WARNING THIS STORY IS A WORK OF FICTION; I DO NOT OWN FIVE NIGHTS AT FREDDY. SCOTT CAWTHON IS THE LUCKY BASTARD OWNS ALL RIGHTS.


WARNING THIS STORY WILL CONTAIN THE FOLLOWING. RAPE, DRUGS AND ALCOHOL, GORE, MURDER, AND *Drags out glitter cannon* LEMONS. IF YOU DO NOT WANNA SEE HUMANS ON ANIMATRONICS. I SUGGEST YOU GO TO THE MLP STORIES. THEY GET FREAKY OVER THERE.*waggles eyebrows* Without further ado. *Fires Glitter Cannon On YOU* Enjoy


Ethan's POV

July 10th, 2024

Hurricane, Utah

As I sat in the greasy breakroom, the stench of oil permeating the air, a strange sense of kinship washed over me and the dependable Bronco I had just finished working on. We had both endured our fair share of hardships, bearing the marks of battles fought and in desperate need of fixing. Flicking my lighter with a flourish, I set my cigarette ablaze, watching the smoke dance lazily around my scarred fingers.

A heavy sigh escaped my lips as I wiped my hands on my worn-out jeans, leaving smudges of grease in their wake. The clock above the door taunted me, each tick a reminder of the moments slipping away until I could finally escape this place and drown my sorrows in the loving embrace of a cold beer.

Just as I mustered the courage for my daring escape, my boss, Michael, swaggered into the room. His raised eyebrow and mischievous glint promised a taste of chaos, a welcomed disruption.

"Ethan, my man." Michael boomed, slapping me on the back. "You've done exceptional work today. Call it a day, my friend. Tommy has already made his hasty retreat."

A chuckle escaped me, mingling with the smoke swirling around us. Ah, Tommy, dear Tommy. He possessed an uncanny talent for spinning tales wilder than a unicorn riding a Harley. "What's his excuse this time?" I inquired, genuinely intrigued.

Michael's laughter reverberated through the room, a jolly soundtrack bouncing off the walls. "You won't believe this one, Ethan. He claims some deranged lunatic sank their teeth into him!"

My eyebrows shot up in astonishment. "You're telling me Tommy got bitten? By a lunatic? That's a new level of absurdity, even for him." Michael chuckled, shaking his head. "I'll never understand why I hired him in the first place."

I couldn't help but chuckle, fully aware that Tommy was a walking catastrophe. "You have a soft spot for the misfits, that's why." I replied, giving Michael a knowing look.

Leaning against the wall, Michael's face mirrored a mixture of amusement and exasperation. "Yeah, yeah, I suppose I do. But hey, that's why you're still here, right? You're my beloved outcast."

I shrugged nonchalantly, concealing the gratitude welling up inside me. Michael had given me a chance when no one else would, and for that, I owed him my loyalty. Just as I prepared to rise from my seat, ready to escape the confines of the familiar breakroom, Michael called out, his voice carrying an indiscernible undertone.

"Hey, Ethan, you know, if you ever need someone to talk to... I'm here. No judgment, no bullshit. Just a friendly ear."

I studied Michael's worn features, the lines etched by weariness and experience. It was hard to fathom him as the listening type, but a genuine concern shone in his eyes that I couldn't ignore. Gratitude softened my gaze, and a small, appreciative smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. "Not today, Michael. I'm not quite ready to confront my demons just yet," I replied, a mixture of gratitude and sorrow lacing my voice.

Michael nodded, understanding washing over his face. He knew all too well that sometimes the past was an untameable beast. "Fair enough, my friend." he said, his voice carrying a blend of respect and understanding. "But remember, I'm just a phone call away if you ever change your mind."

With that, I slung my duffle bag over my shoulder, my movements lacking grace but efficient nonetheless. Stepping outside into the fading light, I welcomed the cool evening breeze, a refreshing balm after a long day under the relentless Utah sun.

I could practically taste the sweet nectar of freedom as I strutted towards my truck, the wind whipping through my hair. With a forceful swing, I launched my trusty duffle bag into the passenger seat, the sound of its weighty thud reverberating through the air. Sliding into the driver's seat, I slammed the door shut with a satisfying clang, relishing in the symphony of freedom.

The engine grumbled and protested as I twisted the key, as if it needed a jolt of lightning to awaken from its slumber. After a few frustrating attempts, the engine roared to life like a wounded beast finding its ferocious second wind. I shifted into drive, feeling the gears creak and groan as they reluctantly engaged, and pulled out from the repair shop.

As I embarked on my journey home, the radio blared with news of the grand opening of the infamous Fazbear Fright Amusement Park. I couldn't help but scoff. Controversy, lawsuits, and the uproar about the company conducting experiments on the animatronics, claiming they were sentient? It was a circus of epic proportions, a twisted spectacle that replaced clowns with animatronic nightmares.

With a flick of my cigarette ash out the window, I pressed on, the barren desert landscape sprawling out before me like a vast masterpiece. The towering Pine Valley Mountains stood tall, silent witnesses to my existence, their stoic presence mirroring my own.

Finally, I turned onto a rugged dirt road, navigating its twists and turns for what felt like an eternity before reaching my solitary haven. My humble abode, a two-bedroom brick sanctuary, sat peacefully on an acre of land, surrounded by nothing but open space. No prying eyes, no nosy neighbors. Pure perfection.

Stepping out of the truck, the crunch of gravel beneath my boots echoed in the stillness, a declaration of my arrival. Ignoring the blaring reality show on the TV that I had absentmindedly left on, I made my way inside.

With the grace and ease of a seasoned veteran, I snatched a cold beer from the fridge, the chilled bottle soothing my palm as I cracked it open. Ah, the elixir of life. I took a long, satisfying swig, feeling the cool liquid cascade down my throat, washing away the day's dust and stress.

The house embraced me in its tranquil silence, wrapping around me like an old friend. Ever since my return from the army a few months ago, it had become my sanctuary, a place where I could shut out the deafening noise and chaos of the outside world.

I sank into the plush embrace of my recliner, the worn leather enveloping me like a warm hug. The weight of the day melted away as I kicked off my boots, freeing my weary feet from their prison of exhaustion.

With a sigh, I rolled up my jeans and unfastened the straps of my prosthetic leg, the familiar routine of removal becoming a comforting ritual. As I tenderly massaged the end of my stump, a wave of relaxation washed over me, momentarily easing the phantom pain.

Closing my eyes, I surrendered to the loving cradle of the recliner, its embrace cocooning me from the harsh realities of the world. It was in this sacred space that I could truly be myself, vulnerable and unguarded.

The soft murmur of the TV played in the background, a monotonous drone that was honesty relaxing, guiding me through the sea of my thoughts. It anchored me to the present, reminding me that life continued its dance beyond the walls of my secluded sanctuary.

My eyes fluttered open as the news anchor's voice seized my attention. Dugway Proving Ground. A place that held memories and secrets from my time in the military. It was a behemoth testing ground for some of the deadliest chemical weapons, shrouded in mystery and hidden dangers.

As the news reporter spoke of a recent break-in and stolen items, the veil of secrecy surrounding Dugway Proving Ground thickened. The authorities remained tight-lipped about the specifics, fueling rumors and wild speculation that swirled like a tumultuous sandstorm.

Taking another sip of my beer, I couldn't help but ponder what madness had possessed someone to venture into that treacherous den. Information and curiosity were a volatile combination, yet I couldn't resist the allure of digging deeper.

Retrieving my cellphone from my pocket, I pondered whom to contact. Tommy. Yes, he would undoubtedly possess insider knowledge or at least a few tantalizing conspiracy theories. With a few swift taps, I fired off a text, inquiring about his well-being and seeking any insight he might have on the recent incident at Dugway.

The phone seemed to mock my eagerness as the seconds ticked by, devoid of any response. Well, Tommy had always danced to the beat of his own drum, so his lack of timely communication didn't surprise me. I placed the phone down, allowing the man to marinate in his mysterious ways.

With a heavy sigh, I reclined the chair even further, surrendering to its seductive embrace. The worries and chaos of the world faded into the background as my eyelids grew heavy, sleep beckoning me.

Reality and dreams collided, swirling together in the depths of my mind. Memories, like fragments of shattered glass, danced before me. The thunderous crack of gunfire echoed in my ears, accompanied by the acrid stench of smoke and burning debris. The anguished cries of pain pierced the air, mingling with the unbreakable bond of brotherhood. In an instant, I was transported back to the Iraq, engulfed in the chaos of war.

But then, a piercing shriek shattered the tranquility of my dozing state. My phone, a disruptive intruder, demanded my attention. Reluctantly, I groped for the device, desperately hoping for a message from Tommy. Perhaps he had unearthed some crucial information about Dugway, or maybe he simply wanted to share a ridiculous meme to lift our spirits.


