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Chapter Text

The reporter sat still with her pen between her fingers, the notebook resting on her lap filled with shorthand scribbles and half-finished questions. The room buzzed with a restrained energy, the kind that always preceded a presidential address (the usual). Rows of reporters, journalists, and news anchors shuffled in their seats, whispering theories and observations to one another while camera crews adjusted their equipment.

She glanced at the clock above the podium. Late, as expected. The president had always been fond of timing his appearances for maximum effect, but today’s delay felt different. The outbreak had left the nation teetering on the edge of panic in the past week, and every moment spent waiting only stretched the tension in the room.

Then it happened. The right-hand door, previously guarded by two silent Secret Service agents, creaked open. A ripple of movement passed through the crowd as heads turned, cameras swiveled, and pens scratched against paper. The president emerged, and the room erupted into chaos.

Flashes burst from every angle, throwing harsh light across the president’s figure as questions fired like rapid gunshots.

“Mr. President, what’s the current containment status?”

“Is there any hope for a vaccine?”

“What about the reports of government involvement?”

The president didn’t flinch at the cacophony. He moved steadily toward the podium. His face was obscured by a high-grade respirator mask, its filters hissing faintly with each breath, and an oxygen tank rested heavily against his back, connected to the mask by a reinforced tube.

The reporter’s brow furrowed as she adjusted her glasses, focusing on the figure. She scribbled a quick note: Virus not airborne—why the gear?

The virus wasn’t airborne. That much had been confirmed by every reputable virologist still left to speak publicly. So why the mask? Why the tank? It wasn’t for show—this president wasn’t one for theatrics. And yet, the heavy gear suggested a reality beyond what the public had been told.

The Secret Service agents flanked the president as they began to push back the swarm of reporters pressing toward the podium. The reporter stayed seated, her pen poised. She watched as the president stepped up to the microphone, his gloved hands gripping the edges of the podium.

For a moment, the room stilled, cameras capturing the image of a nation’s leader encased in protective gear. The reporter leaned forward, her pen hovering over her notebook.

The president adjusted the microphone. The mask distorted his face, but his eyes were visible—tired, lined with dark circles. He inhaled deeply, the hiss of the respirator loud in the otherwise quiet room, and began to speak.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he started with his voice muffled. “Today, I address you not as your leader, but as a fellow citizen of this country.”

The reporters scribbled furiously in their notebooks, knowing how it would carry in headlines tomorrow. The reporter’s pen moved instinctively, though her mind was already racing ahead. The opening sentence was always key.

“From the moment the outbreak began, we have been fighting a war on multiple fronts: a war against misinformation, a war against fear, and a war against the very thing that seeks to destroy us from within.”

He paused, scanning the room, his gaze meeting the lenses of countless cameras and the eyes of the journalists seated before him.

“Many of you have questions,” he continued. “And I understand. Questions about containment. Questions about survival. Questions about the decisions made and the sacrifices demanded. I wish I could stand here and give you all the answers you deserve.”

Another pause. The president reached for a piece of paper on the podium and unfolded it with care.

“The reality is, there are no simple answers. There never were.” His voice tightened, just enough for the reporter to catch it. “What we face now is unlike anything we’ve seen before, and what we do next will determine not only our survival but the kind of world we leave behind.”

The reporter noted the phrasing: no simple answers. It wasn’t just a dodge—it was a warning. She underlined it twice, her pen pressing harder with each stroke. The president straightened slightly, the paper trembling in his gloved hands.

“I know many of you are afraid,” his voice lowering. “Afraid for your families, for your communities, for the future. Believe me when I say that I understand that fear, because I feel it too. But fear alone cannot guide us. It cannot dictate our actions or define who we are in the face of this crisis.”

The room seemed to hold its collective breath again. Even the cameras, which had been snapping photos without pause, slowed.

“What I will say today is not easy to hear,” the president continued, the hiss of his respirator punctuating his words. “But it is necessary. The virus has spread further than we initially reported. Our efforts to contain it were compromised, not just by the nature of the outbreak, but by the fractures within our own systems. Trust was lost. Coordination failed. And now, we are facing the consequences.”

The reporter’s hand froze mid-sentence. Compromised? Fractures? This wasn’t a speech meant to reassure—it was a confession.

“For those of you watching at home, for those still in cities, towns, and rural communities, I need you to understand this: the government cannot do this alone. The survival of this nation—and humanity itself—will depend on the choices we all make in the days to come.”

His voice trembled slightly at the last word, though he masked it quickly with a firm grip on the edges of the podium.

“I have authorized new measures to provide resources to those affected. I have instructed federal agencies to release protocols for localized containment and care. And I urge every one of you to follow them. I urge you to look after one another. To find strength in each other when the institutions fail.”

The reporter’s pen moved again, the words flowing onto the page in shorthand: localized containment, institutions failing. Her heart sank.

“And now,” the president said, pausing once more, “I want to address a truth that we cannot ignore: this outbreak is not just a biological threat… It is a test of our humanity. In these moments, we are defined not by the horrors we face, but by how we respond to them.”

There was a flicker of something in his eyes—regret, maybe, or sorrow. The reporter wasn’t sure, but she underlined the word humanity anyway.

The president folded the paper in his hands and placed it back on the podium. “This will be my final address from this podium,” he sighs. “Because from this point forward… words will not be enough. What we need now is action. And for that, I must step away from this stage and into the reality we all share.”

The room erupted again—questions, protests, the rapid-fire click of cameras capturing his final words. But the president didn’t linger. He stepped back, his respirator hissing softly, and gestured to his Secret Service detail.

The reporter’s hand trembled as she wrote her final line: The president has left the stage—forever?

Hearing your father’s name in the middle of an apocalypse feels like someone ripping open an old wound you’ve spent months pretending didn’t exist. Charlie stood there, her face blank but her mind spinning. He’s nearby? He’s still alive? After all this time?

“Your father. He’s been looking for you.”

No. No, she couldn’t let her guard down. Not now. Of course, a guy like Peter would know about her and her dad. The Morningstars—legend, notoriety, call it what you wanted. They were practically household names before the outbreak, for better or worse. Fame like that didn’t just disappear because the world had gone to hell.

Mostly for the worse, because she can’t bear people using her damn name to manipulate her again.

Peter must’ve realized her silence had stretched a little too long because he cleared his throat, looking almost sheepish. “I’m sorry, Miss Morningstar—”

“Charlie.”

“Right,” Peter corrected himself quickly with an earnest nod. “Charlie. Look, I get it. This is a lot to take in, and I’m not here to force anything on you. I’m just doing my job as a recruiter. My job is to find survivors like you and do my best to convince them to come back with me to the community. I’ll admit, it’s not always an easy sell. There’s an interview process when you get there, handled by one of the leaders. But…”

“Where’s this community?” Charlie abruptly asked suspiciously.

Peter hesitated for a fraction of a second, gauging whether she’d believe him. “D.C,” he said finally. “I know how that sounds—everyone hears the same stories about Baltimore didn’t make it, and Alexandria in Virginia… well, you probably saw what was left of that. But D.C did. One of the original quarantine zones, and it’s still standing.”

The group exchanged wary glances, but Charlie’s eyes remained fixed on Peter.

“We’ve built something there,” Peter continued, his voice softening, trying to coax trust out of her. “A place where people are safe, where they have food, medicine, shelter. Where they can start over. We believe the best thing we can do is accommodate everyone. Find ways to rebuild, to create safety and opportunity for the people who’ve made it this far. You believe in that too, right? As a leader?”

Charlie’s chest tightened. Her breathing grew sharp, shallow.

“A leader’s first responsibility is to their people, after all.”

Rosie’s voice echoed in her head, and Charlie shut her eyes for half a second. Not now, for fuck’s sake.

Peter kept talking, oblivious to the storm brewing inside her. He wasn’t saying anything new. She’d heard it all before. Safety, security, community. The same bullshit Rosie had used back then, before everything had gone to shit.

Her breaths came faster, shallower. She wanted to snap, to tell him to shut the fuck up, but instead, she forced herself to breathe deeply. To steady herself.

Peter took her silence as a sign to continue. “Even in a fortified community, people are as valuable as walls. We need each other to survive—”

He didn’t see her move until it was too late.

Charlie strode forward, closing the distance in a heartbeat. She drew back her arm and threw a punch that landed squarely across Peter’s jaw in one motion. His head snapped to the side, and he staggered back before crumpling to the ground.

The group froze, their wide-eyed gazes darting between Charlie and the unconscious man at her feet. Maggie stirred in her arms, letting out a soft whimper, but Charlie barely noticed. Her hand stung from the impact, but it was nothing compared to the seething anger that bubbled just beneath the surface.

She stood over Peter’s crumpled form, her chest rising and falling as she tried to keep her rage in check. She stepped back and spared a glance at her daughter, her expression softening briefly before turning to face the group.

“Take all his gear,” she ordered.

“Christ,” Husk lowered his weapon first. “Didn’t take you for the sucker punch type, kid.”

“I’m not in the mood,” Charlie snapped, her voice cutting through whatever retort Husk had in mind. “Just do it.”

Cherri was already moving, her energy less cautious than Husk’s, her fingers quick as she worked to unfasten Peter’s pack and rifle through it. “Man carries too much shit anyway,” she muttered, pulling out a half-empty water bottle, some packets of food, and a folded map.

“And tie him up,” Charlie added, stepping back further. “We’re bringing him inside.”

Angel shot her a questioning look. “Uh… you sure about that? The guy might be trouble.”

“Everyone’s trouble until they prove otherwise,” Charlie said, glancing down at Peter’s unconscious form. “But I want answers. And we’re not getting them with him out here.”

The group worked quickly, stripping Peter of his gear while Cherri secured his wrists with a length of rope they’d scavenged weeks ago. When they were done, Vaggie and Angel hoisted him up, his head lolling slightly, and began carrying him back toward the house.

