Surviving the Apocalypse With My Yandere Ex-Girlfriend Chapter 70: Obedience

"Hey—...hey! Can you wait up, please?"

My boots slapped against the gravel as I caught up to the soldier who’d escorted us to the quarters. He didn’t slow, didn’t turn—just kept walking like he hadn’t heard at all.

I matched his pace.

"Sir," I said, breath steady, "I just had a question."

That finally did it.

He stopped.

Turned.

His eyes flicked over —not hostile. Not angry. Assessing. Like he was asuring how much ti I was worth.

"What is it?" he asked.

"I wanted to know who I should talk to about getting our guns back," I said. "They were confiscated at the gate, but they’re ours. We can—"

"Not my departnt."

The words landed flat. Final.

I frowned. "Okay. Then whose is it?"

He studied for a second longer than necessary. Then he sighed, like I’d just made his day slightly more annoying.

"Weapons intake is handled by Command," he said. "If they want to speak to you, they’ll let you know."

"And if they don’t?" I asked.

A pause.

"That’s your answer."

Sothing cold settled in my chest.

I shifted my weight. "So there’s no form? No desk? No—"

"You were processed," he cut in. Still calm. Still professional. "It’s your group’s first day. You’re housed. You’re fed. That’s as far as your clearance goes right now."

Right now.

That was the word that stuck.

He stepped around , already done with the conversation.

"Get so rest," he said over his shoulder. "You’ll be busy tomorrow. You all will."

Before I could ask what that ant, he was gone—absorbed back into the ordered flow of the camp.

I stood there for a mont, watching soldiers move with purpose, rifles slung easy, radios murmuring at their shoulders.

They all had weapons.

I didn’t.

And suddenly, I understood.

This wasn’t about safety.

It was about control.

My fists slowly tightened as I took the rest of the compound in.

Just then, they slowly loosened.

The room slled like paper, cigarettes, and stale coffee.

Not fresh paper—old. The kind that had been handled too many tis, stamped and restamped until the corners curled. Cigarette smoke clung to the walls like a second coat of paint, yellowed and stubborn, refusing to leave. Sowhere beneath it all was the bitter bite of burned coffee, reheated one too many tis.

A pen scratched steadily across a clipboard.

Scratch. Pause. Scratch.

"Uh—sir?"

The scratching stopped.

The man behind the desk looked up slowly, like being interrupted physically pained him. His face was set in a permanent scowl, the kind earned through years of command and disappointnt. White stubble crawled along his jaw and chin, uneven and sharp, framing a mouth that looked like it hadn’t smiled out of habit in a long ti.

He pulled the cigarette from between his lips and held it between two fingers.

"What?" he said.

The soldier at the door straightened instinctively. "Soone says he’s here for you."

The man exhaled smoke through his nose.

"Who thinks they’re so fucking important to bother while I’m working?"

The soldier flinched despite himself.

"A kid nad Adrian Carter, sir."

For a mont, nothing happened.

Then—slowly—the man’s expression shifted.

The scowl loosened. Just a little.

And then a smile crept across his face.

Not a friendly one.

A curious one.

"Well, I’ll be damned," he murmured. He flicked ash into an overflowing tray. "Send him in."

His voice dropped lower as he added, almost to himself—

"This should be good."

The door opened.

Two soldiers gripped my arms on either side, firm but not rough, guiding into the room like I might bolt if they loosened their hold. I’d heard most of the exchange through the door—muffled, distorted—but enough to get the shape of the man waiting for .

I just hadn’t expected the smile.

Why was he smiling?

"Leave us," he said.

The soldiers hesitated only a second before letting go and stepping back out. The door shut behind them with a solid, final click.

The man leaned back in his chair, studying like a puzzle he already thought he’d solved.

"So," he said. "Carter. What seems to be the problem?"

I didn’t waste ti.

"Yes, Mr—" I glanced at the small tal plate on his desk.

Callahan.

"—Mr. Callahan. I know you don’t know , but I was hoping to talk about the weapons that were confiscated from my group. They’re ours. We ca in with them. Registered firearms. I’d like to have them returned."