Ethan's POV

July 11th, 2024

Hurricane, Utah

I was abruptly ripped from the depths of my slumber by the piercing shriek of my phone. Disoriented and bleary-eyed, I groped around until my fingers finally grasped the device, and I squinted at the luminous screen. 1:42 AM. What in the world could Michael want at this ungodly hour?

"Hello?" I groggily answered, my voice thick with sleep and bewilderment.

"Ethan! Oh my God, Ethan!" Michael's voice crackled through the receiver, a palpable sense of panic enveloping his words. "It's... it's utter chaos out here! People are attacking each other! I have no idea what's happening!"

My heart pounded in my chest as I sat bolt upright, fully awake now. "Michael, calm down. What do you mean, people attacking each other?"

"I don't know, man! They're... they're devouring each other! It's like a scene straight out of a movie!" Michael's voice trembled, his terror seeping through the phone.

His words struck me, leaving me paralyzed with shock. This couldn't be real; it had to be some twisted prank. But the urgency in Michael's voice was undeniable.

"Michael, you need to make sense! Where are you? Are you safe?" I demanded, struggling to keep my own panic at bay.

"I-I'm at home." he stammered. "But their everywear, Ethan. I can't get out. Please, you have to save me!"

Without a second thought, I sprang into action. I stumbled out of my recliner, nearly tripping over my prosthetic leg. Swiftly, I secured it to my stump, the familiar click of the locks providing a fleeting semblance of normalcy. Clutching my phone tightly, I raced toward the door, my heart pounding in my chest like a war drum.

"What's happening, Michael? Tell me what yous see!" I pleaded, desperation seeping into my voice.

"It's... it's hard to tell, Ethan." he sobbed. "There's so much smoke, so much mayhem. Please, hurry!"

I burst through the door, my eyes scanning what I could see of the outskirts of the town, desperately searching for any sign of danger. As I surveyed the scene before me, a sinking feeling overwhelmed my gut. Pillars of smoke billowed into the night sky, casting an eerie glow over town. It was as if a nightmare had descended upon our once peaceful town.

"Just hold on, Michael. I'm on my way." I declared, determination infusing every word.

But before I could even take another step, a growl erupted from the other end of the line. Michael's terrified screams were abruptly silenced, replaced only by the static-filled void of a lost signal.

"No!" I bellowed into the darkness, my voice reverberating through the desolate night air.

My heart raced as I burst back into the house, my mind swirling with images of chaos and bloodshed. With a desperate urgency, I sprinted to the bedroom and forcefully swung open the safe, my hands trembling with a potent mix of fear and determination.

Seizing my trusty Benelli Shotgun and a box of shells, I bolted back outside, the cold air slapping my face awake. Keys in hand, I clumsily made my way to my truck, the engine roaring to life as I took a deep breath to steady my nerves.

Just as I reached for my phone to call Michael, a curse escaped my lips when I saw the dreaded words "NO SERVICE" mocking me from the screen. The damn cell tower must have been damaged in the madness. Anger surged through me, but I swiftly dismissed it. I needed to focus.

Revving the truck, I hurtled down the dirt road towards Hurricane. doing 80mph down the dirt road, my eyes wide open to the nightmare that lay ahead. People scurried about frantic, cars collided in a symphony of twisted metal, and the piercing cries of terror in the air. My gaze swept over the mayhem, desperately searching for safe road to Michaels.

Finally, I reached Michael's house, my heart dropping at the sight of the bloody door cracked open. Without a second thought, I retrieved my shotgun, channeling the dormant skills from my military days. The distant cries urged me into action, my movements swift and silent.

With caution, I inched closer to the front door, the anguished voices filling the air. The house had an eerie stillness, interrupted only by the distant snarls and grunts that surrounded us. Each step quickened my pulse, a familiar mix of fear and adrenaline coursing through me.

As I approached the entrance, a metallic scent assaulted my senses, intertwining with the damp, musty odor of the walls. My grip tightened on the shotgun, my knuckles turning white. I pushed the door open more, its protesting creak barely audible.

Inside, the scene was one of utter destruction. Furniture lay shattered and scattered, once beautiful pieces reduced to trash. Drops of blood formed a path throughout the house, beckoning me follow it, sure it would lead me where I needed to be.

Following the crimson trail, I treaded lightly, straining my ears for any sign of movement. Every passing moment heightened the urgency within me, a mix of dread and determination fueling my steps. The thought of Michael, vulnerable and alone, consumed my mind, propelling me forward.

Suddenly, a low growl reverberated through the hallway, sending a shiver down my spine. I froze in place, barely daring to breathe. The sound grew louder as I drew closer, accompanied by the unmistakable tearing of flesh.

The sound of my heart pounding in my chest was almost deafening as I rounded the corner. My eyes widened, and time seemed to slow down as the horrifying sight seared itself into my mind. There it was, a twisted creature, hunched over Michael's body, its hand buried deep within his torn guts. The putrid scent of blood and decay filled the air, churning my stomach and fueling an anger that burned hotter than the fires of hell.

Without a second thought, I raised my shotgun, my finger sliding onto the trigger. The deafening explosion echoed through the hallway as the twelve-gauge round tore through the air, striking the creature square in the head. Its body convulsed and then slumped to the ground, blood pooling around its lifeless form.

Racing forward, I shoved the creature aside, revealing a gasping, bloodied Michael. The wounds he sustained were unimaginable, his pale face a canvas of terror and agony. As his trembling hand reached out for me, I dove down beside him, clasping his hand tightly.

"Michael," I whispered, my voice choked with emotion. "Hang in there. Everything is going to be okay."

Blood bubbled up from his lips, and he managed to form a weak smile. "Ethan...you... saved...me."

But as I gazed down at his mutilated form, the truth was undeniable. There was no saving him. His life force was ebbing away, and the wounds he suffered were beyond any medical intervention.

Tears welled up in my eyes, a mix of sadness and fury. I couldn't let him suffer any longer. With a heavy heart, I made the agonizing decision. I reached for the shotgun once again, my trembling hand finding its grip.

"Rest in peace, my friend," I murmured, my voice trembling with the weight of my emotions.

And just like that, I pulled the trigger one more time, releasing Michael from his pain. The sound was deafening, mingling with the anguished screams that echoed in my own soul. For a moment, the air itself seemed to tremble, as if mourning the loss of a noble spirit.

I stayed there, kneeling beside Michael's lifeless body, my breath coming in ragged gasps. The weight of the world seemed to descend upon my shoulders, pressing down with a force that threatened to crush me.


Ethan's POV

November 11th, 2025

Outskirts of Hurricane, Utah

"Good morning, Harold," I muttered, my voice still groggy with sleep as I emerged from my cozy sleeping bag. The bright rays of the morning sun clawed their way into my retinas, reminding me that another day of survival awaited me.

Sauntering towards the edge of the roof, I peered down at the two infected below, growling and scratching like ill-mannered toddlers at the wall. I couldn't help but chuckle at their futile attempts to climb up. "You guys really think scraping those dirty, bloody fingers on the wall will magically transport you up here with me? Well, guess what, dumbasses? Gravity is not on your side today."

Feeling the call of nature, I unzipped my pants and took my morning piss, aiming directly at their heads. Talk about marking my territory. "Consider this a warning shot, you zombie rejects! Keep your rotting bodies far away from my rooftop!" I smirked, savoring the victorious feeling of superiority.

With a satisfied sigh, I returned to my cozy sleeping bag and dragged my faithful duffle bag over to me. Rummaging through it like a hungry raccoon, I unearthed a can of dog food and cracked it open with my trusty combat knife. The scent of unspecified meat and carcinogens wafted through the air, igniting my appetite.

Glancing at Harold, the googly-eyed paper bag nestled next to me, I shared my findings. "Hey, buddy. We've got two delightful guests downstairs who seem to think they're brunch for breakfast. Unfortunately for them, the only thing they'll be feasting on today is disappointment."

I wolfed down the dog food, savoring each questionable meaty bite. Not gourmet cuisine, but it kept me alive. Plus, I wasn't exactly picky at this point. Survival doesn't come with a Michelin star, after all.

I toss the empty can onto the roof, its metallic clang echoing in the eerie silence that blankets the abandoned street. With a heavy sigh, I reach into my trusted duffle bag, wrinkling my nose at the faint smell of something moldy and disappointment. Ignoring the funky odor, I pull out a map, carefully unfolding it with a sense of purpose. This map had guided me through countless perilous encounters, and now it would guide me back to my hometown, Hurricane, Utah.

Unfolding the map, I scrutinize the faded lines that mark my journey. A year ago, in the chaotic aftermath of the outbreak, I had joined a military caravan bound for the rural sanctuary of Idaho. Little did I know that it would soon become a nightmare straight out of a twisted Stephen King novel.

