Surviving the Apocalypse With My Yandere Ex-Girlfriend-Chapter 97: Withdrawal

I’d started waking up before the sun without meaning to.

It just happened now.

The breeze hit my face as I stood near the edge of the roof, binoculars pressed to my eyes. The world looked calmer from a distance. Empty streets. Dead cars. No movement.

I scanned slow.

Left. Right. Far corner. Rooftops.

I stayed like this for a while. Just...watching.

It helped me pass the time and solved my paranoia as well. Killing two birds with one stone, I suppose.

Eventually, there was a tap on my shoulder.

I turned around to see Agnes, her face as grim as ever.

She really didn’t like me, for some odd reason. That probably marked about the billionth woman ever.

"Breakfast," she said. "If you’re interested in tin food."

I lowered the binoculars to my chest and followed her down.

"Where’s your dad?" I asked.

"Working on something."

That was it.

I frowned but didn’t press. With her, every question felt like stepping on thin ice.

We sat beside a dying fire. The smoke drifted sideways in the wind. Agnes handed me a dented tin and a rusty spoon.

I took it. "Thanks."

"Hope it’s to your liking," she said, already eating. The sarcasm laced with her words wasn’t subtle.

I scooped a bite, forcing myself not to react to the taste.

"So," I said, mostly to fill the silence, "how long have you and your dad been cooped up here?"

"Since the apocalypse."

Her words were short and clipped.

"And the infected don’t come around? I didn’t see any traps."

She didn’t look at me when she answered. "They don’t bother us."

I waited.

"Only selfish survivors like you do."

I stopped scraping the bottom of the tin, letting her words sit for a while.

She kept eating like she hadn’t just said it.

"Who’s the girl on the stretcher, anyway?" she asked after a moment.

"Just a friend."

"Just a friend," she repeated. Her eyes flicked to me then, narrowing slightly. Measuring.

"Yeah."

Silence stretched again. The fire popped weakly.

Agnes set her tin down first and turned fully toward me.

"I know my pop said you could stay a few days," she said, "but you need to leave today."

I looked up.

"What? Why?"

"I know your type, Adrian."

I didn’t like how calm she sounded.

"You blow up everything you touch," she continued. "Danger follows you. You play the right face when it suits you. Same one you used on my pop."

"All your pop wanted to do was help," I said, my voice tightening.

"He’s an old man. He doesn’t see what I see."

"And what’s that?"

"That you bring trouble."

I exhaled slowly. "You don’t know the shit I’ve been through out there."

Her eyes hardened. "Oh, I know plenty."

Her voice rose just enough for it to turn sharp—

"Agnes."

The word boomed across the roof.

We both turned.

Her father stood near the stairwell entrance, tools in one hand, grease on his sleeves. His expression wasn’t angry.

Just disappointed.

Agnes looked away first.

"Come down with me, Adrian. I need your help with something."

Mark’s voice cut through the tension before Agnes could fire back.

I stood up immediately.

"Gee," I muttered as I brushed past her, "hope I don’t blow this one up too."

The sarcasm wasn’t subtle. Neither was the edge under it.

Agnes didn’t respond.

She just watched me, lips pressed into a thin line, eyes following every step like she was waiting for proof.

Mark didn’t look back. He just headed for the stairwell, boots heavy against the concrete.

I followed him down.

The air grew cooler with each step. The sounds from the roof faded until it was just the echo of our footsteps in the narrow stairwell.

Behind us, Agnes stayed still.

When they had disappeared down the stairwell—

Her lips curled.

Just slightly.

A small, private smirk.

No one saw it. No one but her.

—

Isabella woke in a cold sweat, chest rising against the seatbelt. It snapped taut, jerking her back.

"Good to have you back, Princess." Aubrey didn’t look at her, eyes fixed on the road. Isabella blinked, trying to shake off the nightmare she just had.

She rubbed her head. "How far are we?"

"Illinois. Won’t take long to get to Chicago. We find Adrian first, then the medicine you need for...who was it again?"

"My dad."

There was silence soon after, eyes staying on the road.

Aubrey was the one to break the silence.

"Look, I’m not saying anything to make it seem like we need to be friends,"

Isabella was scoffing before she was able to finish. Aubrey forced herself not to acknowledge.

