Bite Down. Stay Quiet. Volume One

Lara hated this kind of silence. Rain threaded through the branches above, dripping steadily, covering the forest in noise that made every threat harder to catch. She drew in a breath, counted it. Four in. Hold. Four out. Bite down. Stay quiet.

She slid along the treeline, branches combing her sleeves, damp twigs catching like nails. Each step was swallowed by a quiet she couldn’t quite trust.

Ahead, the village waited, empty and watchful.

Drawing steady breaths, Lara crouched beside a moss-covered stone wall at the edge of the village. A battered compass clipped to the strap across her chest kept her bearings straight when streets turned into mazes of ruin. Her gloved hand rested on the sidearm at her hip; in this world, you never let go of your weapon. Never.

Slate rooftops glistened under the drizzle; the whole place was unmoving and silent. No shutters rattled, no voices carried, no hurried steps disturbed the quiet. There were only a few stragglers, drifting across the open ground, their heads lolling in slow, careless motions. Untouched. No one had passed through in a long time. Supplies might be waiting, yet the silence felt wrong, watchful, like a predator waiting for its prey to stumble close.

It seemed straightforward enough to sneak past, if she stayed sharp and moved at the right moment. But things that looked easy rarely were.

She pressed on, her ears tuned for the scrape of feet or the rasp of something not quite human anymore.

But there was nothing. No scraping, no dragging, no breathless moans. Still, her neck prickled as if unseen eyes watched from the shadows. She tightened her jaw, determined to keep her eyes forward. Looking back meant hesitation, and hesitation got you killed.

As she moved further into the village, the atmosphere shifted, sharp against her skin, as though unseen eyes had tracked her from the shadows of the village.

With practiced ease, she pulled her scarf over her nose and mouth, then drew the loose ends up into a makeshift hood. She tucked her copper hair out of sight without hesitation, a movement so familiar it felt like second nature.

Percy’s rule nagged at her: never step into a box without two exits. She logged them as she moved.

A sudden clatter snapped the hush. She froze, her muscles tensed.

Shit. What was that?

It wasn’t nearby, yet not far enough to fully ignore.

And there, straight ahead, a lone figure stumbled through the side alley, its steps uneven and dragging. The irregular rhythm was a dead giveaway.

Zed.

Its neck jerked sharply as it turned towards her. No groans, no breaths, just that silent, staggering movement that was always unsettling to watch.

Of course.

She tightened her grip and retreated toward the leaning form of a shed that someone had once built beyond their fence.

Better to take cover. In case the Zed wasn’t alone. In case someone else was watching.

Stay calm. Be quick. Move quietly.

The Zed shuffled nearer, its uneven footsteps scraping loudly on the damp pavement. Sloppy and erratic, the dead always moved out of sync. Lara was about to sneak past when it swerved sideways and collided with a bin, sending it clattering against the wall with a hollow, echoing clang. She winced.

For fuck’s sake. She had to shut it up before it drew more. Or worse.

Lara’s heart hammered. She dropped into a low stance, her legs wide for balance on the wet ground, maintaining her focus despite the tremble she refused to acknowledge. She aligned the sights as Percy had taught her months ago, back when training felt like preparation rather than desperation. With shoulders relaxed and elbows locked, she held her breath long enough to focus solely on the shot.

She lifted her pistol, aiming steadily despite her rapid pulse.

‘Inhale … line the sights up… hold it. Ignore the shaking,’ she reminded herself. ‘And shoot.’

The shot cracked, muffled by the makeshift silencer. A sharp pop followed and was instantly swallowed by the mist. The Zed dropped to the ground with a heavy thud.

Lara remained still, crouched low, her eyes fixed on the alley.

One … two … three … she counted silently. Four … five … six … still holding her breath. Bite down … Stay quiet.

Still nothing.

Her shoulders released a fraction of the tension as her gaze swept the boarded-up windows, rusted cars left to rot in driveways, and swollen doors that were staring back at her. Nothing about it felt natural, as the silence pressed even closer, heavy and expectant – the kind that warned of danger.

The Lake District had once been among Britain’s most stunning retreats, but now it resembled a decaying graveyard. A place of shattered homes, spilled blood, and an inescapable sense of death.

Exhaling slowly through her nose, Lara edged forward with deliberate and measured steps. Her backpack dug into her spine, stiffening her shoulders with its weight. Rain turned the ground soft and treacherous, each step heavier, making her boots slip as she followed the line of a dry stone wall. She skirted beneath the fragmented outline of a roof and kept away from the exposed road which was covered in shards of glass, rotting wood, and various other artefacts that glimmered in the pale light. Anything that could make a noise or betray her location was a death sentence.

She kept the path behind her fixed in memory. Rooflines, narrow alleys, and dead ends she had mapped from the ridge earlier. Scratched binoculars had shown her what might still be salvageable. The group needed supplies they could rely on, enough to keep them fed, moving and one step ahead of the next threat.

It was Lara who had proposed their splitting up this time. While the others scoured the next village, searching houses and back gardens, she had ventured alone. If the corner shop was untouched, it could mean food for days; if it wasn’t, well, she’d outrun worse. Latest by dusk, they were supposed to meet again at the service station, assuming nothing had gone wrong.

‘You can always run,’ she whispered. ‘But you can’t always choose to fight, not when you’re outnumbered, outgunned, or half-starved.’

Now standing beside the rusted remnants of a garden fence, Lara came to a halt. Next to her, a house had partially collapsed, its roof caved in, and a once-thriving climbing rose bush, now dead, was tangled around a broken trellis. She ducked beneath the brittle limbs and sank into a crouch again, keeping low to use the cover. Her boot sank into something soft, pressing a muddy print into a bloodstained floral summer dress.