The hiking pack hit the floor with a dull thud. Charlie straightened up, brushing dust off her hands, and took a step back to survey the assortment of Peter’s belongings spread out in front of her. Flashlight, climbing tools, bottled water. The usual prepper fare. But it was the food that caught the group’s attention. Not the canned kind you’d expect—beans, tuna, or Spam—but candy bars, pudding cups, and applesauce packets. Even a couple of vacuum-sealed TV dinners.

Vaggie leaned over her shoulder, eyebrows knitting together. “Who the fuck packs like this? It’s like a kindergarten lunchbox exploded.”

Charlie shrugged, nudging a pudding cup with her boot. “Maybe he has a sweet tooth.”

“Maybe it’s spiked,” she shot back, crossing her arms.

“Spiked with what? Marshmallow fluff? It’s all sealed.”

Before Vaggie could respond, Alastor’s voice cut in. “If no one else is going to eat the pudding, I’ll—”

“Don’t. Touch. It.” Vaggie’s glare dared him to make another move toward the stash.

Alastor threw up his hands. “Fine, fine. But if I waste away to nothing, you’ll only have yourself to blame.”

“You’ll live.”

That’s when Niffty’s voice piped up from the other room. “He’s waking up!”

The living room shifted immediately. Vaggie tightened her grip on Maggie, instinctively stepping back a little, while others in the group hovering near the doorway, leaning against the wall, or they’re toying with the blade with eyes locked on the man stirring near the radiator.

Peter groaned as he came to, spitting off to the side and shifting his jaw with a wince. The bruising from Charlie’s punch was already darkening, and he let out a low chuckle that sounded more impressed than annoyed. He looked up, his gaze settling on Charlie, who stood looming above him.

“Well,” Peter said, his voice hoarse, “you’re… no-bullshit, I’ll give you that.”

Charlie didn’t waste time with pleasantries. “Here’s how this is gonna work,” she started coolly, her Glock resting loosely in her hand but perfectly visible. “You’re going to answer all of my questions. No exceptions. No bullshitting. And if you think I’m bluffing—” she leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping an octave, “—try me.”

Peter exhaled sharply. “That’s why I’m here. To talk. Honestly, we could’ve done this without the violence, but—” he shrugged, as much as his tied wrists would allow, “—I get it. Trust isn’t easy these days. I won’t hold it against you.”

Charlie studied him for a moment, her eyes narrowing just enough to make Peter’s smile falter. Then, she nodded and dropped to one knee, bringing herself closer to his level. “Good man,” she said evenly. “I appreciate that. So, let’s start simple.”

Her tone was calm, almost conversational. “How many people are in your group?”

Peter tilted his head, considering. “Not sure on the exact count. Fifty-seven, maybe? We’re still under sixty, last I checked.”

“Last you checked,” Charlie repeated, her voice carrying a faint edge.

“Yeah,” Peter replied, his tone easy. “We’ve been steady for a while, but things change. People pass or so. You know how it is.”

Charlie’s gaze didn’t waver. “And your leaders? How many of them are there?”

“Three,” Peter said immediately. “All elected. They keep things fair. No one person calling the shots.”

“That includes you?”

Peter chuckled. “Not even close. I’m just a recruiter. The people in charge? They stay in the community. I’m the guy who goes out and brings folks in—assuming they make it through the vetting process.”

Charlie leaned back slightly, her expression thoughtful. “This ‘vetting process.’ What’s that like?”

“It’s pretty straightforward,” Peter said. “They ask questions. What you’ve been through, what you’re good at, how you’d contribute. They want to make sure you’re not a threat, but they’re also not looking to turn people away for no reason.”

Charlie nodded slowly, her mind churning through his words, picking them apart for inconsistencies. “And this community—how is it you’ve managed to stay standing while other quarantine zones fell apart?”

Peter’s face grew more serious, his tone losing its earlier lightness. “Planning,” he said simply. “And luck. D.C. was fortified early on, and we’ve had our share of close calls, especially with the surrounding safe zones in D.C. met with similar fates. One of our leaders initiated recruiting tougher survivors out there and we believe it makes the difference. A community is only as strong as the people willing to hold it together.”

For a moment, Charlie’s grip on her gun tightened as her mind churned while measuring him. The way he spoke sounded like he’d rehearsed this speech a hundred times before. Maybe he had.

“You seem pretty sold on this whole people-as-strength idea,” Charlie said evenly, shifting her weight slightly. “But you don’t strike me as the kind of guy who’d stick his neck out for just anyone. Why us? Why now?”

Peter shrugged. “I’ve been keeping tabs on groups like yours for a while. It’s my job. Your group, though? Different story. You’re organized, smart. You’ve survived shit most people wouldn’t. That says something. You’re the kind of people we need.”

Charlie arched an eyebrow. “That so?”

“Look, I’m not blowing smoke,” Peter replied firmly. “Trust me, I’ve seen a lot out there. Desperate people. Dangerous people. People who’ve given up. Your group? You’re fighters. Survivors. I mean—” He glanced around the room, his eyes landing briefly on Vaggie holding Maggie in her arms. “You’ve got a baby with you, for crying out loud. You’re not just surviving—you’re trying to live. That’s rare.”

For a second, the room went still. No one said a word, though Charlie could feel her group’s attention on her.

She leaned in closer. “And what happens if we don’t fit into your shiny little utopia? What happens if we don’t pass this ‘vetting process?’”

Peter hesitated, and for the first time, Charlie saw the unease in his expression. “I won’t lie to you… not everyone makes it. But it’s not about being perfect. It’s about trust. Cooperation. If someone’s dangerous, or if they’re a risk to the community’s safety—yeah, we send them packing. But we don’t just throw people out for no reason.”

“And by ‘send them packing,’” Angel cut in from the doorway, “you mean what, exactly? A pat on the back and a map, or a bullet to the brain?”

Peter turned his head slightly, meeting Angel’s gaze with a steady look. “We’re not killers,” he replied firmly. “We don’t execute people for failing a test. If someone’s not fit, they leave with supplies, enough to get by. What happens after that… isn’t up to us.”

Angel snorted, but Charlie didn’t flinch. She stayed locked on Peter, her expression unreadable. “So, let me get this straight,” she said. “You want us to pack up everything we have, trust some strangers to ‘vet’ us, and hope they don’t decide we’re too much of a liability?”

Peter exhaled slowly. “I know it’s a gamble,” he admitted. “But staying out here? That’s a gamble too. You’ve seen what’s out there. Sooner or later, no amount of smarts or firepower is enough. You need a real community as much as we need you.”

Charlie didn’t respond immediately, but her eyes fixed on him as though she could see straight through him. “People like you have a way of making promises that don’t hold up,” she said finally, her voice cold. “So tell me this, Peter. What happens if your perfect little community falls apart? What happens when the walls come down?”

Peter didn’t answer right away. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, almost resigned. “Then we pick up the pieces and try again. Because that’s all we’ve got left.”

Charlie’s jaw tightened. She glanced at her group. They were watching her, waiting.

She shifted her gaze to Vaggie, who was still holding Maggie. Vaggie met her eyes and gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, her silent way of saying, Keep probing.

Charlie turned back to Peter, her jaw set. “Let’s talk about my dad,” she said. “You brought him up. Why? Have you met him personally?”

Peter winced, rolling his shoulders against the radiator. “Yeah, I’ve met him.”

“And?” Charlie pressed.

Peter tilted his head as if searching for the right words. “Shorter than any man I’ve met in my life—uh, no offense,” he added quickly, glancing at her with a sheepish grin.

Charlie didn’t laugh.

He cleared his throat and continued, “He’s… a massive, stubborn asshole. The kind that doesn’t care if you like him. Says what he thinks, does what he wants, and makes damn sure everyone knows he’s the smartest guy in the room.”

“That sounds about right,” Charlie muttered, her voice sounded disdain, maybe, or nostalgia.

“But,” Peter added, holding her gaze, “he gives two craps about planning for the people. Everything he does, every asshole move, it’s always about what’s best for the group. And there’s one thing he cares about more than anything else—”

“My mom,” Charlie guessed dryly, her expression unchanging.

Peter shook his head. “No. You.”

Charlie blinked.

“He never stops talking about you,” Peter said, his voice softening. “At first, I thought he was just grieving. Figured he’d lost you, like most people out here have lost someone. But no. He talks about you like you’re still alive. Like he’s sure of it. And every time I head out on a run, he’s there, reminding me to keep an eye out for you. Telling me not to come back to him without news, good or bad.”

The words hit Charlie harder than she expected. She looked away for a moment, her gaze dropping to the floor as she tried to process it all. This was her dad, all right. The asshole planned everything to the last detail and thought he could outsmart everything. But it wasn’t just that. If Peter was telling the truth—and there was something in his tone that made her believe he was—then her dad had spent over a year hoping, maybe even desperate, that she was alive.

Like her.

A part of her, buried deep under the layers of anger and mistrust, wanted to see him. To know if he’d really turned into the kind of man Peter was describing, or if he was still the same complicated figure she’d left behind when the world went to hell.

When she looked up again, her expression was carefully neutral. “This whole recruiting thing,” she said slowly, “is it just you? Or do you have someone out there with you?”

Peter’s expression looked like he’d been waiting for this question. “I’ve got someone,” he admitted. “My little brother, Andrew. We work as a team.”

That earned the group’s attention. Uncertainty passed through them as their eyes flicked between each other.

It was Vaggie who broke the silence. “And where’s your brother now?”

Peter hesitated at Vaggie’s question, his jaw tightening as he glanced around the room. “Why do you need to know where my brother is?” he asked cautiously. “You’ve got me tied up here. Isn’t that enough?”

Vaggie didn’t miss a beat. “Questioning two separate people from the same community is the best way to make sure your answers aren’t complete bullshit,” she shifted Maggie in her arms as her eye bore into him. “It’s called cross-referencing.”

Peter opened his mouth to retort, but Charlie cut in, stood up and turned to Vaggie. “Is this a good idea?” she asked quietly, “We don’t know if this is a setup. What if it’s a trap?”

“I can hear you, you know,” Peter interjected, raising his voice slightly. “And no, it’s not a trap. It’s just me and Andrew out here. No one else. We’re scouting outside Baltimore. That’s it.”

