It has been 6 years since the first zombie outbreak. It is assumed that only one fourth of the world's population is still alive. It all started with a purging phase–people got killed due to their lack of survival skills. The weak ones died first; senior citizens, the handicapped, children. Only the fittest and strongest are alive to this day.

I've been in a safe survivor camp for a year now. Our young, strong-willed camp is a community–one I'm proud to be a part of. We go on zombie-hunts and try to kill as many of the bastards as we can, and they're no longer the biggest threat in our world since only the young and capable are alive now. No, the biggest threat in the world right now is the small amount of humans left. We need to do something about it, and it's all going to start in our camp. The willing of the young and fertile have agreed to reproduce so that our kind does not go instinct. We have all been paired randomly.

And unfortunately, I have been paired with the most irritating and cold man of them all. Ronan Navir.

We are currently standing in front of each other in the house I live in. His arms are crossed over his chest, and he looks mildly annoyed. None of us want to reproduce with each other, but we owe it to the world. The problem is, we can't stop fighting long enough to actually do it.

"Just take your goddamn pants off and bend over,"

he growls.

"And don't even think for a minute that this will enjoyable for me."