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Three years ago an unknown virus started a pandemic across the world. Two and a half years ago those lost to the virus began to walk: began to hunt. Two years ago the military turned on the government in a bid for control of the situation and civil order collapsed. One and a half years ago, Hakoda packed up his kit and defected from his squadron in a desperate search for the children he hadn’t heard from. One year ago, Hakoda had met Zuko in the ghost town of a college campus. Three months ago Zuko’s suppressants failed.
“I’m sorry.” Zuko mumbles, straightening from where he’d been doubled over behind a bush. He wipes his mouth with a grimace, his other hand trailing to the small curve in his stomach. He shoots a guilty look toward the alpha, as if this is his fault. Like he had control over the world going to shit.
“It’s fine.” Hakoda says, watching the young omega. He shifts his stance, shouldering his bag a little higher. None of this was optimal and he hates himself for making Zuko vulnerable like this. The whole situation had been a startling and uncontrollable experience. He hadn’t realized how much suppressants figured into their day-to-day life.
“We’re still moving towards Ba Sing Se?” Zuko asks, adjusting his hold on his own pack and looking to Hakoda curiously. He drops his hands stepping away from the bushes. He’s disappointed in himself, even though he can't help it. They don’t have much in the way of food, he needs to keep down as much as he can.
“I don’t know if that’s the best course anymore. It’s a long way off and we don’t have that much time.” Hakoda says, his gaze dropping to Zuko’s stomach unconsciously. It’s a few months by foot, and every road they’ve come across has been crowded with abandoned cars. Zuko shifts in discomfort under his gaze and Hakoda snaps his eyes back up to the omega’s face.
“Sorry.” Hakoda coughs looking away. He grinds his teeth in frustration and takes a breath. He needs a plan to keep the other safe. He fishes in the side pocket of his backpack for the map, hoping to find a nearby town to shelter in for a bit. He halts in his tracks as an uncoordinated rustling of bushes reaches his ears.
Zuko swears, spinning in his spot towards the sound and pulling the bandana around his neck back up over his nose. He backs up, unhooking the crossbow from his own backpack. He fluidly lines the sight up with the tree line, almost like he’s done this all his life.
Hakoda mirrors the motions. Affixing his own bandana in place and pulling his machete. He puts Zuko at his shoulder, keeping the omega slightly behind him. His eyes scan the darkened tree line for movement, the underbrush is thick at the height of summer.
The animated shambles into sight amidst rustling bushes and cracking branches. Ligaments torn on one of its legs hinder its movements, causing it to drag as it makes it's slow determined path forward. It’s missing flesh, the skin decaying and melting as it moves. A low groan reverberates in his throat, no longer able to make the mocking calls for help the others use to lure prey. It wears the remains of a T-shirt and cargo pants, wholly unsuited to the practical attire most survivors have adopted. This corpse is an early victim, most likely the first wave.
Hakoda moves forward, swinging his machete into the side of the creature’s head. He grunts as the thing scratches nails down the leather of his jacket sleeve before going still. He dislodges it with a wrench allowing the thing to fall limply to the forest floor. He flicks the ichor off his blade and into the dirt below before sheathing it. He hears Zuko lower his guard behind him and turns to address the other.
“We should go.” Hakoda comments. While it appears the animated have no form of hierarchy or planning, they tend to congregate. Where there is one, there are always more. Zuko nods solemnly and they set off with no determined direction.
They’ll need to find a safe place for the night, and he’ll have to find something for Zuko to eat. He took responsibility for the other when he agreed to take him along. He’s not going back on his word.