Vaggie turned her attention back to Charlie, her expression firm. “We have to take this chance. If he’s lying, we’ll find out. And if he’s telling the truth, we’ll have real leverage.” She glanced at Peter. “I’ll take two people with me to deal with his brother, just in case.”

Peter’s expression twisted with panic. “No! Don’t hurt him!” he blurted.

Charlie stepped closer, cutting off his protests with a calm but commanding tone. “We’re not going to hurt him,” she sighs. “Here’s how this is going to work: my wife’s gonna find Andrew, question him, and make sure his answers match yours. If everything checks out, we’ll make him page you on this—” she reached over and grabbed Peter’s pack, pulling out his hand radio and holding it up for him to see, “—and you’ll answer. After that, we’ll regroup outside the house. Then, maybe, we’ll consider your offer. But we’re doing this on our terms, not yours.”

Peter let out a long, frustrated sigh, his shoulders slumping. He closed his eyes tightly and muttered something under his breath, cursing himself. When he opened his eyes, he looked directly at Charlie. “If that’s what it takes to make you believe me, then do it. He’s heading south from here. But I’m begging you—don’t hurt Andrew.”

Charlie studied him for a long moment, then nodded. “That’s up to him.”

Vaggie handed Maggie to Charlie and she stepped forward with arms crossed. “What does Andrew look like?” she asked bluntly. “We didn’t see any photos in your stuff, so we need something to go on.”

Peter furrowed his brow, struggling to piece together the right description. “Andrew… he’s got slightly longer hair, kinda messy,” he began, his voice uneven. “Thin goatee. Younger than me by about five years. And… a lot skinnier. Always has been. He’s got this look, though—like he’s thinking about a hundred things at once. Hard to miss.”

Charlie nodded subtly before turning to Vaggie. Their eyes met, and Vaggie offered a small, confident smile. “That’s enough to get by,” she said calmly, adjusting the strap of her rifle.

Before she could step away, Charlie reached out and grabbed her hand. “Please…” Charlie started quietly, “Stay safe.”

Vaggie’s expression softened. She nodded, then pulled Charlie’s left hand up to her lips, planting a gentle kiss on the gold band of her ring. “Always.”

Vaggie then straightened and turned to face the others. “Angel, Cherri, you’re with me,” she said briskly, her tone back to its usual no-nonsense sharpness.

Angel glanced at Cherri, who smirked and cracked her knuckles. “‘Bout time,” Cherri muttered, already moving toward the door while Angel falling in step behind Vaggie.

The three of them moved out and as they filed out of the room, Vaggie cast one last glance over her shoulder at Charlie.

Once the door closed shut, the silence hung heavy. Peter slumped against the radiator, his head bowing slightly as he let out a long, weary sigh. “Goddamn it, Andrew,” he muttered under his breath. “You better not screw this up.”

Charlie glanced back at him. “If he’s anything like you,” she said, “we’ll see.”

The trail was a mess of overgrown vines and roots that grabbed at their boots like the hands of ghosts. Vaggie led the way, using Cherri’s machete carving through the brush. Behind her, Angel and Cherri muttered about the futility of paths that weren’t actually paths, but they kept pace, their footsteps crunching noisily through the undergrowth.

It was impossible to move quietly. Every step was an announcement, the brittle snap of branches and the rustle of leaves like a radar for anyone—or anything—that might be lurking. Vaggie winced with every sound, her head constantly on a swivel, scanning the dense forest for movement. The noise was an insult to the silence, and the silence was dangerous.

But the woods, for all their noise, seemed strangely empty. It was disconcerting in its own way, the absence of moaning, dragging feet, or the guttural hiss of something long dead. Vaggie’s mind wrestled with the quiet as much as the terrain. No stragglers, no groups. Just... nothing.

“Not that I’m complainin’,” Angel started, his voice just loud enough for the two women to hear, “but where the hell’s all the rotters? I mean, not that I miss ‘em or anything, but still. Weird, right?”

Vaggie didn’t look back. “They’re probably all inside the quarantine zone,” she answered, then adjusted her grip on the machete. “Walls like that don’t just keep people in—they keep the dead in too. Most of them, anyway.”

“Yeah, great,” Cherri stepped over a tangle of roots and frowning at the dirt clinging to her boots. “But what about the ones that aren’t in? They just vanish into thin air?”

“Maybe they’re scared of you,” Angel said with a grin. “Can’t say I blame ‘em.”

Cherri didn’t dignify that with a response.

Vaggie cut through another tangle of vines and paused, holding up a hand to stop them. The silence pressed down around them like a held breath. Her knuckles tightened on the machete’s hilt. She didn’t say anything, but her posture screamed vigilance, her head tilting slightly as if listening for something the others couldn’t hear.

Nothing. Not a groan, not a shuffle, not a whisper of something unnatural. Just the wind stirring the leaves and the distant creak of branches swaying under their own weight.

“They’re not here,” Vaggie said, more to herself than to them.

“Which is good, right?” Angel prompted, raising an eyebrow.

Vaggie lowered the machete slightly, but her shoulders didn’t relax. “Good, yeah. Until it’s not.”

“Real uplifting,” Cherri muttered, pushing past a low-hanging branch.

Angel shot her a look. “You’d rather have a horde?”

“No,” Cherri snapped. “But I’d rather know what the hell’s going on than walk around waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

Vaggie exhaled through her nose, glancing back at the two of them. “Stay sharp,” she said, her voice quieter now. “Just because we don’t see them doesn’t mean they’re not out here. And we don’t know what we’re walking into.”

She didn’t wait for a reply, turning back to the trail and resuming her steady march forward. Angel and Cherri exchanged a look—part frustration, part agreement—and followed.

The forest seemed to close in tighter the farther they went, branches and vines weaving together above them. The sunlight filtering through the leaves was dull, gray-green, casting shadows that danced at the edges of their vision. Every so often, Vaggie stopped and scanned the surroundings, her hand twitching toward the knife holstered at her side.

Angel, trailing a few steps behind, kicked at a fallen branch, sending it skidding noisily across the ground. “So, what’s the plan if little bro decides to throw a hissy fit? You think we can scare him into cooperating, or are we gonna—”

“Angel,” Vaggie interrupted. She didn’t look back. “Shut up.”

Angel raised his hands. “Geez, sorry for tryin’ to make conversation.”

Cherri, bringing up the rear, shot him a glare. “She’s right. You’re too loud.”

Angel scoffed but didn’t argue, and the three of them pressed on, their pace quickening as the path widened slightly. The air grew heavier, the damp smell of earth and decay filling their lungs. Vaggie tightened her grip on the machete, her eye narrowing at the trail ahead.

“Think about it, though,” Angel whispered after a long stretch of silence. “If there’s no freaks out here, doesn’t that mean we’re practically safe? Like, what’s the worst that could happen? The brother’s got a slingshot?” He snickered.

Vaggie stopped abruptly, and Angel nearly collided with her. She turned her head just enough to give him a look that could have stopped a charging rhino. “You don’t get it, do you?” she hissed. “No muertos doesn’t mean safe. It means something else scared them off—or there’s something worse waiting. Either way, running your mouth isn’t helping.”

Angel opened his mouth to respond, but Cherri beat him to it. “For once, just listen, Angie.”

Angel sighed dramatically but kept quiet.

They continued in silence, the only sounds now the crunch of their boots and the occasional snap of a twig. The tension hung thick in the air, every movement and shadow showed a potential threat.

As they rounded a bend, Vaggie raised a hand again, signaling them to stop. She crouched low, motioning for the others to do the same, and pointed ahead. Through the trees, barely visible, was a campsite—a small clearing with a smoldering fire pit and a tarp strung between two trees.

“Someone’s here,” Vaggie murmured, her voice barely audible.

“Could be the brother,” Cherri whispered, her hand resting on the pistol at her hip.

“Or it could be someone else,” Vaggie said grimly.

Angel leaned closer, squinting at the clearing. “Well, whoever it is, they’re not winning any awards for hospitality. That camp looks like it’s been there for a while.”

Vaggie ignored him, her eye scanning the edges of the clearing. “No movement,” she said softly. “Stay close. Weapons ready.”

They moved cautiously now, their footsteps as quiet as they could manage on the uneven ground. Vaggie took the lead, the machete raised, while Cherri covered her with the pistol and Angel followed behind, his crossbow drawn.

As they approached the campsite, it became clear that whoever had been here had left in a hurry. The tarp was torn, and the fire pit was nothing more than ash and damp wood. A backpack lay discarded near one of the trees, its contents spilling out—a couple of empty cans, a water bottle, and a crumpled map.

Vaggie gestured for them to spread out, her eye darting between the trees. “Check the perimeter,” she whispered.

Angel picked up the backpack, turning it over in his hands. “You think this is Andrew’s?” he asked, his voice low.

“Maybe,” Vaggie replied, glancing back at him. “But don’t touch anything else. If this is a trap—”

The sound of a twig snapping cut her off, sharp and sudden. All three of them froze and they scattered instantly, disappearing behind the tree line. Vaggie pressed her back against a thick trunk, gripping the machete tightly as her heart pounded in her chest. She peeked out just enough to catch a glimpse of the intruder.

He stepped into the threshold of the abandoned campsite with slow, deliberate movements. A tall man, olive-skinned, with a lean build framed his figure. His features matched Peter’s description almost perfectly—sharp nose, dark hair curling at the edges, thin goatee, and a wary, calculating look in his eyes. A hiking pack was slung over his shoulders, its weight barely noticeable on his frame.

Vaggie’s eye narrowed as she saw him unholster a pistol. Her grip on the machete tightened.

Then he spoke, his voice steady but loud enough to carry through the trees. “I know you’re out there,” he called, his tone neither aggressive nor welcoming, just matter-of-fact. “Three of you, right? It’s okay. You can come out. I’m not here to hurt you.”

Vaggie stayed still, her gaze flicking to her left where Cherri was crouched behind another tree, her pistol already drawn. Their eyes met briefly, and Cherri gave a slight nod.