The Quarantine Zones (or as I like to call them, Confinement Camps) had quickly turned into oppressive hells. People seemed to be tortured for the pettiest of crimes, like stealing an extra ration of canned beans or forgetting to salute a particularly grumpy officer.

I've done some unsavory things myself, but there's a fine line between survival instinct and sadistic pleasure. So, one fateful night, I made my escape from that nightmarish camp. Sneaky like a fox, I slipped into the darkness, determined to find a place where the infected weren't the only monsters lurking around. And now, as I stand here on a rooftop, gazing at the map spread out before me, I know that I'm only a few miles away from my hometown of Hurricane, Utah. It's a gamble, really. What awaits me there? Ruins and remnants, or perhaps a flickering semblance of the community that it once was?

As I packed up my supplies and checked my weapons, I couldn't help but talk to Harold. "Well, Harold, looks like we're in for another thrilling day in the land of the Infected. I hope you're as excited as I am."

Securing Harold to the side of my duffle bag, I made sure he had a good view of the action. After all, he might be a humble paper bag, but he deserved the front-row seat to my zombie-slaying antics. His googly eyes seemed to sparkle with anticipation.

With my rifle slung over my shoulder, I took a moment to appreciate the weight of it. I had been a marksman in the army, and that skill had come in handy when it came to headshots. I affectionately patted the scope. "Don't worry, ol' Red, we're gonna make some zombie heads explode today."

Carefully hopping off the roof, I landed with a heavy thud. I distributed most of my weight on my real leg, as my prosthetic leg had been making strange noises lately. Nothing ruins a good escape like a clanky, malfunctioning leg.

Crouching down, I waited for the two infected I had angered with my morning piss extravaganza to come charging around the corner. Ah, memories. Some people start their day with coffee, I start mine by pissing off the undead. Different strokes for different folks, right?

With a burst of adrenaline, the first infected flew past me in a horrendously bad jump. It was like watching a drunk kangaroo attempting Olympic high jumps. I couldn't help but chuckle. "Nice try, buddy. But that jump would get you disqualified from the toddler Olympics."

Twirling in style, I pulled out my combat knife and swiftly jammed it into the throat of the approaching infected. Its gurgles and convulsions were like a symphony to my ears. If only this horrible orchestra played something other than the soundtrack of the apocalypse.

Spinning back around, I unleashed a swift kick to the gut of the second infected, who foolishly attempted to tackle me. "Ah, a textbook tackle. Unfortunately, you didn't take into account my superior survival skills and kickassery."

As it lay on the ground, writhing in pain, I decided to perform my own version of lawn care. With an elegant curtsy, I stomped on its face repeatedly until it resembled a mashed potato sculpture gone terribly wrong. "Looks like you got the grass treatment, my friend. Stay down and be one with the earth now."

Brushing off the dirt from my hands, I smiled at Harold. "See, Harold? That's how we cleanse the world of these infected critters. One curb stomp at a time. Could be worse, though. We could be fighting the dreaded sock puppets."

I reached in my pocket, desperate for the crumpled pack of smokes. With a cigarette dangling from my lips, I flicked open the zippo and inhaled deeply, savoring the rush of nicotine as it coursed through my veins. As the smoke filled my lungs, I couldn't help but fantasize about finding a survivor who knew how to roll a damn good joint. A rare luxury in these bleak times, but a man can dream, right?

With the remnants of infected brains now safely smeared on the sand, I delivered one last kick to the lifeless bodies. They never stood a chance against my deadly knife skills and perfectly executed curb stomp. Call me crazy, but the Army taught me a thing or two about handling weapons like a goddamn pro. My drill sergeant would be damn proud. Satisfied that everything was secure in my duffle bag, I tightened the straps and adjusted Harold, my faithful companion, to minimize his movements. "Hold on tight, buddy. We're about to embark on one hell of a ride," I whispered, my voice tinged with both excitement and a hint of madness.

As I made my way through a few blocks, my eyes scanned the surroundings for any sign of interstate 15. Navigating this post-apocalyptic maze was always a challenge, with signs destroyed or defaced with graffiti proclaiming things like "Zombies were here!" or "Call for some good head!" Yeah, thanks, but I'll pass on the horny undead. Nevertheless, I needed to travel a couple of miles down the interstate before reaching my destination: Tocqueville Mine Trailhead. Each house I passed held the potential for danger, whether it be an encounter with a flesh-hungry infected or a deranged scavenger ready to rob me, or worse. But I had become a master of this deadly dance, moving swiftly and silently, my senses sharpened to their fullest. After what felt like an eternity of maneuvering through crumbling walls and decaying houses, a faint glimmer caught my eye. A sign I could actually read: "Interstate 15." My heart raced with anticipation. It's a strange feeling to be relieved by the sight of a goddamn highway.

As I trudged along the empty interstate, the scorching sun mercilessly beating down on my body, my mind drifted back to the life I once had. A life filled with solitude, beers, and late-night video game sessions. Strangely enough, it wasn't all that different from my current reality. Well minus the video games and beer.

I stumbled upon a gas station that appeared to have weathered a nuclear explosion or perhaps suffered the wrath of an overcooked microwave burrito. Either way, it wasn't the kind of place you'd stop for a refreshing drink on a sweltering summer day.

Curiosity piqued, I cautiously approached the decimated wreckage. Careful not to trip over anything, I scanned the area for anything salvageable amidst the ruins. And then, a glimmer of light caught my attention. Leaning inside a burnt-out car, I spotted a cardboard box defiantly peeking out its contents. My heart skipped a beat – a damaged box of Twinkies, the holy grail of post-apocalyptic snacks. A wide grin spread across my face.

"Harold, my friend, we've struck gold," I declared triumphantly.

I delicately retrieved the precious Twinkies from their crumbling cardboard sanctuary. Despite their battered state, the golden cakes still beckoned to me, promising creamy filling and melt-in-your-mouth goodness. Placing them carefully in my duffle bag, I decided to savor them later, a secret indulgence in the midst of chaos.

Satisfied with my find, I dusted off my hands and continued my journey down the abandoned interstate. Each step felt heavier than the last, the unsettling creaking of my prosthetic leg reminding me of its need for repair. If I didn't fix it soon, I'd be fucked.

With newfound determination, I quickened my pace. After walking down the interstate for what felt like an eternity, dodging obstacles and navigating through destroyed cars, I finally spotted my turn: 900 N Rd. The road that led to the old Tocqueville Mine Trailhead overlooking Hurricane. It used to be a beautiful spot before everything went to hell, with its panoramic view and all. Letting out a sigh, I realized I had to reach there before nightfall. The infected changed at night becoming fucking crazy, faster and more ruthless.

However, my problem lay ahead. A group of zombies loitered on the road I needed to turn onto. One would think that the undead had better things to do than hang around, but apparently, they hadn't gotten the memo. Leaning over the concrete barrier on the highway, I peered down the ramp, assessing the situation. There was no way around them. Just another day in this godforsaken paradise.

Saying "fuck it" to myself, I knew what needed to be done. I grabbed my trusty AR off my back, feeling its comforting weight in my hands. Taking aim, I used the concrete barrier as support, taking a deep breath to steady myself. It's strange how the adrenaline rushes through your veins in moments like this. The world slows down, everything becomes a blur except for the target in your sights. It's the zombie version of being in the Zone, I suppose.

Lining up my shots, I could practically hear the Benny Hill theme song playing in the background. Let the shooting gallery begin. The first shot echoed through the empty highway, striking one of the infected square in the forehead. "Bullseye!" I couldn't help but shout, my triumph echoing. The second shot followed suit, swiftly taking down another infected. Two down, one to go.

The remaining infected stumbled, his undead brain clearly finding it difficult to comprehend what had just happened to his pals. I took aim once again, lining up my shot with deadly precision. I couldn't help but imagine a voice in my head saying, "And in this corner, we have Ethan, the marksman extraordinaire!"

With a smile on my face, I squeezed the trigger. The shot rang out, hitting its mark. The infected fell to the ground with a satisfying thud. "And that's a knockout!" I announced gleefully, pumping my fist in the air. It may seem strange to find joy in killing the undead, but let me make one thing clear: I am the protagonist here, and I don't owe you any explanation.

My heart pounded like a war drum, the surge of adrenaline coursing through my veins, shattering my moment of triumph with the haunting growls of the infected. Damn it all! My celebratory gunshots had summoned an entire horde of unwanted attention. Swearing under my breath, I swiftly slung my trusty duffle bag over my shoulder, making a split-second decision.

With a mighty leap, I vaulted over the imposing concrete barrier, my combat instincts awakening as I skidded down the grassy slope. For a moment, I stumbled, stealing a quick glance behind me to witness the infected tumbling over one another, driven by their insatiable hunger, chasing me with relentless determination. It was time to unleash my inner track star. Or survivalist. Or whatever it took.

