Knock

Fuck it. You’re either going to find that some asshole left their music on when they left, or you’ll find someone who might be willing to work with you so that you can all survive more than two days. Or they might bash your skull in for disturbing them.

Well, you only live once.

Knocking heavily on the door, you are left standing for at least a minute as you wonder whether you made the wrong decision. Just as you’re about to give up and pull out the lockpicks just to see if you can actually use them, the door opens.

And you’re looking down the barrel of what looks like a homemade shotgun.

“And who the fuck are you supposed to be?”

The apartment’s sole inhabitant (you assume) is female. Very female. Honey-blonde with grey eyes, with a heart-shaped face and full lips pulled to the side in a scowl. Only an inch or so shorter than you are, the upper half of her hourglass figure is only covered by a black tank top and a sports bra that doesn’t do much to hide her temptingly full tits. A pair of denim shorts hug her hips, and you’re reasonably certain that even at your angle you could bounce a quarter off her ass. Gulping, you notice that she might be in even better shape than you are, and you briefly wonder if she could snap you over her knee before remembering that she’s still pointing a gun at you, homemade or not.

“Um, my name’s Michael. I live a floor up?” She raises an eyebrow as you fall back into silence, half stunned by the girl in front of you and half terrified by whatever the device in her hands might do if you piss her off. “I… uh… I was checking the building for other survivors? My roommate and I are planning to get out of here tomorrow and I… uh.” Her expression changes subtly as you fumble through your explanation, and you notice her jaw moving rhythmically. Slowly blowing a pink bubble (which just makes your eyes launch back to her mouth, which is both a blessing and a curse), she eyes you up and down before speaking.

“You have a plan?”

“Sort of. My sister has a plan.” You shrug. You’re not exactly masterminding your sister’s evac effort, and you don’t feel like taking credit for it by lying, so telling it honestly is your first instinct. “We might be able to fit a couple more people in, as long as they’re not going to kill us all in our sleep or something.”

There’s a long silence as she stares at you, the only sounds being the music from her apartment and the snapping of her gum. Finally, she shifts the gun, resting it over her shoulder as she jerks her head, indicating for you to follow her into her apartment.