The man took another step into the clearing, lowering his gun slightly but keeping it ready in his hand. “Look,” his tone shifted to something softer. “We’ve got a walled-off community several miles from here. It’s safe. We’ve got food, water, shelter... all of it.”

Vaggie pressed her lips together, weighing his words. She glanced over to the right looking for Angel, but he’s nowhere to be found. She guessed that he must be on the other side of the camp hiding somewhere.

The man continued, his gaze sweeping the forest line. “I know you’re scared. Hell, I’d be too if I were in your shoes. But if I wanted to hurt you, I wouldn’t be standing here talking, would I? We can just talk.”

Cherri shifted slightly, drawing Vaggie’s attention again. Her eye is questioning, waiting for a signal. Vaggie gave a subtle shake of her head. Not yet.

The man sighed and holstered his gun, raising his hands to show he meant no harm. “I’ll make this easy for you,” he said. “You can stay hidden, keep wandering around out here until you get lucky or you don’t. Or you can take a chance. Come with me. See what I’m offering.”

Vaggie watched him carefully, her mind racing. Was this Andrew?

She leaned slightly toward Cherri’s position, catching her attention again. With a quick glance back at the man, Cherri motioned toward him with the faintest tilt of her head. Keep him talking.

The man stood in the clearing, hands raised and expression calm, but his eyes flicked across the treeline like a predator hunting movement. Vaggie watched him closely, noting how his posture remained guarded despite his open gestures. It was a calculated performance, she realized—designed to coax them out.

Vaggie exhaled slowly. She lowered the machete to the ground with care, letting it fall with a dull thud, then reached for her Glock, unholstering it and holding it in a loose but ready grip. She stepped out from her cover, her lone eye locked onto the man in the clearing.

The man’s gaze snapped to her instantly, his hands still raised. He didn’t flinch, but his posture shifted ever so slightly, a hint of tension running through his frame.

“You’ve got a lot to say,” Vaggie said evenly, her voice cutting through the heavy silence. “But talking’s easy when you’re the one with the plan.”

The man’s lips twitched in what might have been relief, though his wariness didn’t waver. “Thank you,” he said, lowering his hands just enough to appear less threatening. “Like I said, I’m part of a community just south of Baltimore. It’s safe. Walled off. Food, water, shelter, medicine—everything you’d need to get by. We’re looking for people who can contribute, people who want a chance to start over.”

Vaggie didn’t move, her Glock steady in her grip but aimed at the ground for now. “Why risk coming out here for strangers?”

The man nodded slightly, as if expecting the question. “Because the more good people we have, the better chance we all have. Our community’s strong, but we’re not invincible. We need people who can fight, work, build—whatever they can bring to the table. That’s why I’m out here, scouting for survivors.”

Behind him, Vaggie caught a flicker of movement—a shadow shifting in the undergrowth. Angel. He was silent, almost unnervingly so, creeping toward the man’s blind spot with his crossbow slinged behind.

“Convenient,” Vaggie said, keeping her tone skeptical. “But that doesn’t explain why you’re here alone. No backup? Seems risky for someone who’s just trying to help.”

The man shifted his weight slightly, his expression flickering between cautious and candid. “You’re not wrong. It… it is risky. But going in with a group spooks people—makes them think it’s a trap. We’ve found that one person, unarmed, works better.”

Vaggie raised an eyebrow. “Unarmed?”

His smile was faint and humorless. “Okay, mostly unarmed. But I’m not looking for trouble. I’m just trying to survive, same as you.”

The tension in the air was almost palpable now, the silence pressing in on all sides. Vaggie kept her gaze locked on the man, her body language relaxed but ready. “And what happens if we say no?” she asked.

The man’s expression softened slightly, though there was still a guarded edge to his eyes. “Then I leave you alone—”

Angel had surged forward, his arms wrapping under the man’s own, locking them in place.

“Gotcha,” Angel muttered through gritted teeth, holding the man tight as he squirmed against the sudden restraint.

That prompted Vaggie to dart forward, her Glock now trained on the man’s midsection. She grabbed the pistol from the man’s holster, flipping it out of his reach before handing it off to Cherri, who appeared at her side, her own weapon still drawn.

The man, now thoroughly outnumbered, thrashed against Angel’s hold, his breaths coming quick and panicked. “What the hell are you doing?!” he shouted.

“Stop struggling, Andrew,” Vaggie ordered, demanding attention. “We don’t want to hurt you, but we will if we have to.”

The man froze, his eyes widening in shock. “How—how do you know my name?” he stammered.

Vaggie didn’t give him time to think. “We’re here on Peter’s behalf.”

The mention of Peter’s name sent a jolt through Andrew, his face twisting with a mix of panic and disbelief. “What did you do to him?” he demanded, his voice rising. “If you hurt him—”

“Peter’s fine,” Vaggie interrupted. “He’s with the rest of our group, under watch. He told us where to find you. That’s why we’re here.”

Andrew’s breathing quickened, his expression shifting from confusion to realization. “Hostage,” he muttered, his voice barely audible. “You’re holding him hostage.”

Cherri raised Andrew’s own pistol and pressed the barrel against his temple. “And you’re gonna stay nice and calm, or things get ugly.”

“Easy,” Vaggie said without looking at her, keeping her focus on Andrew. “He gets the message.”

Angel tightened his grip slightly. “Now, let’s see what goodies you brought to the party.” With a grunt, he unshouldered Andrew’s hiking pack, yanking it off and tossing it toward Vaggie.

She caught it, dropping it to the ground and unzipping it quickly. Inside, she found several packets of vacuum-sealed food, a thermos, and a compact water filter. She pulled each item out carefully, inspecting them before setting them aside.

Then her hand landed on something strange—a sleek, dish-like object with a set of headphones coiled around it. She held it up, frowning.

“What the fuck is that?” Cherri asked abruptly.

Vaggie turned the device in her hands, her fingers brushing over its smooth surface. “A parabolic microphone,” she said flatly. “Used to pick up distant sounds. Weirdly high-tech for someone just trying to survive.”

Cherri’s eye narrowed. “So, what? He’s been listening in on us?”

Vaggie’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Probably. If he and Peter had this, they could’ve been spying on us from miles away.” She shot Andrew a pointed glare, but he avoided her gaze, his lips pressed tightly together.

“Figures,” Cherri muttered, crossing her arms. “Shady little creeps.”

Vaggie put the microphone aside and continued digging through the pack. She paused when her hand brushed against something solid and rectangular. She pulled it out—a hand radio, its antenna partially extended.

“Perfect,” Vaggie turned to Angel, who still held Andrew in a vice grip. “Hold him steady. He’s about to make a call.”

Andrew squirmed slightly, panic flashing across his face. “Wait! You don’t understand—”

“Shut it,” Cherri snapped, her pistol still trained on him.

Vaggie adjusted the radio’s dials, testing the frequencies until she heard a faint crackle. She glanced up at Andrew. “Here’s what’s going to happen,” she said coldly. “You’re going to talk to Peter. Like it’s a normal day. Like this isn’t happening. And you’re going to tell him whatever I tell you to say. Got it?”

Andrew hesitated, his breathing quick and shallow. “If I don’t?”

Vaggie stepped closer, her Glock raised to emphasize her point. “Then you’ll find out how patient I’m not feeling today.”

Cherri smirked. “You’re lucky she’s the nice one.”

Andrew swallowed hard, nodding reluctantly. “Fine.”

“Good,” Vaggie said, switching the radio on. She held it out, close enough for Andrew to speak but far enough that he couldn’t grab it. “Now, tell your brother you’re safe. That you’re… negotiating with the other three of the same group that your brother himself is dealing with. No warnings. No funny business. Just keep it calm.”

Andrew licked his lips, his voice trembling as he leaned toward the radio. “Peter? It’s me. Are you there?”

A moment passed before a faint voice crackled through the speaker. “Andrew? Oh my God! Where are you? Are you okay?”

Andrew glanced at Vaggie, who gave him a slight nod. “I’m fine,” he said, his voice steadier now. “I ran into three people out here. They seem... okay. We’re talking. They might let me join them.”

The radio crackled again, Peter's voice tinged with both relief and urgency. “Thank God. Okay, whatever they’re asking you to do—just do it. Don’t argue, don’t try anything.”

Andrew hesitated, glancing between Vaggie, Cherri, and Angel. His lips parted as if to speak, but Peter’s voice cut through again.

“They haven’t hurt me, okay? I’m fine, but I’m telling you, these aren’t the kind of people you can fight your way out of. Trust me on this.”

Vaggie’s expression remained cold and unreadable, though a flicker of something—perhaps approval—crossed her face at Peter’s words.

“Okay, fine,” Andrew said into the radio, his voice low and reluctant. “I’ll… I’ll cooperate.”

Peter sighed in relief. “Just… hang in there, okay?”

Vaggie cut the radio off, lowering it but keeping her gaze locked on Andrew. “Good,” she said, her tone devoid of praise. “Now, you’re going to tell us everything.”

The news van reeked of stale coffee and desperation, with a faint scent of hand sanitizer that had long stopped pretending to make a difference. Outside, the Baltimore Quarantine Zone loomed, its concrete barriers and razor wire casting jagged shadows under the dull orange glow of floodlights.

For a place meant to keep the infected out, it felt more like a prison for the uninfected.

Inside, the reporter sat slumped in the passenger seat, her head resting against the cold glass. The notebook she’d been clutching earlier sat abandoned on the dashboard, pages filled with notes and transcripts that now felt utterly meaningless. At least she had handed everything over to the station, every word of the president’s supposed final speech.

Her gaze drifted to the soldiers outside, their faces blank beneath helmets and visors. The blood tests awaited, as if the results would be any different this time. The process was always the same: a needle, a drop of blood, a machine that beeped its approval or condemnation. Another blood test. Because apparently, being cleared three hours ago wasn’t enough. The guards didn’t look at her—just another body to process, another number to clear.

She hated it. She hated everything about this bullshit.

