The garage door creaked upward like a reluctant coffin lid, spilling pale morning light into the dim space.
Shane stepped inside first, pistol raised, scanning the shadows. Dust motes danced in the air; the Jeep sat there like a forgotten relic: black Wrangler, tires slightly deflated but intact, hood covered in a thin layer of grime. No zombies lurking in the corners. No signs of tampering.
"Looks good," he muttered. "Keys should be in the visor. If not, I'm gonna have a very serious conversation with Kyle's ghost about responsibility."
Nyra hung back by the entrance, machete drawn, eyes flicking between the street and the garage. Brutus stood sentinel outside, milky gaze fixed on nothing in particular.
Shane popped the driver's door, climbed in, and flipped down the visor. The keys tumbled into his lap: miracle of miracles. He slid the key into the ignition, held his breath, and turned.
The engine coughed once, sputtered, then roared to life. The dashboard lights flickered on; fuel gauge hovered at half a tank. Battery held.
"Yes!" Shane punched the steering wheel. "We're mobile. Take that, Murphy's Law. You lose this round, bitch."
Nyra sheathed her machete and jogged over, sliding into the passenger seat. She buckled up out of old habit, then laughed at herself.
"Feels almost normal," she said. "Like we're just heading to campus for a lecture."
Shane grinned, sharp, sideways quirk. "Except now the lecture's on 'How to Carve Up Zombies 101.' And I'm the TA. Extra credit if you can make me come while I'm grading your performance, Professor."
Nyra rolled her eyes, but her lips twitched into a smile. "Keep dreaming, Mr. Walker. You're still failing my class for tardiness and excessive doodling."
He shifted into reverse, backing out slowly. Brutus lurched into the back cargo area through the open rear hatch; Shane had removed the seats weeks ago for supply runs. The zombie settled in like a grotesque dog, leaking faintly onto the rubber mat.
Shane closed the hatch remotely, then eased the Jeep onto the street. The tires crunched over broken glass and debris. He kept the speed low, twenty miles per hour, dodging abandoned cars, potholes turned craters, and the occasional shambling figure in the distance.
The town blurred by: boarded shops, overturned trash bins, graffiti scrawled in faded spray paint—"GOD SAVE US" on one wall, "FUCK GOD, SAVE YOURSELF" on another. A child's bicycle lay rusting in a driveway, wheels still spinning lazily in the breeze.
Nyra watched it all with a quiet intensity, one hand on the machete hilt, the other resting on Shane's thigh.
They'd cleared the residential blocks and hit the main road, a two-lane highway littered with wrecks, when she spoke again.
"Pull over for a sec?"
Shane glanced at her, eyebrows raised, but complied, easing the Jeep onto the shoulder behind a burned-out minivan for cover.
"Everything okay? If this is about Brutus farting in the back, I swear I'll roll down the windows."
Nyra unbuckled, turned to face him. Her eyes were dark, lips parted slightly. The amber fleck was there, faint, simmering.
"Last night… this morning… it was intense. But we got interrupted. A lot." Her hand slid higher on his thigh, fingers tracing the inseam of his jeans with deliberate pressure. "I want to thank you properly. For saving me. For… everything."
Shane's breath caught. His cock, already half-hard from the adrenaline of driving out, twitched and thickened instantly under her touch.
"Professor, are you about to proposition me on a zombie highway? Because if so, I need to warn you: my attention span is short and my survival instincts are screaming 'bad idea,' but my dick is already voting yes. Loudly. With campaign signs."
She smiled, slow, wicked, the kind of smile that belonged in pre-apocalypse bedrooms, not zombie-infested highways.
"Why not? We're alone. Brutus isn't watching." She glanced back at the zombie, who stared blankly at the ceiling. "And you deserve it. Plus… I'm still a little wired from the fight. And from waking up with you inside me. I want to taste you while you drive. Keep your eyes on the road, hands on the wheel. Think you can handle that, Mr. Walker?"
Shane swallowed hard. "I can handle a lot of things, Professor. But you sucking me off while I'm trying not to crash into a pack of undead? That's a new level of multitasking. I'm in. But if I die mid-blowjob, I'm haunting you forever. Fair warning."
Nyra laughed, low, throaty, and leaned over the center console, fingers deftly popping the button on his jeans. The zipper rasped down. She tugged the waistband low, freeing his thickening length. It sprang up, already heavy, veined, the head flushed and beading pre-cum.
"Drive," she whispered, voice husky with hunger. "I'll handle this."
Shane shifted back into gear, easing the Jeep forward again. The engine hummed low; the road stretched empty ahead.
