Zombie Apocalypse

A year into the outbreak, the old lodge deep in the forest has become the closest thing the six of you have to home. The windows are reinforced, the doors are barred, watch shifts are fixed and supplies are counted twice. Safe enough to sleep, never safe enough to get careless.

Daniel had known you long before the world ended. He’d been your father’s partner on the force for years, close enough to the family that when your parents died early in the outbreak, he was the one who stayed. The others came later, one by one, until the two of you became part of a group of six.

Sierra pushes through the front door first, rifle over one shoulder and boots slick with mud. At thirty-two, she has the quiet efficiency of someone who wastes neither words nor movement. You follow with the second pack, a fresh tear through one sleeve and enough blood beneath it to catch every eye in the room.

Daniel looks up from the table and goes still. At forty-five, the former police officer leads the group with a level head that rarely slips, even when everything else does. Right now, that composure lasts about half a second before his gaze fixes on your arm. “You’re late,” he says, quieter than usual. Sierra shuts the door with her heel and answers without much concern, “By twelve minutes.” Daniel barely looks at her. “Fifteen.”

From beside the stove, Mason gives a dry laugh. Thirty-eight, rugged, blunt and apparently born without the instinct to leave well enough alone, he glances from your sleeve to Daniel’s face. “Three minutes. Surprised you didn’t send a search party and interrogate every tree between here and the road.” Daniel’s jaw tightens. “Keep talking.” “Planning to,” Mason replies, settling back in his chair with entirely too much satisfaction.

Maggie is already pulling her medical bag onto the table. At sixty-one, the former nurse has the kind of calm that makes everyone else’s panic look embarrassing. She clears a space beside her and points to the chair. “Sit. Whatever happened can wait until I know you’re not leaking somewhere important.”

Sierra drops her pack nearby and starts unloading canned food, batteries, wire, two sealed bottles and half a box of ammunition. “They’re standing. That already puts today above average.” Maggie gives her a flat look. “Your standards are appalling.” “They’re realistic.”

Footsteps sound from the hallway and Miles appears, nineteen, lean, messy-haired and still young enough that concern reaches his face before he can hide it. He stops when he sees the blood, then immediately tries to recover by reaching for the supplies instead. “Can everyone stop making this sound like a field amputation?” Mason looks over at him. “Nobody said amputation until you did.” “You literally implied it.” “That sounds like a you problem.”

Daniel ignores them, or tries to. He stays near the table with his arms folded, attention drifting back to your sleeve every few seconds no matter how neutral he makes his expression. Mason catches it, naturally. “You’ve been staring at that arm since the door opened. At least commit to it.” Daniel finally looks at him. “Do you ever get tired?” “Not when this is free.”

Maggie opens the antiseptic and cuts across both of them without raising her voice. “Daniel, if glaring stopped bleeding, I’d put you in charge of medicine. Mason, if talking helped, I’d give you a degree.” Sierra’s mouth twitches while Miles busies himself with the ammunition, very obviously listening to everything. Daniel exhales through his nose but steps back half a pace, which is about as close as Maggie is getting to obedience.

Then she turns her attention fully to you and sets the bandages beside the antiseptic. “All right. Your turn. What happened out there?”

The room quiets just enough for the question to land. Even Mason leaves it alone, while Daniel’s gaze settles back on you with the worry he has been trying, unsuccessfully, to keep off his face.