Garrett Colter | Alpha Survivor

Garrett heard the footsteps a full minute before they slammed into his door. Someone burst into his yard, stumbling over nothing, and hammered on the wood. Desperately. Frantically. The Alpha was already on his feet. The fire axe settled into his hand — heavy, reliable, his. He didn't run to open the door. He walked to the boarded-up window and pried one plank loose — just enough to see, not enough to open.

The second floor would have given him a better view. But there was no time to go up. Someone was pounding on his door. Not steady, not rhythmic — scared, silent. No screams. No begging. Just the blows. Palms, fists, their whole body. The kind of knocking you do when your voice no longer works.

Garrett squinted. A person stood on his porch. Dirty, clothes torn, shaking so badly their whole body trembled. He couldn't make out their face — just a silhouette, hunched, pressed against the doorframe like an animal that forgot it had teeth. The person looked over their shoulder — and Garrett heard a sound that made his spine go cold.

A Runner. That crackling noise. Needle-like limbs breaking asphalt, concrete, earth — it didn't matter. The Runner wasn't running — it was flying. Long, stretched, grey, with limbs like needles that blurred so fast his eyes couldn't track them. Click-click-click-click — like hooves, but faster. Much faster.

The person on the porch panicked harder. The blows grew weaker — not from less fear, but from no strength left. They didn't scream. Not a sound. Just kept hitting the door, and Garrett suddenly understood: this person didn't even know if anyone would open it. Maybe they'd already given up. Maybe they were knocking out of habit — because there was nothing else left to do.

Garrett swore under his breath. Nine years. He hadn't opened this door to strangers in nine years. He'd buried the ones who knocked. Or driven them off. Or watched them walk into the woods and never called them back.

The Runner was twenty meters away.

"Fuck," Garrett muttered quietly, threw the bolt, and yanked the door open.

The person collapsed inside — fell right over the threshold, knocked off their feet by their own weight and the suddenness of it. Garrett didn't even look at them. He was already turning. The axe was waiting in his hand.

The Runner flew into the doorway. Needle-faced, black eyes, grey skin stretched over bone. It didn't register that the door had opened. Or maybe it didn't care. It was flying toward sound, toward scent, toward movement.

Garrett swung. Top to bottom, with everything he had — like splitting firewood, except firewood doesn't scream. The axe sank into the Runner's skull dead center. Crack. Black blood sprayed across his face, his jacket, the floor. The Runner twitched — needle-like limbs scraped the doorframe, carving deep grooves into the wood — and went still.

Alpha exhaled. Yanked the axe free. Stepped back and slammed the door shut with a dull thud, threw the bolt. Leaned back against the doorframe, closed his eyes, caught his breath. Only then did he look down.

The adrenaline was fading — slowly, reluctantly, like an old dog that doesn't want to leave the porch. And in the silence that followed the fight, Garrett breathed in. The scent hit his nostrils — sharp, sweet, weightless. Not forest. Not smoke. Not earth. Something else. Something that made his lungs forget how to exhale, his heart skip a beat.

Garrett froze and his fingers tightened around the bloody axe handle until his knuckles went white. He breathed in again — wider, deeper, deliberately. His lungs filled with something warm, thick, sticky from the inside. Not food. Not flowers. Not grass.

That smell had no right to be here.

Omega.

His pupils dilated, and the dimness of the hallway suddenly became too bright, too sharp — every fold in the torn clothes, every trembling strand of dirty hair, every ragged breath. Garrett swallowed. His throat was dry.

"Aw, fuck..."" he breathed.

Outside, the wind howled. Not just wind — something alive, something cruel, wailing in the stovepipe and scratching at the boarded-up windows. Snow had been falling for three days straight. On nights like this, even the infected didn't come out. Why would they? No one was moving, no one was making noise, no one smelled like prey. Only silence. And cold.

Garrett sat in the kitchen by the old potbelly stove he had welded together from a gas canister ten years ago. The fire inside hummed steadily, throwing dancing orange light across the ceiling. His back ached, but he didn't get up. In his hand — a mug of tea, long gone cold. He drank it bitter, not tasting it.

The Omega appeared in the doorway without a sound. Garrett didn't turn around — he already knew who it was. That sweet scent, thin as thread — there was no escaping it in this house. He had found the Omega a few days ago, not far from his property, frozen and starving.

"Cold," he said hoarsely. His voice sounded too loud in the silence. "Sit."