How long has it been since I wore a dress, I wonder?

In this lawless, starving world, the risks associated with being a woman were more pronounced than ever before. A smile could be mistaken for an invitation. Long hair, soft curves, a gentle voice marked you as prey. Concealment meant survival. In this new reality, any trace of softness could turn you into a target. Once, shortly after the world’s collapse, she had been tempted by fleeting moments of warmth. Yet each time it had proved dangerous.

Softness was weakness, and weakness always bled.

Her clothes told the story of survival. A flannel shirt thrown over a black vest, a thin jacket worn and water-resistant, jeans scuffed at the knees, boots cracked and stained with old blood. None of it was for comfort. Every layer was chosen to blur her shape, to strip away the curves that once marked her as prey.

Before the collapse, Lara had taken pride in the little things. Clean nails, styled hair, skin that once glowed with care. Maintaining a well-kept appearance felt normal, even anticipated. Now it was all about hiding, not from the dead, but from unwanted attention.

Strapped across her back was a bow with a string frayed from frequent use, and a shotgun hung by her side, though it no longer carried shells. The only loaded weapon was the sidearm at her hip, modified on the fly with a makeshift silencer constructed from a water bottle and duct tape.

Thinking of the times she’d used her weapons, everything held a beat and then moved on. It was too many times to count. If forced to act, she would fight, but survival meant staying hidden and silent while letting the louder ones draw unwanted attention. Her pulse levelled gradually; her muscles set ready for work.

Let others make the noise. Let them draw the Zeds and waste their bullets. Lara preferred to stay in the shadows, where survival lived.

She drank from a slim flask pulled from her backpack. The water was metallic but clean enough. Instinctively, her hand moved to her sidearm, which steadied her. The silencer clung to the barrel as she freed the magazine and counted the rounds. Just enough to do what had to be done.

She clicked the magazine back in, chambered a round, and kept the weapon ready. It wasn’t her first choice – too noisy, and too final – but at this moment, it would have to do.

Lara resumed her path, keeping close to the buildings. The rain had returned, now as a thin mist that softened sounds, and luckily muted her footsteps. She couldn’t afford not to check the corpse, but if she left it exposed, anyone passing would know a survivor had been here.

You’ve done this before. Stay sharp. Learn from past mistakes.

Once, someone had seen her in a similar situation, when she wasn’t as guarded. He had been too friendly, too quick to offer help after she had twisted her ankle on a solo run. She had smiled out of courtesy. That was all. But when night fell, he had unzipped his trousers.

‘You owe me now.’

Lara never forgot the look on his face when she pulled the trigger. Her hands had trembled, yet her aim never faltered. Not from shock, not from regret, merely from surprise.

She pushed the memory down, but it lingered, raw as ever. The surrounding village pressed in with the same unease, a reminder that danger was never far. As she neared the corner shop, the same slow, creeping awareness of being watched washed over her.

With a slow, measured breath, she crouched down next to the body. Male, in his mid-forties, or what was left of him at least. His clothes were ragged, his skin mottled, leaving nothing of value to take.

She was still full of adrenaline as she dragged the corpse to the side of the house, rolling it under a broken bench. For a short time, she rested on the moist ground, listening and trying to regulate her heartbeat.

She then reached down, scooping up a handful of wet leaves, and scattered them across the decimated face of the corpse. It wasn’t an act of cleanliness or stealth; it was her way of erasing any trace of who he’d once been.

Don’t get sloppy. Don’t leave breadcrumbs.

She turned, scanning the drifting mist all around.

Nothing.

It was the way she crouched that made him pause.

Low, cautious, precise. Hips tight in those worn jeans, her scarf slipped to reveal just a hint of copper hair against pale skin. Intent. Alert.

Mesmerising. Fucking mesmerising.

A tall figure, broad-shouldered and lean from countless miles on foot, hovered in partial shadow. His combat trousers clung to strong, weathered legs, faded by the sun. His old military shirt, with rolled sleeves and the top buttons undone, hung open just enough to expose the curve of his collarbone and the subtle pull of muscle beneath the damp fabric.

Not sculpted by gym workouts, but honed by survival.

Blood still stained his trousers where he had wiped his blade clean. He slid the knife into its sheath with a soft click as he slung the stolen rifle across his back; a fresh weapon, its barrel still warm from its previous owner. He cast one final look at the body as it lost its warmth and moved on.

‘Too slow,’ he muttered, the words low, almost amused.

This man moved with quiet precision, every step calculated. His presence made men tense up and caused women to pause mid-sentence. A strong jaw, stubble, and a scar slicing cleanly through his left brow gave him an intimidating air, while his deep, disarming green eyes missed nothing.

He didn’t usually linger or watch; most survivors weren’t worth the effort, let alone the bullets. Especially the messy ones that slowed you down.

But her.

A part of him just couldn’t let go. She moved like a shadow, like a whisper, like a looming danger.

He shifted silently behind the half-collapsed shed, his body relaxed yet alert. The rifle remained balanced along his spine, the knife waiting. Every muscle in him was tuned to her presence.

He tracked her with the same focus he used to line up a kill. Every movement she made was precise, streamlined, fluid, and deliberate. He could almost hear the soft catch of her breath when she paused, feeling the tension ripple across the space between them.

Another slip of scarf, another flash of copper hair. A small flare in the grey, firefly bright, and the name stuck before he could stop it.

A slight grin tugged at his lips. Not wide, not warm, but enough to savour the hunt. This wasn’t about rescue. Or alliance. Or sex.

Not yet.

It was a want – to watch, to follow, to see what she did when no one else was looking.

She hadn’t noticed him.

Not really.

But he had seen enough. And whoever he was, he wasn’t planning on walking away.