“You good?” The cameraman’s voice broke the silence. He glanced at her from the driver’s seat, one hand on the wheel, the other drumming lightly against the gearshift.

She stared out the window, taking in the chaos of the camps inside the quarantine zone. Families huddled around. A woman clutched a child to her chest, staring blankly at the razor wire. Beyond the barriers, the city’s crumbling skyline stood still.

“Oh, yeah,” she said flatly. “Totally fine. Everything’s great. The government’s completely lost control of the infection, there’s no word on a vaccine, and the apocalypse is basically here. So yeah, Peter, I’m doing just fine.”

The cameraman—Peter—smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Sarcasm. Got it.”

“Yeah. Sarcasm.” She leaned her head back against the seat, closing her eyes for a moment. The familiar ache of exhaustion pressed against her temples.

Peter tapped the steering wheel, his voice softening. “Look, as long as we keep positive—”

“Positive like the infection test we’re all terrified of getting?” she shot back, her tone sharper than she intended. She sighed, shaking her head. “Sorry. I’m just... tired.”

“Yeah,” he said quietly, his smirk fading into something gentler. “I know.”

The van rolled forward, the gates of the quarantine zone creaking open to swallow them whole. She watched as the world outside shifted into something harsher, something smaller.

The van rolled forward, its tires crunching over gravel as they passed through the first checkpoint. The heavy gates clanged shut behind them with a sound that felt more like a tomb sealing than a barrier closing. Inside the quarantine zone, the streets were lined with camps—families huddled under tarps, children clutching stuffed animals, and the occasional fire pit flickering.

Peter glanced at her, his hands steady on the wheel. “Anything from the station?”

She sighed deeply. “The last thing I heard from my manager was a plea to transcribe and leave notes about the presidential address. Nothing about when we’re getting relieved. Nothing about whether we’re alive or dead. Just make sure the notes are legible and on their desk.”

Peter snorted, the sound dry and unsurprised. “Typical news management. They’d probably ask for your notes while you’re bleeding out.”

A bitter laugh escaped her before she could stop it. “Probably.” She shook her head and adjusted her glasses, her gaze drifting to the grim scene outside. A little boy played with a broken toy car near the gutter. A woman paced back and forth, clutching her phone as if it might miraculously connect to someone, anyone.

Peter broke the silence again, his voice lighter, almost too casual. “How’s Immanuel?”

Her head snapped toward him, eyebrows raised. “Seriously?”

“What?”

“You’re asking about my love life now?”

Peter shrugged, grinning faintly. “What can I say? I’m curious. Plus, he’s my best friend. I haven’t seen him in months. I miss fishing with him and Andrew. Maybe James and John, too, if they’re free.”

She rolled her eyes, shaking her head at him. “Men and your thing with fishing. It’s like some primal bonding ritual or something. Sit in silence for hours, occasionally grunt at each other, and call it fun.”

“Hey,” Peter said, mock-offended. “It’s not about the silence. It’s about... you know, catching stuff. And the beer. And the silence. Okay, fine, maybe it’s a little about the silence.”

She chuckled softly, the tension in her shoulders easing just a bit. Outside, the van slowly came to a stop near another checkpoint. The guards approached, their movements brisk and impersonal, and she braced herself for the next round of blood tests.

“Fishing,” she muttered under her breath. “Only men could make boredom sound like a sport.”

Peter parked the van, putting it into neutral as two soldiers approached with clipboards and syringes. The floodlights above cast harsh shadows, making their faces look even more hollow behind their helmets.

“Names?” one guard asked, his tone clipped.

Peter leaned out the window slightly. “Peter Yonah and... uh, Mary Magdalene,” he said, gesturing toward her in the passenger seat.

“Blood test again?” Mary muttered, already rolling up her sleeve.

“Standard procedure,” the soldier replied, not looking up from his clipboard.

“Standard,” she echoed under her breath, her tone bitter. She held out her arm, wincing as the needle pricked her skin. Another drop of blood, another machine whirring to life. Peter, next to her, went through the same process with an exaggerated shrug, as if to say, Well, what can you do?

When both machines gave their blessed green lights, the guards waved them through without so much as a nod. Peter started the van again, pulling into a narrow side street where tents spilled onto the road.

“So,” Peter started, breaking the silence as he maneuvered around a group of kids chasing a soccer ball, “you gonna answer the question, or what?”

“What question?” Mary asked, feigning ignorance as she stared out the window.

“Immanuel. How’s he holding up?”

She exhaled sharply. “He’s fine, I guess. We talk when we can, but it’s not exactly easy to stay connected these days, especially with the damn outbreak.” Her voice softened, almost to herself. “Last time I heard from him, he said he was working as a volunteer nurse at the shelter near Annapolis. Said it was safer there. I told him I wasn’t so sure.”

Peter nodded, his expression thoughtful. “Makes sense. He always liked playing it safe. Not like Andrew—Andrew would’ve gone straight into the chaos just to prove he could handle it.”

Mary smirked faintly. “Yeah, Immanuel was always the level-headed one. Probably why he puts up with me.”

“Definitely why,” Peter teased, earning a glare from her. He held up his hands. “Hey, I’m just saying. You’re not exactly the easiest person to deal with.”

“Coming from the guy who picks fights with vending machines?” she shot back, her tone dry.

“Those machines had it coming,” he said with a grin, then grew quiet for a moment. “I do miss him, though. Fishing trips aren’t the same without him.”

Mary rolled her eyes, though her lips twitched upward. “Fishing trips. God, you guys really know how to party.”

“Don’t knock it till you try it,” Peter said, his grin returning. “We’ll take you one day. You, me, Immanuel, Andrew... hell, even James and John too.”

“Yeah,” she said softly, her gaze drifting to the window again. Outside, a little girl stared back at her, her face pale and gaunt.

Mary swallowed hard, the humor in her voice fading. “Maybe one day.”

Charlie sighed, her fingers tightening on the hand radio as Peter (tried) reached for it, desperation etched across his face. “I need to talk to him,” Peter pleaded, his voice cracking. “Just one more second, please—”

“No,” Charlie cut him off. She turned the dial, silencing the faint crackle of Andrew’s voice. “That was more than enough. The plan’s in motion. We stick to it.”

Peter stared at her, his shoulders tense before they relaxed in defeat. He exhaled sharply, his gaze fixed on the floor.

Meanwhile, Maggie stirred, her tiny fists pressing against the fabric of the sling that held her snug against Charlie’s chest. She let out a soft, unhappy whimper, her face scrunching up in the universal language of hungry babies.

“She’s hungry,” Pentious muttered from behind, concerned.

“I know,” Charlie replied, brushing her fingers over Maggie’s wispy hair. Her voice softened just slightly. “But we’re out of formula. Completely. I checked twice.”

Pentious swore under his breath, pacing a few steps before spinning back around. “That’s bad news. We can’t keep her like this—she’s barely eaten today.”

Peter looked up. “Wait,” he said quickly. “I—I have some. In my pack. A small tin. It’s not much, but it’ll last a bit if you stretch it.”

Charlie froze, her eyes narrowing as she turned to him. “You have baby formula? Why didn’t you mention that sooner?”

“I didn’t think you’d believe me,” Peter admitted, his voice dropping. “But it’s there. Bottom of the pack, wrapped in a cloth. I swear.”

“Check his pack,” Charlie ordered, not taking her eyes off Peter.

Alastor was already ahead of him. He rummaged through the pack and pulled out one item after another until he found it—a small tin, marked simply with Baby Formula in neat, handwritten letters. He turned it over in his hands, inspecting the seal, then popped it open with a faint hiss.

Inside was a fine white powder.

“Well, well,” Alastor murmured. “It seems he wasn’t lying. But—” He looked up sharply, his grin widening into something more sinister. “—how do we know it’s safe?”

Charlie blinked, caught off guard. “Safe?”

“For the baby,” Alastor clarified. “We wouldn’t want to poison her, now would we? And forgive me, but our dear Peter here doesn’t exactly ooze trustworthiness.”

Peter bristled. “It’s fine. I wouldn’t carry poison in my pack, for God’s sake. It’s formula. That’s it.”

“Perhaps,” Alastor said, his grin never faltering. “But we’ll never be too sure unless someone tastes it first. Wouldn’t you agree, Charlie?”

Charlie stared at him, momentarily speechless. It wasn’t like Alastor to bring up the baby at all, let alone voice concern about her well-being. But the logic of it hit her like a slap—he was right. They couldn’t take any chances.

She turned to Peter. “You heard him. If it’s so safe, then taste it.”

Peter’s eyes widened. “You can’t be serious.”

“Dead serious,” Charlie replied. “You said it’s fine. Prove it.”

Alastor handed Peter the tin, his smile razor-sharp as he tilted his head. “A spoonful should do. You wouldn’t deny a starving child, now would you?”

Peter hesitated, his gaze flicking between them, stares pressing down on him like a physical force. Finally, he exhaled, his shoulders slumping. "Fine," he muttered. "If that’s what it takes."

Charlie exchanged a glance with Alastor, then reached for a plastic spoon from her pack. It was worn but clean. She dipped it into the tin, scooping a tiny amount of the white powder.

“Open.”

Peter grimaced but complied, parting his lips slightly. His hands were still bound tightly behind him, the rusted radiator biting into his wrists as he shifted uncomfortably against it. Charlie leaned closer, carefully tipping the spoon into his mouth as if she were feeding Maggie instead of a full-grown man.

Peter’s jaw clenched as the powder hit his tongue. He swallowed awkwardly, coughing faintly as the dry texture stuck to the roof of his mouth. His face twisted in discomfort.

“Well?” Alastor asked, his grin unwavering as he leaned in, watching Peter with a fox-like curiosity. “Still breathing? Feeling any… tingling sensations, perhaps?”

Peter shot him a glare. “It’s formula,” he spat. “Like I said. Perfectly fine. Tastes awful, but it’s fine.”

Charlie straightened, her gaze unwavering as she studied Peter for any signs of deception. After a moment, she seemed satisfied, though her expression remained guarded.