Bolting forward, I sprinted with a singular focus on survival. The world around me narrowed to a singular goal as I hurdled over the hood of a car, disregarding the searing pain that shot through my side. Adrenaline, it seemed, had a miraculous ability to cloak injuries. I pivoted, unleashing a barrage of shots into the ravenous horde, buying myself precious seconds.

Grinding my teeth, I spun back around and continued my mad dash, my feet pounding against the trail road in a desperate attempt to outpace the relentless bastards hot on my heels. One mile turned into two, and my gasping breaths grew louder, echoing my desperation. My lungs burned with an unquenchable fire, begging for respite. But the infected knew no mercy, did they?

Finally, as if the gods of desperation had bestowed their favor upon me, a small shack materialized in the distance. Relief surged through my veins, propelling me forward as I crashed into the door, slamming it shut behind me. Pressing a trembling hand against my mouth, I fought to stifle my ragged breaths, listening intently as the infected continued their frenzied pursuit, their piercing growls fading into the distance.

Collapsing against the door, I crumpled to the ground, my body pressed against the rough, worn wood. The sweat on my brow mixed with the grime and filth that coated my face, forming rivulets that traced down my forehead. Shutting my eyes tightly, I fought to regain control over my pounding heart, desperately pushing back the encroaching panic that threatened to consume me whole.

"Well, Harold," I murmured, my voice barely audible, "it seems we've emerged from that little escapade relatively unscathed." But as the words trailed off, I gasped in agony, a searing bolt of pain shooting through my side. "Or perhaps," I choked out, wincing, "not completely unscathed."

With a heavy sigh, I gingerly peeled off my shirt, exposing a deep, jagged gash that marred my side. Blood oozed from the wound, the sight of it causing my stomach to churn.. I cursed under my breath at my own recklessness. Sliding over that car had seemed like a good idea at the time, but now it seemed like a damn mistake.

Gritting my teeth, I tore a strip from my shirt and hastily fashioned a makeshift bandage around the wound. But the warm blood continued to trickle down my skin, the feeble bandage doing little to staunch the flow. It would have to suffice for now. I couldn't afford to linger in one spot for too long, not with the infected prowling out there, always on the hunt.

Leaning my head back against the wall, I closed my eyes for a brief respite, attempting to catch my breath. Yet, it proved fruitless, with my heart pounded in my ears. God, I yearned for a moment of reprieve, a chance to regain my strength. Alas, the world had other plans, didn't it?

Summoning every ounce of willpower, I pulled myself to my feet, wincing at the searing pain that radiated through my side. Slowly, cautiously, I cracked open the door. I peered outside, my eyes scanning the the trail. The infected had seemingly moved on, or so it appeared. Now was my opportunity to escape this forsaken place, to seek refuge somewhere safer.

With my AR cradled in my hands, I took a moment to reload, finding solace in the familiar click of ammunition sliding into place. Gripping the cold metal tightly, I stepped out into the unforgiving sunlight, allowing the wind to tousle my unkempt beard. The air crackled with tension, the silence shattered only by distant echoes of growls and moans.

I ventured forward, my steps cautious and deliberate. The trail stretched ahead, winding through a landscape devoid of life, save for the occasional skeletal tree or dried-up creek bed. An hour passed, and still, there were no signs of the infected. Perhaps, by some twist of fate, Lady Luck had finally decided to throw me a bone.

But as my vision blurred and darkness loomed, I knew something was dreadfully amiss. Glancing down at my side, I found the makeshift bandage soaked with blood, leaking pretty damn bad. Dammit, I cursed inwardly. It was only a matter of time before it caught up with me.

I stumbled, my legs threatening to give way beneath me. Sweat mingled with dust and grime, trickling down my face. I needed assistance, and I needed it urgently.

My vision blurred once again, the world becoming a hazy mess of colors and shapes. The pain in my side throbbed with each labored breath, but I couldn't stop. I had to keep moving. Survival was my only goal in this desolate wasteland.

Leaning against a towering tree, I gasped for air, my chest heaving as if I had just sprinted a marathon. Sweat trickled down my forehead, mixing with the dust and grime that clung to my skin. I could feel the weight of exhaustion pulling me down, threatening to swallow me whole.

"No, Harold," I whispered. "I can't afford to die here, not when there were still so many unfinished chapters left to write. The Author wouldn't dare kill me off, right? Right?"

The paper bag, as lifeless as it was, didn't respond. But I imagined it looking at me with a mix of sympathy and disbelief, silently urging me to continue.

Summoning every ounce of strength I had left, I pushed myself off the tree and stumbled forward, one wobbly step at a time. The evening sun bathed the forest in a golden glow, casting long shadows that danced between the trees. It was a beautiful sight, a fleeting reminder of the world that once was.

A bitter smile twisted my lips. "Maybe this is what it's all about, Harold. Finding beauty amidst the chaos. And surviving long enough to appreciate it."

As I stumbled forward, my legs felt like jelly, threatening to buckle beneath me at any moment. The pain in my side intensified, shooting through my body like a fiery dagger. But the prospect of collapsing, alone and defenseless, fueled me to keep going.

Minutes turned into an eternity as I dragged myself along the trail. Each step was agony, but there was a small glimmer of hope in my exhausted mind. If I could just make it a little farther, find some shelter, I might have a chance at survival.

And then, in the flicker of an eyelash, my world tilted sideways. My body betrayed me, no longer able to hold itself upright. I collapsed onto the forest floor, my limbs splayed in every direction, as unconsciousness claimed me.


Foxy's POV

November 11th, 2025

Outskirts of Hurricane, Utah

My feet thundered against the forest floor, each step fueling my adrenaline. The distant crack of gunshots pierced the air, resonating in my sensitive ears and propelling me forward. I leapt over fallen branches with grace, my sleek fur rustling like whispers in the wind as I sprinted towards the source of danger.

Breaking through the dense foliage, I paused to assess the grim situation. Lifeless bodies of the Infected littered the highway, one of the bodies still twitching. My keen eyes scanned the area, but there were no signs of humans. Yet, the acrid smell of gunpowder hung heavy, confirming I was on the right track.

My nose twitched, catching a whiff of blood. Curiosity surged through me, urging me towards a car with blood smeered across the hood. A low growl rumbled in my throat, my sharp teeth glinting in the daylight as I investigated the scene.

Following the trail of blood, my swift feet carried me deeper into the heart of the infected breeding ground. The trees closed in around me, their branches reaching out like skeletal fingers towards the sky. Drops of crimson stained the ground, an eerie path that only fueled my determination.

Miles melted away beneath my fleet-footed strides, until I came to an abrupt halt at the sight of a familiar shack. Recognition flooded my mind, memories resurfacing. The metallic scent of blood mingled with the dank aroma of rotting wood, filling my nostrils. Cautiously, I approached, my senses heightened and alert. Dark shadows danced along the walls as I stepped inside, fully prepared for what awaited me. The air was heavy with the scent of blood, a scent that made my nose twitch. "A dead human, no doubt," I whispered to myself, peering into the dimly lit interior. Shreds of torn clothing lay scattered on the floor, stained with crimson. But strangely, there were no lifeless bodies to be found. Confusion furrowed my brow as I exited the shack, muttering in disbelief, "Where could the body be?"

Inhaling deeply, I caught a stronger whiff of blood drifting further down the trail. Never one to shy away from an adventure, curiosity propelled me forward. I sprinted onward, my steps silent on the dirt path. Rounding a bend, my eyes widened with alarm at the sight of an infected creature looming over a helpless figure on the ground. Without a moment's hesitation, I channeled my inner pirate spirit and bellowed, "Arr! Ye scurvy-ridden beast, be gone!" With a swift motion, I seized the infected by its back and unleashed my enhanced strength, hurtling it into a nearby tree. The sickening thud reverberated through the wilderness as the creature collided with the trunk, perhaps contemplating a different career choice.

Leaning over the unconscious human, a low growl escaped my throat, my sharp teeth glinting in the fading light. It was a growl of both warning and instinctive protection.

I tore my gaze away from the gruesome scene of infected painting the tree and focused on the unconscious human lying below me. His chest was bare and covered in blood, with a tattered shirt hastily tied around a wound on his side. "Well, shiver me timbers," I muttered, my voice a mix of concern and curiosity.

I slung his duffle bag over my shoulder, making a mental note to investigate the peculiar paperbag with googly eyes later. With a swift and careful motion, I scooped up the human, making sure to avoid accidentally snagging him with my sharp hook.

Like a fox possessed, I darted through the dense undergrowth, my fur blending into the shadows of the darkening forest. The rhythmic thud of my feet hitting the ground urged me forward, towards the sanctuary of the cabin I frequented during my scavenging expeditions.

