories.

"So, Jenna Mae, what's your story?" Zane finally asks, turning the tables. His curiosity is a flicker in those deep blue eyes.

"Well, I'm just searching for a safe place. I stayed in a camp up until two weeks ago. It was nice and cozy, but the armada tore through it like a knife through butter."

"Damn armadas," Zane growls. "It's terrifying when you see several thousand zombies approaching you."

"Yeah..." I whisper

We find a bench near the playground, a makeshift refuge in the midst of this desolate town. Zane takes a seat, his eyes never fully at rest, always scanning the surroundings like a hawk on the lookout. I settle beside him, and the bench creaks.