After the Spike || Covid-19 Fic

*.1.*

Clouds are rolling in again. This time, they're a darker grey, almost purple. 

Emily narrows her eyes. Between the sudden drop in temperature, she wasn't expecting that kind of response from Mother Nature. They grumble in response, a disapproving note.

Oh well, a breathless sigh, she picks up her pace returning home. Once again, fruitless. Hunger claws at her chest, her limbs a little weaker. Sometimes the world around her sways.

Stay alive, stay focused. She reminds herself, the traps clinking together over her shoulder.

Maybe I should've ridden, Emily thinks to herself, calves aching. Prowling the game trail that she'd made her own, she makes her way back to the house- a modern cement and brick combo. Clean, and relatively modern in a day where people cared about aesthetics. The late twilight has given it an otherwise, supernatural glow. 

Many houses on the rural street had been ransacked, but no one wanted to touch the haunted one.

Or perhaps it was the fine detailing Emily had gone into- the thickly grown front entrance where there was no discernible driveway, the rusted gate, and most glaring of all- the large INFECTED banner that floated from the trees.

She'd only really had a handful of encounters; none of them requiring serious attention.

She let the soft traps fall onto the outside seat before taking off her hiking shoes. The light washed a warm glow over the kitchen. Briefly, Emily wandered if the solar panels had gathered enough light for her to watch the news tonight. She'd been diligent in making sure that all the appliances had been turned off... right?

Maybe, just maybe, Emily thought to herself, opening the cupboard... Once again, there was nothing. The last scrapes of flour had been used, the pasta cooked, the cans split open and ravenously consumed. Even the hundreds and thousands had been emptied and eaten at one point. 

She bit back a sob. It'd been two days since she'd eaten the last of the flour that she'd ground from the birdseed. Mint only managed to keep her tongue upwards with flavour. 

You can make it til tomorrow, she struggled, sitting at one of the island bench seats. Emily's eyes drooped, her breathing slowed in line with the jagged gnawing of her stomach.

Slowly, she pressed her face against the cool marble of the bench, her eyes fluttering shut.

*.-.*

The sun had to cast some serious rays through his room before Mark would really wake up. His stomach was a churning knot of worry and anxiety. 

Come on, you're better than this! A part of him cried. You used to pick up chicks like peppers stored toilet paper!

But today... something was different. 

"Master Mark," The disappointing tone of Nixon hung in the doorway. Nixon, with his salt and pepper hair and almost comically drawn face, wasn't a regular alarm at Mark's door. 

Mark sighed, rolling over, today warranted it. 

The dress code was casual. His family had been in long debate over it for the past few weeks. So when Mark emerged to the family kitchen in khaki shorts and a polo, his mother almost fainted. 

"Formal wear, Mark! What happened to making a good impression?" She cried. Going nowhere, she was still dressed in a classy white jumpsuit with her hair carefully curled up in braids around her head.

"Listen to your mother, son," Mark's Father ground out, barely sparing a look up from his tablet.

Mark refrained everything from huffing, before spinning on his heel and walking back up the staircase. Was his steps extra loud? He hoped so.

On round two, he opted for the white dress shirt and the black slacks. 

I'm one step away from standing at the end of an aisle, Mark snorted to himself, buttoning up the final two notches. 

I hope she's beautiful, he wondered to himself briefly, then he paused, frowning, no, I just need someone who can hang in the shadows and makes my parents happy. 

"That's all I need," Mark narrowed his eyes at the mirror, straightening his collar. Not here to play games or get distracted, simply to pick up my government issued wife and then go.

Will she like you? A traitorous thought crossed his mind, he paused in the middle of smoothing out a crease. A worrisome moment. 

He snorted.

Of course she will.