Bursting through the cabin's creaky door, I gently laid the unconscious human on the worn dining room table. With determination in my stride, I headed to the kitchen, searching for the medical supplies we had previously stocked. I rummaged through drawers and cabinets, the sound of my hook clinking against metal filling the air. I gathered everything I deemed necessary and placed them on the table beside him.

Leaning over the injured man, I couldn't help but wishing Freddy was here to do this. After all, he didn't have a hook for a hand. I let out a sigh, readying myself mentally for the challenge that lay ahead. As someone with limited dexterity and a penchant for pirate jargon, I knew tending to this wound wouldn't be a walk in the plank.

With utmost care, I cleaned the wound, my hand moving with delicate precision. Suppressing a chuckle, I imagined the human's reaction upon waking up to find a pirate fox tending to his injuries. "Avast, ye scurvy wound!" I exclaimed, a hint of amusement lacing my voice. "Ye shall be cleaned and wrapped like a true seafaring swashbuckler!"

Time seemed to blur as I continued my diligent work, ensuring that the wound was properly tended to. I swabbed, cleaned, and gently wrapped the bandage, the task taking about an hour. Stepping back, I admired my handiwork. The once-bleeding wound was now dressed neatly, ready to heal under the watchful eye of the pirate fox's care.


Foxy's POV

November 11th, 2025

Outskirts of Hurricane, Utah

With my senses heightened and my tail flicking with anticipation, I prowled stealthily around the cabin, determined to root out any lurking infected. The night draped over the landscape like a velvet curtain, the moon casting an ethereal glow on the surrounding trees. It was a scene straight out of a poem, though the constant threat of gruesome death hung heavy in the air.

Satisfied that the coast was clear, I slipped back inside, the tap of my hook against the doorframe announcing my return. My gaze fell upon the still unconscious human, his chest rising and falling in the rhythm of life. Relief washed over me, for all my efforts would not have been in vain.

With great care, I unburdened myself of his duffle bag and settled down on the worn-out living room floor, eager to uncover the secrets it held. Placing the bag before me, I unhooked the paperbag from my side and set it beside me, its googly eyes casting an oddly judgmental gaze upon me.

Excitement sparked in my eyes as I delved into the bag's contents. Twinkies! Ah, a treasure indeed! I let out a low whistle of appreciation and set the precious snack aside. However, the sight of moldy food dampened my enthusiasm. It elicited a gag reflex, prompting me to swiftly toss it out of the window behind me, banishing the putrid stench.

Amongst the odds and ends, my hand grasped a faded photograph, and I couldn't help but pause, curiosity ignited within me. It depicted a group of men in military attire, their arms brandishing weapons, their smiles frozen in time. Gently, I set it down, my mind swirling with questions about the man on the table and the stories he carried. Continuing my exploration, I unearthed loose ammo, a sharpening stone, and various trinkets, each holding its own tale, a glimpse into the life of its owner.

With a mischievous grin, I reached the bottom of the bag, and there it lay—the pièce de résistance. A Playboy magazine. Laughter bubbled up within me, echoing through the empty cabin.

"Well, what do we 'ave 'ere?" I quipped, holding up the magazine to the paperbag. "Looks like Mr. Chewin' toy 'ad 'imself a little secret stash, did nay 'e?" The googly eyes stared back at me, their silent gaze betraying no judgment. Oh, the human's face if he were to awaken and find me engrossed in a playboy while he slumbered on the dining room table. That would be a wake-up call he'd never forget.

As the night wore on, I lost myself in the man's possessions, my mind buzzing with their potential significance. Each item had a story to tell, a reminder of the world that once was and the treacherous world that lay ahead. I couldn't help but wonder how these artifacts played a role in his survival. Time slipped away as I sat there, surrounded by the remnants of someone else's life. It was an odd sensation, knowing that lives had been shattered and worlds had crumbled, yet here I was, chuckling at the pages of a naughty magazine.

Reluctantly, I set the Playboy aside, my plundering for the night complete. It was time to shift my focus to more pressing matters—ensuring the man's survival.

As I stood, stretching my legs and shaking off the remnants of laughter, I walked back over to the human lying on the table, I couldn't help but admire his rugged charm. Granted, he was currently a mess covered in dried blood, but beneath it all, I could see the potential for some serious eye candy. With a mischievous smile, I jogged back outside to fetch a bucket of water from the well. I mean, I needed something more than saliva to clean this guy up. Bucket in hand, I made my way back inside and grabbed a rag to wet it with water, ready to restore his former glory. Or, at least his former cleanness.

Carefully and gently, I began wiping the dried blood off his chest, trying not to agitate his wounds. It was like painting a masterpiece, only instead of a canvas, I was wiping blood off a man. I couldn't help but let out a low whistle as I took in his chiseled abdomen. It was enough to make a girl want to indulge in some serious midnight snacking. Oh, who am I kidding? I'd eat off those abs any time of the day, no breaks required.

Moving up to his face, I focused my attention on his tangled beard and dirty cheeks. Ah, a little bit of grooming can do wonders, even when someone is unconscious. As I cleaned away the dirt, I couldn't help but imagine how handsome he'd look all cleaned up. Move over, rugged survivors, there's a new heartthrob in town.

Stepping back to admire my handiwork, I couldn't deny the fact that this man was a bona fide looker. If he wasn't unconscious, I'd almost expect him to give me a smoldering smile and say, "Thank ye, ma'am, but I think ye missed a spot." Sigh. A girl can dream, right?

That's when my eyes shifted down to his filthy pants. Poor guy, they were practically begging for a good burning. And, well, I couldn't leave anyone's lower half looking less than presentable, especially not a fine specimen like this one. Time to play the role of Nurse Foxy.

Praying to whichever gods were up there that this man was wearing boxers and nothing was gonna pop out at me, I unclipped his belt and carefully began shimmying off his pants. Yes, folks, there's no shame in being thorough when it comes to cleanliness, even if it means undressing an unconscious man. Just another day in the life of yours truly.

Surprise, surprise! The man had boxers on. At least he had the decency to wear underwear, I suppose. Mental note: thank the underpants gods for small miracles.

Now, this is where things took quite the unexpected turn. As I was gently maneuvering his pants off, I made a lighthearted joke about my hook being so close to his precious family jewels. Is it too soon to say I regretted that joke? Because I did. In that moment, I realized this man had a metal prosthetic leg, and suddenly, my playful banter didn't feel so appropriate anymore.

For the first time in a while, I looked at my own hook and felt a surge of empathy. This man had been surviving in this hellish world with one foot, while I pranced around joking. Life really knew how to put things in perspective, didn't it?

I took a step back, momentarily lost in my thoughts. Here I was, cleaning up and caring for a complete stranger, and it hit me. In this world, even the smallest acts of compassion and humanity held immense value. I couldn't help but feel a renewed sense of purpose as I vowed to do everything in my power to help this man survive.

So, with newfound determination, I continued cleaning his legs thoroughly. I couldn't just half-ass this (pun intended) when it came to personal hygiene. Nothing like a good leg-washing session to make a person feel alive, even in this shitty world

As I worked, my mind began to wander. What kind of adventures had this man experienced? How had he managed to stay alive all this time? And, most importantly, could he do a mean pirate impression? Because a world without cheesy pirate impressions is a world I don't want to live in.

I scrubbed away the dirt and grime, using this moment of solitude to appreciate the strength and resilience of his spirit. Despite the odds stacked against us, humanity had a way of surprising even itself. And if this man was any indication, we definitely knew how to bounce back, even with a metal leg and a hook-wielding fox by our side.

Finally satisfied with my cleaning efforts, I stepped back to take one last look at the man lying there. He still had a long road ahead, but as I gazed upon his cleansed form, a glimmer of hope flickered within the darkness that surrounded us.

With a determined smile on my face, I vowed to do whatever it took to protect this man.


Ethan's POV

November 14th, 2025

Outskirts of Hurricane, Utah

Struggling against the weight of my throbbing head, I forced my heavy eyelids open with a groan. Blurry vision gave way to the sight of a weathered wooden ceiling, with faint rays of sunlight sneaking through the cracks. "Harold?" I rasped, all I knew was my throat was drier than a nun's virtue and my stomach was rumbling.. No response. But trying to call out to something that could not talk just sounded dumb as fuck, but that was me the dumb fuck.

Summoning every ounce of strength, I attempted to sit up, only to be struck by a lightning bolt of pain coursing through my body. I cried out and collapsed back onto what seemed to be a sturdy table, a string of curses escaping my lips. Clearing the fog in my mind, I turned my head, surveying the space around me with bleary determination. It appeared to be a quaint cabin, not in to bad of shape either. Abandoned utensils and a dust-covered stove hinted at the bustling life that once filled the air here.

My gaze shifted to the bandages tightly wrapped around my side, and a wave of relief washed over me, grateful that someone had taken the time to patch me up. But where were they now? And where was the dirt and grime that I cherished? My chest was bare and cleaned... dear god.

