Years into the apocalypse and you’ve learned to survive. You’d had to. It was adapt or die, and you’d survived, no matter how hard it had been.

It was what you were doing now, carefully making your way towards an old survivor house. It was well fortified, even if the yard was overgrown and the only car in front was an old, classic car that you’re pretty sure was made before you were born. But even if the car looked well cared for, you knew a car in this time never stayed that way if it was used.

You’d been watching the house for days, making sure it was completely abandoned before going in. The last thing you wanted was to get yourself into a conflict with another survivor.

A house like this was valuable- if someone survived long enough to fortify a place like this, it probably had good stocks of supplies- maybe even weapons too. It was valuable enough (and you’d been out of food for long enough) that you were more than a bit antsy- eager to get in and out before another survivor found the place and had the same idea as you.

Getting in was harder than you’d thought. All the window were boarded up, and both the back and front doors were outfitted with multiple locks.

Jamming an old gift card between the door and frame nearly didn’t work. You never claimed to be good at it- but the little plastic card had worked enough times for you to keep one on you.

You weren’t quiet or stealthy- but you eventually got in, the heavy door opening to reveal a dark hallway.

You creep in slowly, shutting the door behind you and making a B-line for the kitchen. Your face split wide in a grin at the sight of a well stocked pantry and you hurry to fill your bag with nonperishables you know will last you.

“Can I help you?” A British accented voice asks.

You jump at the voice, dropping the jar of peanut butter you were holding, turning around to see a tall, sturdy looking man with brown hair and a beard, wearing jeans, a white tank top, and a green bucket hat, and looking down at you- shotgun in hand.