I kept my tone respectful. Controlled. Not pleading.

He chuckled softly and took another drag from his cigarette.

"Don’t be mistaken, son," he said. "I know quite a bit about you."

My brow lifted before I could stop it.

"You do?"

"Oh, yes." He tapped ash again. "Dr. Tekashi was very adamant about eting you."

That caught.

"He was?" I asked carefully.

Callahan snorted. "Very unpleasant fellow. Smart type. The kind that thinks knowing anatomy gives him authority over people who’ve actually bled."

He leaned forward slightly.

"The kind who tries to insult your experience and expertise because all he is... is a doctor."

Finally, he looked directly in the eye.

"I can tell you understand what I an."

I closed my eyes for half a second and took a slow breath.

That was when the first fracture ford.

When I opened them again, I nodded.

"I do," I said. "It’s frustrating when people speak down to you like that. Especially when they haven’t seen what you’ve seen."

His smile deepened.

"Exactly," he said. "After all—" he gestured vaguely at "—you’re just a kid."

A pause.

He studied again, then leaned back.

"So," he continued, casual now, "why do you feel the need to ask for your guns back? You’re protected. You’re fed. You’ve got walls, soldiers, lights that stay on at night. That should be all you’re worried about."

I already knew the answer.

I’d known it before I walked in.

But now I was certain.

This place wanted obedience disguised as safety. Trust without understanding. Faith in people who had never stood close enough to hear infected breathing through human lungs.

"Well," I began, letting my voice soften, "it’s not that I don’t believe in your ability to protect us."

A beat.

"But you have to understand— we’ve been protecting ourselves for weeks."

His eyebrow rose.

"Is that so?"

I nodded.

He smiled thinly. "With all due respect, son, running from a few knife-wielding crazies and getting lucky doesn’t make you battle-hardened. It makes you fortunate."

He leaned forward now, elbows on the desk.

"My advice? Keep following that path of luck. Don’t dip your fingers into water you already know is hot."

I didn’t react.

Didn’t bristle. Didn’t argue.

I just tilted my head slightly.

"Oh," I said calmly. "But they aren’t just ’knife weilding crazies.’"

That made him pause.

I continued, voice level, almost conversational.

"They retain their human senses. mory. Instinct. The only thing stripped away is morality. They murder. Cannibalize. Hunt. So of them can blend in with us for days before snapping."

I watched his expression change as I spoke.

Subtle. Incrental.

I stepped closer to the desk, slow enough that he didn’t register it as a threat.

"They learn patterns pretty fast, test places before they hit them."

His jaw tightened.

"For example," I said, nodding toward the window, "your south periter has floodlights, but the generators feeding them are centralized. One cut, one overload, and half your wall goes dark."

I raised a finger.

"Your patrols loop every twelve minutes. Sa route. Sa spacing. I watched three cycles walking in."

Another finger.

"The eastern gate bottlenecks foot traffic during shift change. If sothing breaks containnt there, your soldiers won’t be able to bring rifles up without hitting civilians."

I saw his throat bob.

"You keep your dical wing adjacent to housing," I went on. "That’s smart for morale. Terrible for infection control. One carrier, one mistake, and the panic does the killing for them."

I let my hand rest on the desk now.

"And your biggest flaw?" I t his eyes. "You assu the infected will rush."

I shook my head.

"They wait. They listen. They slip in with the scared ones. With the injured. With the people who look human enough."

The room felt smaller.

"If one gets inside," I said quietly, "you won’t have minutes. You won’t even have ti to understand what’s happening."

A beat.

"You’ll have screams. Then silence."

I leaned back just enough to give him air.

"But what do I know?" I added lightly. "I’m just a kid. Not a battle-hardened soldier like you."

Callahan didn’t interrupt.

Didn’t scoff.

Didn’t smile.

So I pressed.

"I’m not asking to patrol," I said. "I’m not asking to command your n."

I held his gaze.

"I’m asking to keep my people ard. Because when your systems fail—and they will—I won’t need luck."

A pause.

"I’ll need bullets."

The silence stretched.

And this ti, Callahan was the one holding his breath.