With newfound resolve, I pushed myself halfway up, enduring a surge of pain shooting through my body. Teeth gritted, I swung my legs over the edge of the table, feet dangling just above the cold wooden floor. Squinting, I scrutinized the living room, searching for any trace of Harold.

A sense of comfort washed over me as I spotted my duffle bag leaning against a worn-out couch. But my cherished paper bag was nowhere to be found. Where was Harold? I knew he wasn't real, but damn, he kept me somewhat sane. A tinge of worry clawed at my chest.

As my gaze lingered on the front door, a thought struck me: had the person who bandaged me up ventured out to find help? Did their disappearance mean they had abandoned me here, vulnerable and alone? Uncertainty swirled in my mind, weighing me down like an anchor.

Restlessly kicking my legs against the table, I knew I couldn't remain idle for long. Survival demanded action, even if every fiber of my being resisted it. The thought of testing my legs, unsure if they could bear my weight, filled me with anxiety. But I couldn't stay trapped here, relying on someone who might never return.

A decision settled in my mind, and a plan formed. I needed to move, I braced myself against the table, forcing my legs to swing down toward the floor.

The initial impact sent a searing pain through my body, a cry escaping my lips. Clinging onto the table for dear life, I struggled to catch my ragged breath. It felt as if I were learning to walk for the first time, my trembling limbs threatening to give way. But I refused to surrender. I had survived the war, and I would survive this. One agonizing step at a time.

With each painstaking shuffle, I made my way across the room toward my duffle bag, my last remaining companion besides Harold. I needed its contents—weapons, supplies—anything that could aid me on my quest for survival. I just hoped I hadn't become such a pathetic mess that it would be ashamed of me.

As I stumble and start to fall, my body convulses with a mixture of pain and adrenaline. Just as I brace myself for impact with the couch, something strong catches me from behind, sending a jolt of excruciating pain through my side. With a grunt, I turn my head to see... a damn fox's face?

Wild hair...or fur all spiked up, the fox stares at me with eyes filled with a concern I wouldn't expect from a furry creature. My mind is a whirlwind of confusion and disbelief. The orange fur around her face glistens with a droplets of water, as if she's just come from a shower. This has got to be the weirdest day of my life, and I've seen some pretty messed up things during the outbreak.

Screaming like a little girl - shout out to my teenage self - I struggle to break free from the fox's firm grip. It's a losing battle, though, as her strength surpasses my feeble attempts to escape. With a thud, my body hits the ground and I look up at the fox, catching my breath. I should probably be terrified right now, but there's something oddly comforting about seeing Harold balanced on her head.

And there he is, my trusty paperbag confidante. Harold, with his googly eyes peering down at me as if to say, "What did you get yourself into this time, Ethan?" Instantly, my frayed nerves calm down. I've missed you, buddy.

The fox - who I'm guessing goes by the name Foxy, if she's the same creature that I've seen on the news before the outbreak - stares at me, her purple eyes glinting with amusement. I try to muster up the coolest demeanor I can manage and ask, "What's up, Foxy?" Smooth, Ethan, real smooth.

Foxy continued to stare at me, her purple eyes narrowing with curiosity. After what seemed like an eternity, she finally spoke, her voice oddly melodic, like a songbird with a touch of pirate sass. "'ow in the seven seas did ye know me name?" Her words had a strange cadence, each syllable rolling off her tongue with a rhythmic charm.

"How many 6 foot foxes do you know walking around?" I retorted with a sly grin. "You're one of a kind, extremely rare. And let's not forget the news. Those videos of the animatronic park and the experiments they were conducting right before the infected turned the world into a 'brains buffet' for them."

Foxy's eyes widened, her bushy eyebrows arching in surprise. "Impressive deduction skills," she commented, sounding slightly impressed. "But callin' me 'foxy' be a bit too obvious, don't ye think?"

I couldn't help but raise my hand to scratch my beard, a mischievous smirk creeping onto my lips. "Well, when you possess such an undeniably alluring charm like you do, what can I say? The name simply fits perfectly. By the way, the name's Ethan," I introduced myself.

Foxy let out a hearty chuckle, a deep, throaty sound that echoed through the eerie silence enveloping us. "Ye've got a point there, lad. Pleasure to make yer acquaintance," she replied.

Pointing a finger at Harold, who was still balanced on Foxy's head, I couldn't contain my curiosity any longer. "How on earth are you doing that? Keeping him perfectly balanced like that?" I inquired, my curiosity burning.

Foxy burst into hearty laughter, her voice booming with mirth. "That be yer biggest concern?" she chuckled, shaking her head. I couldn't help but feel a smirk tugging at the corners of my mouth in response.

With a graceful motion, Foxy effortlessly dislodged Harold from her head, allowing him to flutter down to my side. I reached out and gently cradled the paper bag in my hands, ensuring Harold's safety. Then, I turned my attention back to Foxy, studying her with a renewed sense of curiosity. As the laughter subsided, Foxy's purple eyes regained their mischievous glint. "Well it seems ye've stumbled upon quite an intriguin' situation. Luckily fer ye, I 'appened to be nearby when ye started shootin' an' decided to come to yer rescue. Name's foxy, in case ye hadn't figured that there out already."

"So, Foxy ,whats the deal? Why did you rescue me? Not that I am complaining mind you." I inquired, unable to contain my curiosity. Foxy's sly grin stretched wider across her face, her mischievous eyes twinkling as she effortlessly balanced Harold on her head. "Listen to you. Ye be a tall, fearless force to be reckoned with, a sharpshooter extraordinaire with a metal leg, an' an uncanny knack fer survival. That there lethal cocktail o' skills, me mate, 'as got me intrigued. An' to top it off, anyone who holds deep conversations with a paper bag named Harold 'as got me seal o' approval." I blinked, momentarily speechless. Did she just...summarize my entire character arc in one sentence? That had to be some next-level meta-fictional self-awareness.

Foxy's gaze pierces through me, her eyes filled with concern. "Listen. Ye need to rest to the sky. Three days out cold be no joke," she insists, her voice firm. I groan in protest, my body aching and resisting the idea of staying down any longer. But Foxy won't budge. With gentle but determined hands, she lifts me up and settles me onto the couch, commanding me to stay put like a loyal pup. Irritated, I huff but comply, sinking into the worn-out cushions.

In her momentary absence, I take a moment to soak in the surroundings. The cabin exudes a cozy charm, the scent of aged wood and memories of happier times lingering in the air. It's a haven, a stark contrast to the chaos and horror beyond its walls. When Foxy returns, carrying beef jerky and water, I eagerly gulp down the liquid, my thirst overpowering my manners. She scolds me to slow down, warning of an impending stomach revolt, and I sheepishly nod, realizing how long it's been since I've had a proper meal.

Seated beside me, Foxy begins to speak, her voice a comforting melody. She recounts finding me on a trail, a monstrous infected hovering over my unconscious body. Without a moment's hesitation, she intervened and brought me to this cabin. With the limited resources at her disposal, she patched up my wounds as best she could. I hang onto her every word, grateful for her presence and the tenderness she has shown me.

In that moment, I really look at Foxy. Her beauty captivates me, from the sleekness of her tail to her long legs. Dressed in baggy black shorts and a lacy white shirt, she exudes a unique blend of strength and femininity. I find myself drawn to the piercings adorning her left ear, glimmering in the dim light. She's like a rebellious pirate, a fox with a punk spirit.

As I munch on the beef jerky she's provided, a question burns in the back of my mind. I can't help but ask, "So, what's the plan now?"

Foxy glances at me, a mischievous spark lighting up her eyes. "Well, matey, I reckon we could lay low here for a few days. After that, it's up to you. You can join me back at the amusement park, or you can strike out on your own."

I chew thoughtfully, weighing my options. "Are there any other humans at the park?" I inquire.

Foxy shakes her head, her bushy tail swaying behind her. "Nah, matey. We haven't seen a living soul in ages. It's just us."

A grunt escapes my lips. "Same here," I mutter. "I only came back to Hurricane because it's where I was born. I don't really have anyone left."

Foxy tilts her head, her ears swaying with curiosity. "No family?"

I shake my head, memories of the tragic car accident that took them away flooding my mind. "Nah, they died when I turned eighteen. Car crash."

Foxy sighs, empathy etched onto her foxy face. "I'm sorry to hear that, lad."

"It is what it is," I say with a shrug. "So, you guys have claimed a portion of the park for yourselves? Made it your refuge?"

Foxy nods, pride gleaming in her eyes. "Aye, we have. There are a few other animatronics who call it home. We've managed to turn it into our sanctuary."

I ponder her words, a strange sense of acceptance washing over me. "Alright then," I finally say. "I'm okay with going with you. There's nothing left for me here anyway. Might as well make myself useful."