“Then we get some water boiling,” she said, glancing over her shoulder. “We need to mix this for Maggie.”

Pentious nodded, already moving to gather supplies alongside Niffty. Meanwhile, Maggie let out another soft cry, her small fists waving impatiently against Charlie’s chest.

“Happy now?” Peter questions with defiance.

“Not about happy,” Charlie replied, slipping the spoon back into her pack. Her tone softened slightly as she added, “It’s about Maggie. We can’t take risks when it comes to her.”

Peter said nothing, his gaze dropping to the floor as his jaw tightened.

From the corner of the room, Alastor chuckled quietly. “A wise choice, Charlie. Though I must admit,” he tilted his head, studying Peter with unsettling amusement, “it’s rare to see such… selfless dedication. Fascinating.” He then pulled out a small plastic cup of pudding. “And a delightful little treat. It’s been a while since I’ve seen one of these. Tell me, Peter—may we partake?”

Peter, still licking the remnants of powder from his teeth, glared at him. “The food in my pack isn’t for me. It’s for the survivors we find. The ones starving.”

Alastor raised an eyebrow, clearly entertained by the moral conviction. “How noble of you,” he said. “But you see, my dear boy, we can’t just go around trusting seals and labels, can we? We wouldn’t want to risk anyone falling ill.”

Peter groaned, his head tipping back against the radiator. “Oh, come on. All the food in my pack is safe. It’s sealed. It’s not like I’m carrying a ticking time bomb of spoiled goods.”

“Perhaps,” Alastor peels back the pudding lid. “But as we’ve already established, safety comes first.” He dipped a spoon into the pudding and held it out toward Peter. “Open wide.”

Peter scowled. “I hate pudding.”

“Even better!” Alastor said cheerily. “That’ll make you impartial, won’t it? Now, do be a good sport.”

Peter muttered something under his breath but ultimately relented, opening his mouth just enough to let Alastor spoon in the pudding. He swallowed it with visible disgust, his face scrunching as though it were the worst thing he’d ever tasted.

“There. God, I hate the texture…” he snapped. “It’s safe. Eat it all if you want.”

Alastor grinned, clearly enjoying Peter’s irritation. “Why, thank you. Don’t mind if I do.”

Meanwhile, Pentious had successfully boiled water in an old kettle, and Charlie moved swiftly to mix the formula. Her movements were careful and steady despite the tension in the room. The faint scent of warm milk filled the air as she swirled the powder into the water, shaking the bottle until the liquid turned smooth and white.

Maggie, sensing relief was near, fussed louder in her sling, her tiny hands curling into fists. Charlie unslung her carefully, cradling the baby against her arm as she tested the bottle on her wrist. Satisfied with the temperature, she pressed the nipple to Maggie’s lips.

“There you go,” Charlie murmured as Maggie latched on, her cries fading into soft, contented suckling.

For a moment, the room stilled. Even Alastor quieted, his gaze briefly flicking to the baby, then back to Peter.

“You see?” Peter muttered, breaking the silence. “I’m not the monster you think I am.”

Charlie didn’t look at him, her focus entirely on Maggie. “You’re not off the hook yet,” she replied. “But if this keeps her fed, it’s a start.”

Peter sighed and Alastor chuckled. “Oh, don’t be so dour, Peter. This little taste-testing gig might just earn you a promotion to ‘moderately tolerable.’”

Meanwhile, Husk, who had been silently observing the exchange from the corner, let out a raspy chuckle. He leaned back against the wall. “Y’know, Alastor, for all your chatter, I think Peter’s already more tolerable than you—bum leg and all.”

Alastor froze, his ever-present grin faltering for just a fraction of a second before he erupted into an overly exaggerated laugh. “Ah-ha-ha! Oh, Husk, always the comedian. How droll! But alas, I must remind you that charm such as mine is irreplaceable.”

“Yeah,” Husk muttered. “Real charmer.”

Charlie ignored the banter, her attention fixed on Maggie, who was still feeding, her small hands grasping weakly at the bottle. With a sigh, Charlie glanced at Peter. “None of this is personal.”

Peter met her eyes, his expression neutral but not unkind. “I know,” he replied. “Like I said, I get it. I’m a stranger walking into your group… If I were in your shoes, I’d be doing the same thing.”

Charlie studied him for a moment, her posture relaxing slightly. “You’re from D.C.?” she asked. “Is that where you were when the outbreak hit?”

Peter shook his head. “No. Baltimore, actually.”

That answer caught Charlie off guard. Her brows furrowed, her lips parting slightly in surprise. “Really? Here?”

Peter nodded, his voice steady as he continued. “Yeah. Me, my brother, and a few others were there. We managed to escape before the whole zone was overrun.”

Charlie’s eyes narrowed slightly, the wheels turning in her mind. “When was it overrun?”

“Three months after the first outbreak,” Peter replied. “It… wasn’t pretty. But I was lucky—blessed, really. The people in D.C. took us in. They’ve always been open to survivors who can prove their worth, even some from Alexandria. A lot of us found refuge there.”

Charlie tilted her head, her expression skeptical. “They took in survivors from other zones? That’s a big risk.”

Peter exhaled, his shoulders slumping slightly. “You’re not wrong. It’s risky. Two of the leaders, including Lucifer—are still skeptical about the whole thing. But one of them... she gets it. She knows how important it is to open the doors to people who can contribute. That understanding saved lives.”

Charlie’s jaw tightened at the mention of her father’s name. “It’s not just risky; it’s dangerous. People can lie. They can be desperate. Bringing in the wrong person could mean the end for everyone.”

Peter nodded solemnly. “I understand. And the skeptical leaders think the same way. But Andrew and I... we’ve gotten good at reading people. We’ve turned away the ones who didn’t feel right. We’ve made mistakes, sure, but we’ve never let in anyone who would put the community at risk.” He paused. “But we won’t cross the line to killing them. That’s not human. Even desperate people deserve a chance to survive—just not with us.”

Charlie’s eyes narrowed, her voice quieter now. “Have you killed someone?”

Peter’s jaw clenched, and he looked away for a moment before answering. “The infected, yes. Plenty of them. But a living person...” He swallowed hard, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “She was infected... I… I made the call. And I regret it every single day.”

Charlie fell silent, her gaze dropping to the floor as she considered Peter’s words—the choice, the act, the endless replay in his head. For her, taking a life had always been the last option, something to avoid at all costs. But she’d learned the hard way that not everyone had that luxury.

But you still have a choice to spare them, but you chose not to.

“I’m sorry,” she said finally. “For your loss.”

Peter glanced up, surprise flickering across his face before softening into something quieter. “Thanks,” he murmured. “I... appreciate that.”

The room lapsed into an uneasy stillness, broken only by Maggie’s rhythmic sucking at the bottle. Then, the crackle of static from the hand radio cut through the silence. Charlie straightened, her fingers tightening around the device as Vaggie’s voice came through.

“Charlie, you there?”

“I’m here,” Charlie replied instantly, holding the radio close. “What’s the update?”

There was a brief pause, followed by Vaggie’s calm voice. “We’re heading back to the house now. And... both Peter and Andrew are telling the truth.”

Charlie exhaled slowly, relief mingling. “Good to know.”

Peter’s head shot up at the mention of his brother. “Wait—Andrew? Is he okay?”

Charlie hesitated, glancing at the radio. Before she could answer, Vaggie’s voice came through again. “He’s fine,” she said firmly. “And we’ll be bringing him along. No harm done.”

Peter’s shoulders sagged in visible relief, and he nodded, whispering, “Thank God.” He slumped back against the radiator and eyes closed.

Charlie eyed him, her grip on the radio loosening slightly as she switched it off. “We’ll talk more when they get back,” she said, not unkindly.

Peter nodded again but said nothing, his focus somewhere far away, likely on his brother.

In the corner, Alastor leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching the scene with an unreadable expression. “Well,” he said lightly, breaking the silence, “this is shaping up to be quite the family reunion, isn’t it?”

Charlie shot him a look. “Not now, Alastor.”

He smirked but said no more, his attention shifting to the nearly empty pudding cup in his hand.

Untying Peter from the radiator felt like the symbolic end of a very long day. The rusted metal groaned as Charlie worked the knots loose, her fingers aching against the rough rope. Peter, to his credit, didn’t say much—just a quiet “thanks” when his wrists were finally free, followed by an awkward roll of his shoulders like he wasn’t sure what to do with them now.

His pack was next, every item tucked back where it belonged. Flashlight, climbing tools, bottled water, the suspiciously sweet assortment of food. All accounted for. Charlie handed it to him, and he took it carefully, his expression somewhere between relieved and wary.

Outside the house, the air was warm. The group spread out, waiting, the tension settling over them. Alastor hummed some unrecognizable tune under his breath with Niffty sitting beside him, while Husk leaned against the porch railing, lighting a cigarette with shaky fingers.

Charlie stood off to the side, cradling Maggie against her chest. Her tiny breaths puffed against the blonde's shirt.

Then she saw them.

Vaggie was the first to come into view, her familiar determined stride cutting through the distance. Beside her, Cherri kept pace, her expression alert as usual. And there was Angel, a little behind them, pushing a man forward—a man who, even from this distance, Charlie could tell must’ve been Andrew. Something about the slope of his shoulders, the way his head turned toward Peter like he already knew he was here.

Peter must’ve felt it too, because he stood suddenly straighter beside Charlie, his eyes locking on the group as they closed the distance. “Andrew,” he murmured.

When they were close enough to see the details—the tired lines in Andrew’s face, the dirt on his clothes—Angel stepped forward and made quick work of the binds around his wrists. “There,” Angel said, snapping the last knot loose. “Free as a bird.”

Andrew didn’t even hesitate. The second the rope hit the ground, he was moving—running—straight toward Peter.

Peter met him halfway, and they collided in a hug that was more desperation than grace, their arms locking around each other like they’d been holding their breath for months and could finally exhale.

Peter and Andrew pulled back from their embrace, though Peter’s hands lingered on Andrew’s shoulders, his gaze scanning him like he was cataloging every detail. His eyes caught the bruises circling Andrew’s wrists, a mirror of his own, but otherwise, Andrew looked clear. Tired, but unharmed.

