The stench of decay clung to Damian like a second skin. He was used to it, of course. It had been almost a year since the world went to hell, and he'd seen more corpses than he cared to remember. John, bless his naive heart, still flinched every time they stumbled upon a fresh pile.
"Yikes," John muttered, grimacing at the sight of three bloated figures sprawled across the cracked asphalt of a deserted highway. "I'm glad we're not staying here long."
Damian, ever the stoic, simply grunted. Staying put was never an option. It was a lesson drilled into him from the moment they'd fled Gotham, a city already a graveyard before the virus turned its citizens into ravenous husks. They were nomads, constantly on the move, scavenging for supplies and running from the inevitable hordes.
John, with his Kryptonian heritage, was almost immune to the virus. His super-strength and speed were invaluable, allowing them to outrun and overpower any infected they encountered. Damian, however, was human, relying on his cunning, his Bat-trained skills, and John's unwavering protection. Their bond, forged in the fires of chaos, was their only shield against the encroaching darkness.
Their journey had taken them across the ravaged landscapes of America, from the desolate ruins of New York to the sun-baked deserts of the Southwest. They'd seen the best and worst of humanity in those months, the desperate acts of survival, the brutal acts of desperation. Damian, hardened by his upbringing, had learned to survive on the edge of the apocalypse, but John, with his inherent goodness, struggled with the moral gray areas.
"It's not their fault," John had said one night, after they'd been forced to kill a group of infected who were about to attack a small, isolated community. "They're just...sick."
Damian had looked at him, his green eyes filled with a weariness that belied his age. "They're monsters, John. They want to eat us."
"Damn it," Damian cursed under his breath as he tightened the makeshift bandage around his left arm. The wound had gone from a minor scrape to a festering sore in just a few days. "This isn't good."
John looked at him with concern, his eyebrows furrowed. "We need to find some antibiotics, or at least some clean water."
Damian nodded, wincing as he swung his batons, testing his range of motion. "We're getting close to that pharmacy I heard about. We'll get you patched up there."
The two of them set off again, the rhythmic crunch of their boots on gravel the only sound in the eerie silence. The once-bustling streets of the small town now lay desolate, a silent testament to the horrors that had swept through. The occasional rustle of leaves or distant moan was a stark reminder that they weren't alone.
John's eyes scanned the horizon, searching for any signs of movement. His super-hearing picked up faint sounds of shuffling feet, the unmistakable gait of the infected. "Damian, we've got company," he whispered.
Damian nodded, his grip tightening on the batons. They'd encountered enough of these creatures to know the drill. Stay quiet, stay alert, and strike fast. He could feel the fever rising in him, a testament to the infection's spread.
They turned a corner and found themselves face-to-face with a small pack of the infected, their eyes glazed over with a hunger that was never satiated. John stepped in front of him, his muscles coiled like springs ready to pounce.
"I got this," he murmured, his voice steady despite the tension.
John nodded, his eyes never leaving the advancing figures. He knew Damian's strength was waning, and the last thing they needed was for the boy to collapse mid-fight. The infected were slow, but their numbers were overwhelming. John had to be swift and precise.