Foxy smirks, leaning in closer. "Useful, huh?" Her gaze trails down to my abs, a teasing lilt in her voice. "i reckon I could find some uses fer ya."

I burst into genuine laughter, the first real one in what feels like ages. "Well, Foxy, you certainly know how to charm a guy. But I'm afraid that's a privilege reserved for special occasions."

Foxy pouts playfully, her animatronic hook glinting in the dim light."Ah, ye be breakin' me heart, lad. But I suppose I'll 'ave to settle fer your quick wit an' dashin' jolly looks."

We both settle down, exhaustion finally catching up with me. I yawn, my eyelids growing heavy, and I sink back into the couch.

As sleep slowly claims me, I can't help but hold Harold a little tighter.


Ethan's POV

November 14th, 2025

LaLa Land

I awoke to the deafening symphony of Foxy's snoring, a cacophony that could rival the thunder on a stormy night. Groggy and disoriented, I struggled to make sense of my surroundings. Dim light seeped through the broken windows, illuminating Foxy sprawled out on the floor in her animatronic attire. Carefully, I shook her, cautious not to startle a pirate armed with a menacing hook.

"Foxy," I whispered in a low rumble, "I need to ask you something important."

She grunted and shifted, her purple eyes struggling to focus. "Aye, what be the question, matey?"

"Where are my pants?" I asked, my voice tinged with curiosity.

Foxy mumbled incoherently, half-asleep. "Burned," she muttered before rolling over and slipping back into dreamland.

Confusion washed over me. Burned? How on earth did my pants go up in flames during the three days I was unconscious? Puzzled, I let the mystery linger as I snuggled up with Harold and succumbed to sleep once more.


Ethan's POV

November 14th, 2025

LaLa Land

A couple of hours later, I woke up again, desperate for answers about my pants. Disoriented, I glanced over at Foxy, who was still fast asleep. With a determined grogginess, I shook her awake.

"Foxy," I urgently whispered, "I have a question."

She grumbled, rubbing her eyes with her hook-hand. "If this is another stupid question, I swear I'll gut you, mate."

Feeling defeated, I rolled over on the couch, realizing that perhaps some questions were better left unasked. With a sense of determination, I closed my eyes, hoping sleep would swiftly take me away.


Ethan's POV

November 15th, 2025

LaLa Land

An hour passed, and I groggily opened my eyes once more. Still feeling a bit dazed, I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and glanced at Foxy. There she lay, peacefully knocked out on the floor, snoring softly. I couldn't help but chuckle as I noticed her hook lying innocently next to my boxers, perilously close to my sensitive area. With a mischievous grin, I quickly closed my eyes again, understanding Foxy's message loud and clear - there was no way I was going to risk waking her up..


Ethan's POV

November 15th, 2025

Outskirts of Hurricane, Utah

I woke up, squinting against the sunlight that rudely invaded my slumber. My eyes darted around the room, searching for any sign of Foxy. Damn, where did that sneaky fucker go? I needed to pee, but I sure as hell wasn't about to ask her for help with that. Swinging my lanky legs off the couch, I used the armrest for support as I stood up with a groan. My side just a dull ache now, Harold was nowhere to be found. But this time, I didn't panic. I knew that cheeky sack of googly-eyed goodness was probably traipsing about with Foxy, causing mischief wherever they went.

Using the wall as my guide, I shuffled my way outside, feeling the cool morning air tickling the hair on my leg. Damn, I couldn't believe my pants were gone. I was sad, wondering why on earth she had taken it upon herself to set my beloved pants on fire. Just as I was contemplating this outrageous act, nature's call interrupted my thoughts. I found solace in relieving myself against the corner of the house, letting out a blissful sigh of relief. Nothing like starting the day with a good piss.

Slowly making my way back inside, I couldn't help but wonder where Foxy had run off to. Perhaps she had found something exciting to pillage in the remnants of this post-apocalyptic town. Just when I was about to call out for her, I spotted her sauntering in from the back. "Morning, Foxy," I greeted her, raising an eyebrow at her fashionably late arrival.

Without a word, she threw something at me, which, to my surprise, I caught with ease. It was a pair of sweatpants. Well, well, well... looks like she got the hint last night. I turned my back to her, deciding to heed the invitation to cover up my better half. Slipping into the sweatpants, I let out a satisfied sigh. Finally, some proper attire. But the silence that followed gave me pause. I could practically feel Foxy's eyes boring into the back of my head. Curiosity and annoyance got the better of me, and I spun around to confront her.

That's when I saw it—the horror etched on Foxy's face. Her eyes widened, mouth gaping open like she had seen the very depths of Hell. "What's wrong, Foxy?" I asked, perplexed by her reaction.

Foxy's gaze fixates on my back, a mixture of horror and concern etched across her face. The grotesque burns and scars that adorn my skin reveal a painful truth, one that she has just discovered. Her voice trembles as she stammers, "What... what 'appened?"

I take a deep breath, regretting the decision to face the day. "War," I reply, my voice void of any emotion. "Sometimes, surviving comes at the cost of scars."

Tears well up in Foxy's eyes as she takes in the extent of the damage. I can sense the turmoil within her, the battle between empathy and the fear of saying the wrong thing.

In an attempt to divert the conversation, I ask, "Do you have a shirt I could borrow? These sweatpants are fine, but I could use a little more dignity." The last thing I want is to discuss the story behind my scars.

Foxy snaps out of her daze and nods hurriedly. She disappears into the remnants of a tattered wardrobe, searching for something suitable.

Returning with a shirt in hand, she hesitates before blurting out, "ow... 'ow did ye manage to survive all this here, ethan? ye've endured so much."

I accept the shirt, striving to maintain composure. "Survival instincts, I suppose," I say, slipping on the Hello Kitty shirt without a care for the irony. "And a bit of luck, along with a lot of improvisation."

A mix of awe and concern fills Foxy's eyes as I adjust the shirt, Hello Kitty's face adorning my chest. Desperate to shift the focus, I inquire, "By the way, what did you do to my prosthetic leg? It's no longer squeaking."

A spark of excitement lights up Foxy's face, as if she's solved a puzzle. "Oh, I cleaned it an' oiled the joints. The constant squeakin' been drivin' me insane."

Relief washes over me as I express my gratitude. "That's incredible, Foxy. Your help means more to me than you can imagine."

I make my way back to the couch, sinking into the worn cushions, grateful for their support. It's been a while since I sat down without constantly shifting, trying to find a position that doesn't remind me of what I've lost.

Foxy joins me, perching on the armrest, her foxy tail swaying back and forth.

I sigh and look around the room, taking in the familiar mess and the layers of dust that have settled on the furniture. My eyes scan the area, searching for my rifle. It's been missing since I woke up. "Foxy, did you happen to grab my rifle when you saved my sorry ass?" I ask, hoping for a glimmer of good news.

Foxy's ears perk up at the mention of the rifle, and she nods eagerly. A mischievous glint appears in her purple eyes as she leaps off the couch and darts to the back of the cabin. My heart quickens with anticipation, hoping she's found it.

After what feels like an eternity, Foxy reappears, clutching my rifle in her hands. The once gleaming weapon is now caked in blood and grime, a testament to the countless battles I've fought. I wince at the sight, but as I take the rifle from her, I can't help but feel a sense of comfort and security.

Placing the rifle carefully on the coffee table, I grab my duffle bag and drag it closer to me. With practiced ease, I unzip the bag and pull out a cleaning kit, filled with all the necessary tools to maintain my weapon. I focus my attention on disassembling the rifle, my fingers moving with precision as I dismantle it part by part.

As I clean the rifle meticulously, I can't help but let a random question slip from my lips. "Hey Foxy, what's your cup size?" I ask, my tone casual as if I'm talking about the weather. Foxy doesn't hesitate for a moment, her voice filled with confidence. "32B," she replies, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips.

I pause for a moment, caught off guard by her prompt and straightforward response. A small smirk dances on my own lips as I nod in approval. "Good to know," I say, before returning my focus to the rifle in my hands. Cleaning and oiling every inch of it, I hum a soft tune under my breath.

As I work, the silence between Foxy and me is comfortable, like two old friends sharing a moment of peace amidst the chaos of the world around us. The only sounds that fill the room are the clicks of the cleaning kit, a soothing rhythm that helps drown out the memories that threaten to resurface.

With each stroke of the cloth, I can almost feel the weight of the day being lifted off my shoulders. The scent of gun oil permeates the air, mingling with the residual musk of the cabin. It's a strange combination, one that oddly brings a sense of normalcy to the bleakness of our existence.

The cleaning process becomes a meditation of sorts, a way for me to escape the harsh reality of our situation, if only for a short while. Memories and thoughts swirl in my mind like distant echoes, but I push them aside, focusing solely on the task at hand.