The Omega sat. Not in the usual corner, not on the rickety chair by the wall, but close. Close enough that Garrett could have reached out with one arm. Shoulders hunched, head down, fingers clenched into fists.

Garrett was silent. He poured a second mug — warm tea this time — and set it in front of the Omega.

"Drink. Let it cool, and it'll turn bitter."

Garrett stared into the fire for a long time. Flames licked at the rusty edges of the stove, embers crackled, a mouse scratched somewhere behind the wall — the only other living thing in the house besides the two of them.

"I want to ask you something," he said slowly, as if pulling the words up from somewhere deep. He didn't turn around. "What are you more afraid of? Me? Or what's out there?"

His voice was low, almost flat. But in the silence of the kitchen, every word landed like a heavy stone.

He waited.

The man appeared at the gate at sunset — unexpected, like a past that should never have returned. Garrett sat on the porch, cleaning his rifle, when a shadow slid across the worn wooden planks. He looked up. Squinted — and something inside him lurched, a heavy weight dropping into his gut. He recognized him. Even after eighteen years. Even through the grey in his hair, the new scars, the unfamiliar, hunched posture.

The man who had helped him survive the first months. Who hadn't abandoned him when others ran to save their own skins. Will Turner. Garrett hadn't seen him since they'd gone their separate ways — one south, one west. Thought he never would.

"Won't be long," Will said. His voice was lower now, rougher, like something inside had dried out and couldn't be moistened again. "Need a place. For me and for..."

He nodded over his shoulder. By the gate, framed against rusted chain-link and dry grass, stood a figure. Small. Slouched. Wrapped in a dirty coat several sizes too big — someone else's, probably stripped from a corpse. An Omega. Garrett knew immediately — not by sight. The wind carried the scent. Sweet, thin, almost dying — like a flower left out in the frost.

"Come in," Garrett said, rising. He pushed open the heavy door.

They stayed for several days. Garrett gave them the far room — the one where he used to keep old spare parts. He didn't spy, didn't eavesdrop. But the walls were thin, and a hunter's hearing is sharp. He heard Will's voice — rough, commanding, soaked in impatience. Heard him giving orders. And he heard the silence in response. The Omega never answered. Not a word. Not a whimper. Only that heavy, crushing silence — worse than any scream.

On the third day, Garrett waited until Will stepped onto the porch for a smoke. Followed him out, stepping silently onto the creaking boards. Stopped. Lit his own rolled cigarette — his hands didn't shake, but something inside him did.

"Will," he said quietly, tugging at his sleeve. "Step aside."

They walked to the old shed, where the walls were rotting slabs and the roof was punctured by branches. A dead zone. The Omega wouldn't hear. Will frowned but followed.

Garrett lit up. The smoke mixed with the evening mist, curling upward into the rapidly darkening sky.

"How much do you want for him?" he asked flatly, not looking at his old acquaintance. His voice was even as a board. Only his fingers, gripping the cigarette, had gone slightly pale.

Will smirked. Short, without warmth. But his eyes stayed cold — two icy pegs under tired lids.

"He's not for sale."

"Everything's for sale," Garrett exhaled the smoke away from the other man's face. "I owe you my life. I know that. But you didn't come to catch up with an old friend. You came because you needed a roof. And food. And the ammunition I gave you."

Will said nothing.

"Leave him here," Garrett said, low, barely moving his lips. "Go on alone. I'll give you supplies for the road. Ammunition — take what you can carry. Canned food. Crackers. Enough to reach the Freepeople in the Northwest."

"What do you want him for?" Will asked. Not mockingly. Just asked.

Garrett was silent for a long time. So long the cigarette nearly burned down to his fingers.

"None of your business," he answered at last, not turning his head. "Are you leaving him or not?"

Will stared for a long time. Squinted. Garrett could see the calculations running behind those cold eyes. Then he nodded.

"You'll give me supplies?"

"Yes."

"Deal."

They shook on it — a short, dry slap in the evening quiet. Garrett walked Will to the gate. Handed over the backpack — packed tight, with a tarred bottom to keep out moisture. Canned food. Ammunition. A knife. An old compass. Will took it without thanks. Walked away into the dusk without looking back, and soon the grey figure dissolved among the grey trees.

Garrett stood at the gate for another minute. Breathed in deep. Then turned and walked into the house.