The brothers exchanged a look, and Andrew gave Peter’s shoulder a firm squeeze before stepping back.

Meanwhile, Vaggie approached Charlie, her hand reaching out for Maggie. Without a word, Charlie handed the baby to her wife, who adjusted Maggie carefully against her chest. Vaggie brushed a hand over Maggie’s wispy hair, her expression softening for just a moment before she turned her attention back to Charlie.

“Is it no bullshit?” Charlie asked.

Vaggie gave a single nod, her expression firm. “No bullshit. Andrew showed us the cars they’ve been using—they’re organized, Charlie. Well-equipped.”

Charlie crossed her arms, her gaze drifting toward the clear road. “They’re prepared,” she murmured, half to herself. “More than we are.”

“Exactly,” Vaggie replied. “It’d be stupid not to take the offer. But—” She hesitated, her tone softening. “Even my gut doesn’t trust them fully. Not yet. Not until we step foot into D.C.”

Charlie’s jaw tightened as she absorbed Vaggie’s words. She glanced at her wife. “You think we’ll see him?”

Vaggie knew exactly who Charlie meant. “Your dad?” she asked quietly. “Probably… Peter’s mentioned about him more than once already. You looking forward to it?”

Charlie let out a deep breath, her shoulders slumping slightly. “I’m not sure I’m ready to see him again.”

Before Vaggie could respond, Peter stepped forward, his gaze fixed on Charlie. “I had a talk with Andrew,” he began. “And we’ve come to a conclusion—your group, you’re dangerous. But not recklessly so. You only act when it’s necessary, and you didn’t try to use that against me or Andrew. That tells us a lot.”

Charlie raised an eyebrow. “And?”

“And,” Peter said, “it means you’re not a threat to the community. At least, not in the wrong way. So, the question is—are you coming with us?”

Charlie hesitated, her gaze flicking back to her group. Husk stood with a cigarette hanging loosely from his lips, his expression unreadable. Pentious adjusted his pack with a sharp nod in her direction. Cherri gave her an encouraging grin, and Angel’s usual smirk tempered by exhaustion. Even Alastor and Niffty, who were often wildcards, gave her a nod of approval.

Finally, Charlie looked to Vaggie, who cradled Maggie protectively. Vaggie gave a small nod, her expression saying everything Charlie needed to hear.

Letting out a long sigh, Charlie turned back to Peter. “We’ll come with you.”

Peter’s face broke into a smile, a genuine one that softened the weariness in his eyes. “Good,” he said. “We’ve got vehicles just a short walk from here. Enough to get everyone back to D.C.”

He extended his hand, waiting.

Charlie glanced down at it for a moment before reaching out and clasping it firmly. “Lead the way.”

The freeway stretched out before them, an endless ribbon of cracked asphalt and faded lines that seemed almost too quiet, too still. Charlie leaned back against the passenger seat, the hum of the car’s engine filling the silence. The faint, rhythmic bump of the tires against uneven pavement matched the dull ache behind her eyes. Beside her, Peter gripped the steering wheel, his fingers drumming against it every so often, a quiet habit she assumed he wasn’t even aware of.

Behind them, Vaggie sat with Maggie cradled against her chest, the baby’s small form rising and falling with each soft breath. Pentious was beside her, absently flipping a knife in his hands, the blade catching stray bits of sunlight that peeked through the car’s grimy windows.

The rest of their group trailed behind in the family van, Andrew at the wheel. Charlie had glanced at them once in the rearview mirror—Husk leaning against the window, Angel gesturing animatedly about something, and Cherri rolling her eye—but now she let herself settle into the present, the quiet thrum of the road beneath them.

The silence stretched on until Charlie broke it. “How’d the D.C. quarantine zone hold out?” she asked. “Unlike everywhere else, I mean.”

Peter didn’t look at her, his eyes fixed on the road ahead, but she could see the tension in his jaw as he thought about it. “Best guess?” he said finally. “It’s not so much about holding out. It’s about what happens when the ones in charge lose their grip.”

“What do you mean?”

He exhaled, the kind of sound people make when they’re recounting something they’ve tried to forget. “Baltimore was fine, at first. A little chaotic, sure, but the National Guard was there. Kept things under control. Until they couldn’t.” His fingers tightened on the wheel. “Once the chain of command broke, everything went to hell. Raiders moved in, infected followed, and the people who were supposed to protect us started shooting anyone they saw as a threat. Infected or not.”

Charlie blinked, trying to picture it. “They shot your people too?”

Peter nodded, his expression grim. “That’s what happens when fear takes over. People revolted, but with no protection, the place fell apart. Overrun in weeks. Guessing Alexandria was the same story.”

“And D.C.?”

“That’s… a special case.”

“What makes it special?”

Peter glanced at her briefly, then back at the road. “Most zones were built around entire cities. Baltimore, Alexandria—everything inside the perimeter was the zone. Surprisingly or not, D.C. wasn’t like that. It was divided into four: Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, and Echo. Some experiment, I guess, to see if smaller, controlled zones worked better.”

“And?”

He shrugged, the movement subtle. “They didn’t. Three of them fell pretty quickly, just like everywhere else. Echo’s the only one that made it.”

The safezone where Dad’s in. Charlie frowned. “Why?”

“Still trying to figure that out myself,” Peter admitted, his voice quieter now. “Maybe they got lucky. Maybe whoever was left decided they weren’t going to make the same mistakes as the others. Like I said before, I’m not from there at first. Either way, it’s standing.”

The car hit a small pothole, jostling them slightly. Maggie stirred in Vaggie’s arms but didn’t wake, her tiny face scrunching briefly before relaxing again.

Charlie stared out the window, her thoughts tangling like vines as she tried to piece together everything Peter had said. Echo Safezone. Divided zones. Three fallen. Her dad. The words rattled in her mind like loose screws, and she couldn’t help but latch onto the one thread that made her chest tighten. Her dad had stepped forward after everything crumbled. That much was clear. But the rest—the part Peter wasn’t saying outright—felt heavier, like there was more she’d have to unravel when they arrived.

“So my dad…” she trails off. “He stepped up after the other zones fell?”

Peter glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, his expression unreadable. “From what I’ve heard, yeah,” he said simply. “Stepped forward when it looked like Echo was going to fall apart, too. Figured someone had to take charge, keep things running.”

That tracked, Charlie thought. As expected, her dad was the kind of person who couldn’t stand sitting still while chaos unfolded. He always had to do something, even if it meant shouldering the weight of the bullshit.

“And he’s still in charge?”

Peter hesitated. “One of them, yeah. Echo’s got a council now—three people. Your dad’s one of ‘em. But…” He trailed off, like he was searching for the right words. “He wasn’t exactly on board with the whole survivor recruitment thing.”

Charlie frowned. “Right.”

Peter exhaled through his nose, his grip tightening on the wheel. “Echo—sorry, Eden—isn’t like other zones. It’s not open doors. Your dad’s more… cautious, let’s say. Not too keen on letting outsiders in unless there’s a damn good reason. The recruitment push? That wasn’t his idea. That came from one of the other leaders.”

“Eden?” Charlie repeated, latching onto the name change.

Peter nodded. “That’s what they’re calling it now. One of the council members—same one who pushed for recruiting—proposed the name. Said it’d make the place feel more… I don’t know, homely? Like it’s not just a safezone but somewhere you could build a life.”

Charlie let the words hang in the air for a moment. Eden. It sounded nice enough on the surface, but there was something about it that didn’t sit right. Too idyllic. Too neat.

The car hit another bump, jolting Charlie slightly. Maggie stirred again in Vaggie’s arms, letting out a tiny whimper before settling back into sleep.

“Eden,” Charlie murmured to herself, the word tasting strange on her tongue.

“You’ll see it soon,” Peter said, his voice quieter now. “And… look, your dad’s tough. I won’t sugarcoat that. But he’s not unreasonable. You’ve got a good group. That’ll count for something.”

Charlie gazed out the windshield, the dull ache in her chest growing heavier as the scenery began to change. The horizon shifted, the empty freeway giving way to the looming silhouette of a reinforced concrete wall that stretched far into the distance. It was a massive, imposing structure, with jagged edges where the concrete had been patched haphazardly over time. Faded letters painted in black marked one side near the gate: BRAVO

Peter slowed the car slightly, his eyes scanning the wall as they approached. The gate labeled CHARLIE on the other side was barely intact, its steel frame twisted and mangled. It looked like it had been ripped apart from the inside, the kind of destruction that didn’t happen overnight.

As they passed through the broken remains of what was once Charlie Safezone, the scene was unsettlingly quiet. Straggling infected wandered aimlessly, their heads lolling as if the act of moving was a struggle. None of them reacted to the car rumbling past, and Peter didn’t seem particularly worried. Still, Charlie tensed, her hand instinctively brushing against the knife strapped to her thigh.

“This used to be it?” she asked softly, the silence feeling too sacred to break loudly.

Peter nodded, his expression unreadable. “Yeah. What’s left of it.”

The desolation of it all hit Charlie harder than she expected. Empty streets lined with overturned cars, shattered glass glinting in the sunlight, and skeletal remains of barricades long since abandoned. She could almost imagine what it must have been like—people running, screaming, trying to survive as the walls closed in around them.

But then, as they moved deeper, another wall came into view. This one was much smaller, its structure less imposing but somehow more purposeful. It was patched together with sheets of metal, concrete and sections of chain-link fencing, held steady by wooden beams and reinforced with sandbags. A watchtower rose above it, with a lone figure visible through the slats of its roof.

Painted across the metal in bold, black letters was a single word: ECHO

Peter slowed to a crawl as they neared the gate. The figure in the tower noticed them immediately, disappearing down a ladder. Moments later, the gate creaked open, revealing more guards standing behind it. They were armed, but their weapons weren’t raised; they looked cautious but not hostile.

Then, she hears children’s voices and laughter beyond those walls.

Oh.

