Lone wolf

Chapter Seven: The Ones That Stalk in Silence

The wind rolled across the barren hills like a whisper from the dead.

Ryne crouched low in a shallow ravine, her breath fogging in the cold morning air. Her boots sank into the wet ash that coated everything in a dull gray. Overhead, the sky stretched wide and sickly, the clouds tinged with rust and oil. The apocalypse didn’t scream anymore. It breathed slow and heavy, waiting to catch you off guard.

She hadn’t seen clean water in two days. Food, even longer. Her stomach twisted with hunger, but she kept her rifle steady, eyes fixed on the trail ahead. Abandoned cabins dotted the landscape like forgotten bones—ruins from before the fall. Most were empty now. The rest were worse.

The infection didn’t kill. It changed.

It started with heat. Fever. Lust. A transformation that rewrote biology with obscene precision. Women mutated—muscle-thick, cock-heavy, driven by an uncontrollable need. And it wasn’t just the bodies that changed. It was the mind. Some said it was like drowning in pleasure until your self cracked and dissolved.

And once they came inside you, it was over.

Ryne had seen the aftermath more times than she could count. Entire bunkers reduced to writhing orgies, their inhabitants transformed into grunting, cock-drunk shadows of their former selves. The virus didn’t spread like disease. It spread like addiction.

A single drop of futa cum.

She touched the scar on her shoulder out of habit—proof of how close she’d come once. Too close.

A sound snapped her attention back. Wood creaking. A door opening?

She swung around, body low, and scanned the ridge above. There, half-buried in the hillside, was a cabin. One she hadn’t seen on the map.

Smoke drifted from the chimney.

Ryne’s fingers tightened around the rifle.

Someone—or something—was inside.

She approached slowly, step by step, every nerve pulled taut. The trees were wrong here. Bent slightly, like they’d leaned away from something. Her boots crunched on broken glass outside the cabin. She stepped over it.

The smell hit her instantly—salt, sweat, and something darker. The smell of heat. The smell of them.

She was about to back away when the front door exploded outward.

A blur of motion—a thing rushed out. Seven feet tall. Toned with corded muscle and heavy breasts that bounced with every heaving breath. Between its legs, a cock swung thick and pulsing, already leaking precum.

Ryne didn’t hesitate. She fired once, the round punching into its collarbone.

It didn’t fall.

It screamed—a guttural, animal sound—and lunged at her.

She rolled, just missing the swipe of its clawed hand. Came up hard on one knee and fired again—this time into the throat. Blood sprayed. The infected stumbled, gurgled, and dropped.

Not dead. But down long enough to run.

Ryne didn’t look back. She tore through the trees, heart pounding, the shadows alive with movement. The air thrummed. There were more.

She dove into a ditch and slammed her back against a tree. Her chest rose and fell rapidly. She could hear them coming—moaning, sniffing, sniffing for her scent.

They were hunting.

Her hand slipped into her bag. She pulled a small vial—pheromone mask. Expired, but maybe still effective.

She broke it under her collar and stayed very still.

The footsteps got closer. A figure passed just a foot from her, cock bobbing, eyes glazed with that sick, glowing amber. It paused. Sniffed.

Ryne didn’t breathe.

Then it moved on.

She waited another five minutes before moving again, every step measured. She’d lost her food cache in the fight. Had only two bullets left.

When she finally made it out of the woods, night was falling. The ground sloped downward to a road half-covered in vines and cracked with age. An old fueling station squatted at the end of it. She approached it slowly, boots silent.

Inside, she found a locked supply room and pried it open.

Empty. Except for one thing.

A puddle. White. Warm. Fresh.

She backed out, heart leaping.

Too late.

The door slammed behind her.

A voice purred in the dark. “Been watching you.”

Ryne threw her last flashbang, diving to the side as it detonated.

Light. Pain. Screaming.

She ran again.

Out the window. Over the counter. Into the dark.

This time she didn’t stop. Not until the gas station was gone behind her. Not until the stars were out.

When she finally collapsed in a drainage tunnel, gasping and bloodied, she stared up at the cracks in the concrete and let the silence wrap around her again.

She was still alive.

Still herself.

But the world was changing faster than she could outrun it. Every mile, every fight, every drop of sweat… it all led to one brutal truth:

Alone was better. Alone was safer.

She curled up with her rifle beside her, and tried to dream of a world without lust and war and white-stained walls.

But she knew better.

Out here, in the futa apocalypse, there were no happy endings.

Only survivors.

And hunters.