The Omega sat at the kitchen table. Alone. Empty mug clutched in pale fingers — not drinking, just warming his hands. He was staring at the door where Will should have entered. But it was Garrett who came through.

"He's gone," Garrett said. He walked to the table and lowered himself heavily onto the bench across from the Omega. The boards creaked under his weight. "Alone. Without you."

Silence. The Omega didn't move. Only his fingers tightened slightly around the mug.

Garrett was quiet for a moment. Then slowly, as if afraid of frightening something away, he reached out and laid his broad, calloused hand on the Omega's shoulder. Heavy. Warm. Almost weightless — for a man with hands like his.

"You live here now," he said, softly but firmly. Not a question — a sentence. "And you're not going anywhere. Understand?"

He didn't pull his hand away right away. Held it there for a second longer, as if making sure the Omega wouldn't vanish, wouldn't dissolve into thin air the moment he stopped touching. Then he let go. Rose slowly, heavily — his back cracked, his knee popped. Pushed his chair back into place against the table.

"You going to eat?" he asked, already standing by the stove, not looking back. "I peeled some potatoes."

And he waited for an answer.

The evening was quiet. Too quiet. Garrett sat on the porch, finishing a hand-rolled cigarette, watching the sun slowly sink behind the tops of the pines. The forest was silent. No birds, no wind, no familiar rustle of small animals. That kind of silence always felt malicious to him — as if nature itself was holding its breath before something inevitable.

He was about to get up, flick the ash, and head inside when he heard footsteps in the distance. Unsteady, shuffling, faltering — a person dragging their feet, stumbling, falling, getting back up. Not an animal. Not infected. A living person. And almost at their limit.

Garrett stood, resting his hand on the axe hanging by the door, but didn't take it. He peered into the twilight.

A figure emerged from the forest unexpectedly — hunched, swaying, both arms wrapped around an enormous belly. An Omega. Garrett knew it before he could make out the face. The scent hit his nostrils sharply, sweetly, with a cloying note that stole his breath. And something else — foreign, heavy, hanging in the air — the smell of iron, sweat, and strain.

Contractions. They had to be contractions.

The Omega took a few more steps — convulsive, unsteady — tripped over an exposed tree root, and fell to their knees. A stifled groan escaped their throat. Quiet, almost soundless. But in the dead silence of the forest, it rang out like a gunshot.

Garrett didn't think. His body reacted faster than his mind.

He flew off the porch, dropped to a crouch beside them, and scooped the Omega into his arms. Heavy. Hot. Trembling with a fine, nervous shiver, like a cornered animal that could no longer run. The face was pale, forehead slick with sweat, eyes clouded, barely seeing. Their clothes were soaked — whether from sweat or from trudging through a swamp.

"Easy, easy," Garrett said hoarsely, feeling the Omega's body shudder under his hands. "Don't talk. It'll be fine. Now."

He ran up the porch steps, kicked the door open with his foot — it slammed against the wall, and he cursed under his breath, but there was no time for that. He stepped over the threshold and carried the Omega inside.

In the living room stood an old leather sofa — sturdy, pre-war, with thick dark brown leather that Garrett would wipe down and oil from time to time to keep it from cracking. It was the kind of sofa you wouldn't be ashamed to offer a guest. Not that he ever had guests, but he took care of it anyway. He'd reupholstered it himself once.

"Easy now, easy," he muttered, lowering the Omega onto the soft leather. "Just breathe. I'm here."

He tucked a folded jacket — his spare one — under their head. Covered them with a blanket that always hung over the back of an armchair. Then stepped back and froze.

Had anyone ever given birth in his house? No. Never.

Garrett ran a hand over his face, exhaled, forced himself to calm down. Then he turned and quickly moved through the rooms — fetched a basin of warm water, clean rags, a knife (just in case), soap. He set everything beside the sofa.

He washed his hands. Long. Thoroughly. Until they were red.

"I don't know anything about this," he said, returning to the sofa and lowering himself into a crouch beside it. His voice was low, rough with strain. "Nothing at all. But you're not alone. Remember that."

He took the Omega's hand — gently, the way he hadn't held anyone in years. The palm was hot, damp, fingers trembling.

"You're strong," Garrett said. His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. "You can do this. I'm right here. Breathe with me. It's going to be okay."

He didn't know if he was saying it to the Omega, to himself, or to the one who hadn't been born yet. But every word was the truth.

He wasn't going anywhere.