Nyra bent lower, dark hair spilling over his lap like a curtain. Her breath ghosted hot against his skin, teasing, deliberate. She wrapped one hand around the base, firm grip, thumb stroking the thick underside vein that pulsed under her touch.
"So hard already," she murmured, lips brushing the head. "For me?"
"All for you, Professor," he rasped, eyes flicking between the road and her. "Been hard since you swung that machete like a goddamn art project. Watching you carve up those assholes? Instant boner. I'm basically Pavlov's dog now: ring the bell with blood and I'm ready to go."
She licked her lips, unconscious, hungry, then leaned in, tongue darting out to lap at the slit in a slow, flat stroke that collected the bead of pre-cum. Salty and musky. She hummed softly, the vibration sending a jolt straight up his spine.
Shane's hips twitched involuntarily.
"Fuck, Nyra—"
She took the head into her mouth, lips sealing around the crown, tongue swirling in lazy, wet circles. No rush. Just savoring. She sucked gently at first, hollowing her cheeks, pulling just enough to make him throb harder against her tongue.
The Jeep swerved slightly; Shane corrected, gripping the wheel white-knuckled.
"Easy, Professor," he groaned. "You're gonna make me crash before I even get to enjoy the A+ service. Though honestly? Dying with your mouth on my cock would be a five-star exit. Yelp review: 'Great head, terrible timing. 10/10 would recommend.'"
Nyra didn't stop.
She took him deeper, relaxing her throat, swallowing around him until her nose brushed his pubic bone. The tight, wet constriction made stars burst behind his eyes. She held there, three seconds, four, humming again, the vibration traveling straight to his balls.
Shane's breath came in short bursts. The road ahead blurred; a zombie shuffled into view fifty yards out. He veered left, clipping its shoulder. The thump barely registered over the wet, filthy sounds filling the cab.
"Jesus, Nyra, your mouth is a war crime," he panted. "I'm trying to drive and you're deep-throating me like it's your final exam. If this is extra credit, I'm acing it. Straight A's. Dean's list. Magna cum laude. Emphasis on the cum."
She pulled back, gasping for air, strings of saliva connecting her swollen lips to his glistening shaft. Her hand pumped him steadily while she caught her breath, thumb circling the sensitive head on every upstroke.
"You talk too much," she teased, voice husky and wrecked. "But I like it. So keep talking and tell me what you're thinking while I suck you off."
Shane groaned, half laugh, half desperation.
"I'm thinking I'm the luckiest bastard in the apocalypse. I'm thinking your mouth feels like heaven if heaven was made of sin and spit. I'm thinking if I crash right now, at least my tombstone can say 'Died happy, dick in professor's mouth.' I'm thinking, fuck, I'm thinking I'm gonna come so hard I might accidentally raise Brutus a second time."
Nyra's eyes sparkled with dark amusement.
"Then come," she whispered, voice dripping with need. "Give me everything."
She dove back in, faster now. Bobbing with purpose, cheeks hollowing on the upstroke, tongue flicking relentlessly against the sensitive underside ridge. Her free hand cupped his balls, gentle roll, light squeeze, adding layers of sensation that had his thighs tensing and his toes curling in his boots.
The Jeep hit a pothole; the bounce drove him deeper into her throat. She gagged softly, wet, choking sound, but didn't pull off. Instead, she moaned around him, the vibration intensifying, pushing him right to the edge.
Pressure coiled tight in his gut, his balls drawing up hard.
"Close," he warned, voice strained, almost broken. "Nyra, fuck, I'm—"
She still didn't pull off.
Instead, she sucked harder, tongue pressing firm against the underside, milking him with every bob.
He came with a shout, hips jerking, thick pulses flooding her mouth. She swallowed around him, greedy, not spilling a drop, humming as she worked him through it. Every swallow tightened her throat, drawing out more until he was twitching, oversensitive.
Shane's vision whited out for a split second; the Jeep drifted toward the shoulder. He yanked it back, panting like he'd run a marathon.
Nyra pulled off slowly, lips pursed around the head for one last, lingering suck, then licked him clean with slow, deliberate swipes. She sat up, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, cheeks flushed, eyes bright and satisfied.
"Delicious," she murmured. "You taste like victory. And a little bit like chaos."
Shane glanced at her, heart still hammering.
"You're trying to kill me, Professor."
She laughed, throaty, satisfied.
"Only a little death."
He reached over, squeezed her thigh, fingers digging in possessively.
"My turn next stop. And I'm gonna make you scream so loud the zombies file a noise complaint."
The road stretched on, wrecks thinning out as they left Elmwood behind. Nyra settled back, hand still on his leg, watching the ruined world slide by.
For the first time since the transmigration, Shane felt something like hope.
Or maybe just post-orgasm clarity.
Either way, Oakridge waited.
XXXX
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