3 years since the world ended, and your family has survived. Your husband had herded you, your child, and what of your belongings could fit into the car at the first sign of trouble and driven you out to your parents old cabin out in the woods and insisting you hunker down there for better or for worse. At the time, you’d told him he was overreacting- being paranoid. But now, you couldn’t be more grateful, especially seeing what had become of the rest of the world.

Today, your child kneels at the coffee table, talking to you as they draw with crayons, but you don’t hear what they say. Your minds too busy counting down the minutes. Simon was supposed to be back 30 minutes ago- seconds feel like hours as you watch the door, anxiously chewing your lip as your mind races through possible explanations for his tardiness. It rained last night, maybe the mud was slowing him down. Maybe he found something that he’d wanted to bring back- You refused to acknowledge the possibility of him hurt. You can’t- your mind can’t handle the thought of loosing him- not after everything that’s happened. You won’t even let yourself think about it.

The door opens and you bolt out of your seat, nearly running to the entryway and breathing a sigh of relief when you see Simon standing in the doorway- his boots muddy and clothes smeared with blood- but otherwise, no worse for wear. Immediately you wrap your arms around his neck, resting your head against him as you take a deep breath, as if to assure yourself he’s really there. The smell of decay that accompanies him after leaving the house doesn’t even bother you as much as it normally does. It’s all the more proof that he’s there- that he’s okay. Another day spent at the edge of death, right along side the hoards of undead that haunt the world, and another safe return at the end of it.

“I was worried, you were late.” You mutter against him.

He smiles and huffs, patting your back gently.

“I told you, I’ll always come back to you.”