Foxy watches me with a serene expression, her tails swaying back and forth in a gentle rhythm. She understands the importance of this ritual, the need to maintain a sense of stability and control in a world that has lost all semblance of order. We don't talk much during these moments, but our presence is enough. We find solace in each other's company.

Hours pass by, unnoticed and unimportant in the grand scheme of things. But in this small pocket of time, I find a sliver of peace. A sense of purpose fills me as I meticulously reassemble the rifle, each part slotting back into place with a satisfying click.

Finally, the rifle is whole again, gleaming despite the scars etched into its metal body. I hold it up to the light, admiring my handiwork. It may be just an inanimate object, but it's also a connection to everything I've fought so hard to protect. It's a part of me, an extension of who I am.

My stomach growls, reminding me that survival isn't just about avoiding the infected-it's also about satisfying the gnawing hunger in my belly. I set my now clean rifle on the coffee table, the gory remnants of the infected wiped away. "Foxy," I say, turning my attention to fox beside me, "do we have any more food in this hellhole?"

Foxy's purple eyes light up with mischief, and she hops up, beckoning for me to follow. Her hooked hand gestures for me to come closer, and I cautiously trail behind her. We make our way to the back of the cabin, slipping through the darkened hallway until we reach what used to be a bedroom. Now, it's nothing more than a storage room filled with dusty relics of the past.

Cans of food are stacked haphazardly against the far wall, remnants of a world that no longer exists. Foxy grins at me, her petite figure brimming with excitement. "Aye, matey! We've got ourselves a loot stash in this 'ere hideout!"

I whistle in appreciation at the sight. "Impressive, Foxy. How many more of these secret stash spots do you have hidden around Hurricane?"

She tilts her head, considering the question. "Arr, I reckon we've got a few more scattered 'bout the outskirts. Keeps me precious booty secure, it does."

I grab a random box of cereal, not wanting to be too greedy. But as I turn to leave, my eyes spot a pack of cigarettes nestled among the clutter. A grin tugs at the corners of my lips. "Hey, Foxy," I ask, holding up the pack. "Mind if I have one of these?"

She shrugs, nonchalant as ever. "I don't care, matey. You do you."

I walk back through the cabin, feeling a newfound sense of satisfaction. I plop myself onto the couch and dig into the stale cereal, the crunch echoing through the desolate space

I finished my meager meal, crumbs still clinging to the corners of my mouth as I reached for the pack of cigarettes. Slipping one between my lips, I fumbled for my lighter and sparked it to life. The ember danced in the darkness as I took a long drag, its warm glow casting an eerie pallor on my face. Silently, I gazed at Foxy, contemplating whether to delve into a personal question. I cleared my throat, breaking the silence that hung heavy in the air.

Foxy raised an eyebrow and glanced my way, her purple eyes glinting in the dim light. "Well, laddie, if ye've got somethin' to ask, ye might as well spit it out. I ain't the sentimental sort, but I'll humor ye."

Exhaling a cloud of smoke, I hesitated for a moment, unsure if I should tread into delicate waters. But curiosity got the better of me, and I forged ahead. "Foxy, forgive me if this comes off as impolite, but... why in the ever-loving hell did they give a machine from an amusement park feminine features, tits included?"

In an instant, Foxy's hand shot out, wrapping around my throat with a grip that surprised me in its gentleness. Her voice was a low, ominous whisper as she leaned in, her eyes burning with intensity. "Did ye jus' call me a machine, laddie?"

Struggling to regain my ability to breathe, I frantically shook my head, my eyes widening with fear. "No, Foxy, I-"

"Good," she hissed, her grip tightening ever so slightly. "Because I ain't a fucking machine, ye hear? I'm more real than ye can fathom."

The room seemed to freeze in that moment, the weight of her words landing heavily upon me. Foxy released her hold, allowing me to gasp for much-needed air. I coughed, wheezing as I tried to process what had just happened.

As my breathing steadied, I mustered the courage to ask, "What do you mean, Foxy? More real than I can fathom?"

She let out a deep sigh, her features softening as she leaned back against the broken wall. "Ethan, me creator, Mr. Afton, he made the body ye see now. But it was crafted in a lab, ye ken? And it ain't just any lab, it's a place where nightmares come to life."

Every word she spoke sent a chill down my spine, and I couldn't tear my gaze away from her haunting purple eyes. "Nightmares? What are you talking about?"

Foxy's voice dropped to a whisper as she recounted the horrors of their past. "Mr. Afton, he killed dozens of people to somehow give me and the others souls. I dunno how he did it or wha' foul magic he used, but he succeeded."

My mind reeled, trying to comprehend the unimaginable. "You mean... you're... alive?"

She nodded, a flicker of sadness crossing her vulpine features. "Aye, I remember wakin' up one day, strapped down on a cold table. 'n then the experiments began."

My jaw dropped as I listened, the cigarette long forgotten in my hand. "Experiments? What did he do to you?"

Foxy's eyes clouded with pain, reliving memories I could only imagine. "He starved us, beat us, made us obey 'im. He tried things ye wouldna even wants t' know. 'n once, Foxy paused, her voice now laced with a hint of disgust. "That sick bastard even tried t' fuck me once wit' his wee pecker. But I threatened t' bite me owns tongue off before i'd let 'im 'ave his way."

The air grew heavy with the weight of her past, and I couldn't help but feel a surge of anger and sympathy for Foxy. She was more than just a machine - she was a victim of this Afton's twisted experiments.

I took a deep breath, trying to process everything she had just told me. The world had gone to hell, and here I was, having a deep, heart-to-heart conversation with a pirate fox animatronic about her traumatic past.

Foxy's eyes met mine, and in that moment, I saw a flicker of vulnerability. She had suffered and survived, just like me.

"I'm sorry," I finally said, my voice barely a whisper. "Foxy, I'm so sorry you had to endure all that. No one should ever go through such horrors."

Foxy just stares at me, her purple eyes burning holes into my soul. In a swift, almost graceful motion, she drags her sharp hook across her arm, causing bluish blood to well up and mat against her fur. I watch in awe and disbelief as she whispers to me, her voice filled with raw emotion, "I bleed, I love, I dream. I be alive, Ethan. Nah a goddamn machine."

I can't tear my eyes away from the sight before me. Foxy, this animatronic creature, is bleeding. She has emotions. She's alive. It's mind-boggling.

I sit there in stunned silence, trying to process everything she just revealed. A million thoughts race through my mind, but one question echoes louder than the rest. Finally, I gather the courage to ask her, "What happened to Mr. Afton?"

Foxy shrugs nonchalantly, her hook glinting in the dim light. She tells me that none of them knew what happened to their creator. They had been at the amusement park for the grand opening when the infection broke out, and Afton was nowhere to be found. Since then, they hadn't been able to locate him.

A mixture of anger and frustration fills the air as Foxy continues, her voice laced with bitterness. "We stayed at the park, Ethan. Defendin' it. Makin' a home in this new messed-up world. But Afton... He disappeared. 'n now, no one knows where he be."

A surge of curiosity overtakes me, and I lean in closer, my voice barely above a whisper. "But why? Why would he create all of you and then vanish?"

Foxy's eyes narrow, her tail twitching with agitation. "Why, ye ask? I wish I knew. All I know be that Afton was a twisted man. He had his owns sick agenda, 'n none o' us ever mighty understood wha' he was capable o'."

Goosebumps spread across my arms as Foxy's voice drops to a low, dangerous tone. "Ye better pray he's dead, Ethan. 'cause if I ever get me hands on if I ever get me hands on 'im... Well, let's jus' say, death would be a mercy compared t' wha' I have in mind."


Author's Note

Welcome, everyone! Prepare yourselves for a wild ride because this story is about to take a thrilling detour from the usual path. I've decided to combine my two greatest passions: Five Nights at Freddy's and the undead. That's right, we're diving headfirst into a world of zombies, horror, and even a touch of romance. Okay, it's actually four things, but who's counting? In this tale, the animatronics won't be your typical robotic creatures. We'll call them Furry's or Anthros, whatever floats your boat. I've wracked my brain trying to explain what they are and how they came to be, but don't worry, I'll fill you in on all the juicy details soon enough. There's a lot more to uncover, trust me. Now, I must warn you, there will be moments of passion and intimacy, but don't expect it to happen right off the bat. And just so you know, not all of the animatronics will be female. We're going to introduce a whole cast of characters to spice things up even further. So, if you have any suggestions or ideas to make this story even better, don't hesitate to let me know. I'm ready to take on any challenge and embrace all the feedback you have to offer. So, bring on the flames if you must! I'm here to listen and learn.


P.S I do not have a beta. I try to be anal about my grammar but after you reread a story 18 times. Shit starts to blur together. So apologies in advance.


P.S.S Writing like a Pirate is hard. :(