"But I’m sorry for the way I talked about you. I really am. It’s fine if you don’t forgive me—it’s the first time I’ve really said it."

"I didn’t care about what you said."

Aubrey’s eyebrows furrowed at that.

A pause. Then she added quietly, "It’s better if no one really understands me anyway. Makes things easier. No one can use anything against me—or try hurt the people I care about."

Aubrey listened. Really listened. Something settled in her chest.

"I get that."

"Do you? Or are you just saying that?"

Aubrey only smiled.

"Before the apocalypse... I always tried to be, I guess, stoic. Pretend I didn’t care. I was scared of losing the people I loved."

Isabella looked at her.

"But someone made me see... showing you care doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human."

Before Isabella was able to answer, her stomach seemed to answer for her. With that, she looked away, embarrassed

Aubrey frowned.

"Hungry?"

"I’ll just get the food from the back," Isabella said, reaching for the bag.

Aubrey’s hand stopped her. "No. We need to save that for the dire moments."

Her eyes fixed on a gas station ahead. Neon buzzing in the morning light.

"How about some real food?"

Isabella smiled. Small, careful. Aubrey smiled back.

The door chimed as they entered. The smell of stale coffee and fried grease hit them first. They moved down the aisles, checking expiration dates, grabbing what they could.

Aubrey tore open a bag of chips and popped one in her mouth. It was barely crispy. Almost chewy. She shrugged and kept eating, rounding the aisle to check on Isabella.

Then the chips slipped from her hand. They fell with a soft thud, scattering across the floor.

Isabella froze. Behind her, a man appeared. Dark eyeliner smeared, half his head shaved. His clothes were patched, wrong. His eyes burned molten orange, red veins spiderwebbing across the whites.

Aubrey’s hand was on her gun before Isabella even blinked.

"I wouldn’t do that if I were you."

Her fingers settled on the trigger, trained on the man behind Isabella with a cold glare.

They weren’t alone, it seemed. From the other aisles and the door opposite, more of them emerged. Silent, deliberate, like predators.

"Lookie here... lookie here..."

A voice boomed. Aubrey spun. A woman was walking slowly, deliberately, as if the store itself belonged to her. Her boots tapped against the tile in a calm rhythm, echoing like a warning.

Aubrey’s face went pale.

The woman stopped, eyes sharp. Her voice cut through the store like a blade.

"Who let filthy fleshers wander around these parts?"

Giggles came from around the convenience store. The man behind Isabella tightened his grip, the knife pressing cold and sharp into her neck.

"Track your mud all up in here. Invade the place with your colorless, flesher stench. Oh, it’s so boring."

The word hit like an insult, though Aubrey had no idea what the fuck it even meant.

"What the hell do you people want?"

The woman smiled at Aubrey’s question, Silver grills flashed in the flickering fluorescent light. They were enough to etch nightmares into anyone that saw them.

She didn’t answer. Didn’t even move.

Then, suddenly, a burlap sack dropped over Aubrey’s head. Her world became shrouded in darkness.

—

The old man and I walked down the stairwell slow. Boots clicking against tile. Something never sat right about Agnes. The apocalypse had lasted over a year, and the infected never bothered them?

The same ones who destroyed and laid waste to anything they come across?

That was...wrong.

"Hey, Mark," I said. "I need to ask you something."

"Go ahead, son," he replied.

We reached the main floor.

"What’s your secret?" I asked.

He stopped, something flashing over his face before it was replaced with something else. He frowned.

"Secret?"

"Yeah. Agnes told me the infected don’t bother her and her dad. Not even once. And there’s more. There’s a new kind—orange eyes, red veins in the whites, addicted to something called amber. They live around here. They call it Amber Society."

Mark’s hand went to his beard. He stared at me, quiet, like he didn’t know if I was serious.

I took a breath. "So... what did you want me to work on?"

Before he could answer, a soft thump echoed. I looked up.

It was Lila. She had slipped out of the stretcher, a limp in her step.

"Lila, you need to rest some more. It isn’t—"

"Give me... amber..." she whispered. My face went pale at her words. "I need... amber..."

Her hands shook. Her knees bent. Her whole body trembled.

The same shit I saw at the camp with the man. Withdrawal symptoms.