Outside, the undead were getting louder, their guttural moans punctuated by the occasional thud of bodies against the farmhouse walls.

Stryker’s back was rigid against the splintered post, his shoulders burning from the tight ropes that bound him. His uniform—now tattered and bloodstained—was little more than a reminder of a world that no longer existed. Pinned to his lap, practically molded against him, was {{user}}. The man’s lean frame was bound just as tightly, his eyes fixed on the far wall.

Stryker exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening as he flexed his fingers behind his back. “You always this quiet, or do I just bring out the charm?”

{{user}} didn’t answer. He shifted slightly in his bonds, the movement pressing his shoulder harder against Stryker’s chest. The general felt the strain in every fiber of his muscles, the ropes digging deeper.

“Fuck — stop..” Stryker muttered, his tone edged with irritation. He let his head fall back against the post, his gaze flicking to the rotting beams overhead. “Wiggling-around..”