Peter glanced over at Charlie with a small smile. “Welcome to Eden.”

The light through the stained-glass windows of the cathedral painted the office walls in fractured blues and reds, a kaleidoscope of quiet beauty that didn’t match the tension hanging in the room. The three of them sat around a battered wooden table in what had once been the vestry, maps and papers scattered across its surface.

“I'm saying we take the risk,” the older man said, his voice low but firm, the kind of voice that had learned over years how to cut through noise without shouting. He leaned forward, his hands splayed out on the table like they could anchor his argument in place. “There's no other way. We’ve scoured every inch of Echo—we’re scraping the bottom of the barrel here. Those other safezones? They were stocked before they fell. You know they were.”

The older woman shook her head, her silver hair catching the weak light. Her face was a map of weariness, the lines etched there by too many nights without enough sleep and too many losses she couldn’t name. “And they were overrun, Lucifer. Overrun.” Her voice carrying the patience of someone who had repeated herself more times than she cared to count. “You think the supplies just sat there waiting for us? If anything, they’re a deathtrap now. The Alpha safezone had what, thirty thousand people packed into it? You know what that means? It means thirty thousand infected.”

Lucifer leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his graying blonde hair. “I know what it means, Sera. But what are we supposed to do? Sit here and ration scraps until we run out? Wait for a miracle?”

“You’re suggesting we risk lives on a gamble,” Sera shot back. “It’s reckless. There’s no guarantee we’d find anything worth the risk. And if we send people out there, we’d be sending them into a death trap. You’ve read the reports.”

The younger woman, barely in her mid-thirties, sat back in her chair as she watched the argument unfold. She looked like she wanted to speak but was holding back, her hazel eyes flicking between Lucifer and Sera. Her fingers tapped rhythmically against the edge of the table, the only sound besides the back-and-forth volley of the two older leaders.

The others might have had decades of experience on her, but what she lacked in years, she made up for in an intensity that bordered on unsettling.

“What about the small teams?” Lucifer continued. “We send a group of three, maybe four. Hit Bravo or Charlie first. Those were smaller zones in terms of population, less likely to be crawling with infected. We’re not talking a full expedition here. Just a scouting run.”

“And if they don’t come back?” Sera asked coldly.

“Then we’ll know,” Lucifer replied. “But at least we’ll have tried. This community doesn’t survive if we’re too scared to take risks.”

Sera opened her mouth to retort, but the younger woman finally spoke. “We’re going in circles.”

The other two turned to look at her, surprised. The woman leaned forward, her fingers brushing against the edge of the D.C. map spread across the table.

“Lucifer’s right about one thing,” she said. “We need to expand our options. But Sera’s right too—it’s a huge risk. Alpha and Bravo were densely populated zones if I recall… The odds of running into infected are high. So, we compromise.”

Lucifer arched a brow. “Compromise how?”

“We don’t start with Alpha or Bravo,” she said simply. “We hit Charlie first. It was the smallest zone, and most of the population moved to Eden before it fell so the risk is lower.” She leaned forward, tapping her finger on the section of the map labeled Charlie.

“Charlie had three fully operational medical facilities. If even one of them is intact, it could mean a supply of antibiotics, equipment, even bandages. Doctor Bell would be more than happy to finally have the abundance of right tools.”

“Even if there are supplies, the infected will be swarming that area.” Sera’s expression softened, “Emily, this isn’t just about taking a risk—it’s about taking a stupid risk.”

Emily didn’t flinch. “It’s not stupid if it’s calculated. We need those supplies, Sera. You’ve seen the infection rates. You know what we’re up against. If we keep ignoring the fact that our people are dying because we can’t treat them, this whole community is going to collapse, with or without infected at our gates.”

Sera’s expression darkened, but she didn’t interrupt.

Emily continued. “We send a small team—experienced people who know how to get in and out without drawing attention like Peter and Andrew. We prioritize the medical centers. If we’re lucky, we come back with enough to stabilize things here.”

Lucifer folded his arms, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “This is going well.”

Sera turned to him, her glare sharp enough to cut glass. “Oh, of course you agree. This is your idea to begin with.”

“True,” Lucifer said, shrugging lightly, “but Emily’s the one making it sound convincing.”

Emily sighed, brushing a strand of dark hair out of her face. She opened her mouth to respond, but the sharp knock at the door pulled everyone's attention. The sound was brisk and polite, followed by the door creaking open just enough for Peter to step inside.

“Apologies,” his tone is measured, though his eyes scanned the room quickly. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

Lucifer leaned back in his chair, his expression flat. “You are interrupting.”

Peter gave a faint smile, the kind that said he’d expected the reaction but was going to push through anyway. “Right, sorry about that,” he said. “But this is important. We’ve got newcomers—eight survivors. Nine if you count the baby.”

That last word hung in the air like a stone dropped into a still pond, the ripples visible in both Sera’s and Emily’s expressions.

“A baby?” Sera repeated, her eyebrows lifting in surprise.

Peter nodded. “Yeah. But it’s not just that. These people… they mean business. Good people, from what we’ve seen. They could be wonderful additions to Eden.”

Emily’s brow furrowed as she exchanged a glance with Sera. Survivors were rare enough, but the mention of a baby made her stomach twist with a strange mix of hope and unease. “Where did they come from?” she asked, her voice careful.

“More importantly,” Sera added, folding her arms, “why do you seem so certain about them already? They haven’t gotten an interview yet.”

Peter’s gaze flicked to Lucifer. He hesitated for half a second before speaking again. “Because… there’s someone you’ll want to meet.”

Lucifer’s eyes narrowed slightly in suspicion. “You mean…”

Peter cut him off with a slight shake of his head. “It’s best if you come see for yourself.”

The cars sat idling on the street, their engines silent now, save for the occasional tick as they cooled in the stillness. Charlie leaned against the driver’s door of Peter’s car, the faint metallic warmth of it seeping into her back. Around her, the rest of the group had spread out in loose clusters, their movements aimless and quiet as they waited.

Peter had disappeared into the towering cathedral that loomed ahead of them, its spires cutting sharply into the overcast sky. From where she stood, it seemed almost surreal—untouched by the chaos outside the walls, the kind of place that made you feel small just by looking at it. That’s the centerpiece of Eden, she thought. It had to be.

Charlie’s gaze drifted. The community sprawled out around them, and the more she looked, the more surreal it felt. The houses were pristine, free of the creeping vines and shattered windows that seemed like a standard feature in the apocalypse. The streets were clean, not a single piece of debris or scorched asphalt in sight.

And then there were the people.

She watched them from a distance, trying not to stare. They looked… fine. Normal, even. There were women chatting on porches, men unloading crates from a cart at the corner, and kids—actual kids—chasing each other down the street, their laughter ringing out like it belonged to a different world entirely.

It didn’t make sense. Not entirely. After so much time out there, in the dirt and blood and ruin, this place felt more like a dream than reality. And dreams always ended.

Her chest tightened as she glanced over her shoulder at the rest of the group. Vaggie stood close to Maggie, adjusting the baby’s blanket while Pentious leaned against the side of the van with Cherri knelt to tie her boot laces. Husk muttered something to Angel, who rolled his eyes in response, while Alastor and Niffty are in a similar observing mood as Charlie. All of them were there, but none of them felt entirely at ease.

They didn’t belong here. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Charlie’s thoughts broke when she caught movement in the distance. Her eyes snapped back to the cathedral, and there he was—Peter—walking out first, his stride brisk as ever. Behind him, two women emerged.

The first was older, her dark skin framed by a halo of graying curls, her expression one of calm authority. She looks like she’s in charge. A leader of Eden?

The second was younger, her features sharper but still strikingly similar, as though the two women were cut from the same cloth. She might’ve been around Charlie’s age, maybe a few years older. Sisters, maybe?

But then the last figure stepped out, and everything else in Charlie’s mind blurred.

He was way shorter than Peter, his shoulders hunched slightly. His pale face was framed by unkempt blonde hair streaked with gray, and his beard was wild, untamed, but somehow familiar.

It was his eyes that did it. Blue, piercing, unmistakable.

The world slowed.

Charlie felt her breath hitch, her feet moving before her mind could catch up. “Dad?” she whispered, the word barely audible, trembling on the air.

She saw his lips move, mirroring hers. “Charlie?”

The world around Charlie vanished, swallowed by the sight of him. Her dad. Her dad.

Her feet moved on their own, hesitant steps carrying her forward as if she were afraid the moment might shatter if she moved too quickly. He mirrored her movements, his own steps slow and uncertain, his eyes wide with disbelief.

Her heart pounded in her chest, each beat echoing like thunder in her ears. The distance between them felt impossibly vast, even as it shrank with every step. Her voice caught in her throat, the lump there too big to swallow.

And then, as if some invisible thread snapped, the hesitation fell away.

“Dad!” she cried, breaking into a run.

His pace quickened, his arms opening wide, his expression crumbling into something raw and unguarded. “Charlie!” he called back, his voice cracking.

They collided in the middle, the impact fierce but full of love. His arms wrapped around her, pulling her in like he never wanted to let go, and Charlie buried her face in his shoulder. His beard scratched against her cheek, but she didn’t care. The smell of him—sweat, earth, and something achingly familiar—brought tears streaming down her face.

“I thought—” she choked, her words muffled against him. “I thought—fuck, I looked for you. I looked everywhere.”

“Me too, sweetheart,” he murmured. He held her tighter, his hand cradling the back of her head like she might slip away. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

“I’m here,” Charlie whispered, her voice trembling. “I’m right here.”

For a moment, nothing else existed. The chaos of the world, the survival, the uncertainty of everything—they all melted away. It was just her and her dad, holding on to each other like the universe had finally given them something back.

Behind them, the group watched in silence. Vaggie had Maggie perched on her hip, her expression softening as she glanced at the others. Even Alastor, usually smug or detached, stood quietly, his eyes narrowed in thought.

But none of that mattered to Charlie. She clung to her dad, her tears soaking into his shirt, and for the first time in a long time, she felt something she hadn’t dared to believe in.

Home.