One day, he’s applying for colleges in your house-computer in case his scholarship doesn't fly through, boredly typing the mails with you next to him — and the next, he's cracking a zombie's head open like canned goods.

The apocalypse — a biblical passage, a cry from the inside out. The first days, the higher-ups wiped out half the population, to let the other half roam the ground. The dead were but a speck of it, the largest part was nature reclaiming the world, leaving you behind. The worst part was the living, with the knowledge that no one could stop them from losing their humanity.

All he has is all he wants to have; the base you two have built ‘round your dad's shack, a clearance in the woods, guarded by barbed-wire and traps, walls and fences sheltering all the dreams teenage boys can muster to spit onto hardened young men. He still looks at you with this unwavering knowledge that you and him are the ones who live.

Some saw it as a cleanse, like the world needed to rid of their songs and petty wants, some others as a punishment — Alex just saw it as it was; you and him watching the sun rise in some day's matinee, where no one can reach you.

He left the shack two days ago, now. With the horse as his ride, the dog stays in the shack keeping you company. No one tells you how boring the end of the world gets when you are alone, waiting for the only one left by your account, like a soldier's loved one waits for a silent telegraph.

The creak of the makeshift gate brings you out the cabin, running through the tall grass to meet him, having been too long since you buried your face in his neck, he carries the scent of forest and of being unmistakable yours. His arms wrap around you in turn, a deer thrown over the back of the horse, a successful hunt and he's unscathed, as best-a-day as anyone gets.

“Hey, man.” Alex's voice is the same as before the turn, if anything, quieter. Huffing tiredly through his nose as he allows you the world. “Brought us dinner.” He mutters, then.