Maarg and Jack sat cross-legged on the living room floor, a half-finished game of chess between them. The sun had all but disappeared below the horizon, casting a warm yet unsettling glow over the quiet colony.
Jack picked up a pawn, twirling it between his fingers. "Your move, genius."
Maarg didn't respond right away. He was staring past the board, past Jack—even past the wall itself. The light in his eyes wasn't fixed on the chessboard anymore. It was locked on something much further away.
Jack followed his gaze, then slowly set the pawn down.
"They're not back," he said his, voice low.
Maarg gave a small nod. "It's time."
Jack didn't ask questions. He stood up without a word and walked toward the room they'd converted into a supply cache, where their additional gear was kept.
Maarg, meanwhile, rose from the floor and made his way toward the kitchen. His mother stood by the window, her eyes red-rimmed, a dishcloth clenched tightly in her hands.
"You're going, aren't you?" she said without turning around.
He didn't answer. He didn't need to.
She turned to face him, stepping forward and grasping his arm. "Please, Maarg. Don't do this. You're just a boy… your father said—he said if they don't return by sunset—"
"I know," Maarg said gently, cutting her off. "He said we should consider them dead."
His mother's grip tightened. "Exactly. That means there's no hope. It's over."
Maarg smiled softly, his eyes holding a quiet fire. "Hope is the last thing we give up, Maa. If there's even one percent chance they're alive, I'll bring them back."
Before she could protest, he leaned in and kissed her forehead. Then he turned and slipped away.
But before he joined Jack, he made one quick stop—outside Remmy's window.
Climbing up with his usual cat-like grace, Maarg tapped gently against the glass. Remmy appeared seconds later, opening it cautiously.
Her eyes widened when she saw him. "Maarg? What're you doing? It's already dark—"
"I'm going to find them," he said, cutting her off gently. "My dad… the others. I'll bring them back."
Remmy's face paled. "That's insane! It's suicide! You don't even know where they went."
Maarg smiled, soft but resolute. "We're got a pretty good tracker."
Remmy opened her mouth to argue again, but stopped. Something about the way he stood—calm, steady, unshaken—made her chest tighten. She lowered her head. "Just… don't die, idiot."
"I won't," he whispered, then dropped silently to the ground and disappeared into the shadows.
Back at the gate, Jack was already waiting with a backpack slung over one shoulder and a large speaker cradled in his arms.
"You got the fireworks?" Maarg asked.
"Check."
"Lighter and sanitizer?"
"Double check. And the dog's ready too." Jack nodded to the brown mixed-breed mutt sitting beside him, its ears perked and tail twitching.
"Perfect."
Together, they unlocked the gate and pushed the heavy bench just far enough to slip through. Once they were outside, they carefully pulled it back in place and locked the gate again.
The street was dark and eerie. Only the moon lit their path.
The dog sniffed the ground, pacing in small circles. Jack crouched beside it, whispering softly. "Come on, boy. Where'd they go?"
The dog sniffed, then suddenly turned, barking low as it caught a scent. It took off down the road.
Maarg and Jack exchanged a quick glance and took off after it.
As they moved silently through the empty streets, Maarg pulled the speaker from Jack's pack and set it to low volume. If things got bad, he had a plan—a noise distraction to draw the zombies away. Between that and the firecrackers, they might just have a fighting chance.
"Hey, Maarg," Jack muttered as they jogged behind the dog, "you think they're alive?"
"I don't know," Maarg replied. "But I'm going to act like they are… until I know otherwise."
Jack nodded. That was good enough for him.
The further they moved from the colony, the worse the air smelled. A mix of blood, rot, and ash clung to everything. The silence wasn't comforting anymore—it was oppressive.
But they didn't slow down.
Every step forward was a step toward their people.
Toward their family.
Toward hope.
***
The night was eerie, shrouded in a thick silence broken only by the distant groans of the dead. Maarg and Jack moved like shadows across the street, each step careful, calculated. Maarg clutched the speaker tightly under one arm, while Jack carried the pack filled with firecrackers, sanitizer, a lighter, and a few makeshift weapons they'd collected.
The dog, once reluctant to follow anyone but his selfish owner, now led the way. He sniffed the ground, tail twitching as he picked up familiar scents—scents of the people who had ventured out that morning and never returned.
To distract the zombies, they followed a pattern Maarg had devised. At regular intervals, he would place the speaker down in a safe corner, set it to play a high-pitched loop, and turn up the volume. The sound echoed through the deserted streets, pulling clusters of zombies away from their path. It worked brilliantly. With each blast of sound, the infected would shamble toward it, buying Maarg and Jack precious minutes to move undetected.
Still, not every encounter could be avoided.
Some zombies remained, deaf to the sound or simply slow to react. Jack handled them without hesitation. Clad in a motorcycle helmet and leather jacket, he used a rusted metal pipe like an extension of his arm. One hit to the head—then another if needed. The first kill had rattled him days ago, but now it was muscle memory.
"Up ahead," Maarg whispered, pointing.
The dog barked once, then darted across the street.
"Damn it," Jack hissed, following.
They reached the Grocery Paradise, a medium-sized building with broken signage and shattered windows. The entrance looked like it had been hastily barricaded, then violently torn apart. The heavy carts and planks meant to keep intruders out now lay strewn across the pavement. Blood marked the walls in dry streaks, handprints and smears that told a silent, grim tale.
Maarg crouched low and crept inside, Jack close behind. The dog, undeterred, was already ahead—nose in the air, tail stiff.
Inside was chaos. Food packets trampled into the floor. Cans rolling under shelves. The air was thick with the stench of rotting produce and something metallic.
Then Maarg saw them—six bodies near the back, slumped together behind what remained of the barricade. They weren't moving.
For a moment, everything stopped.
His heart thudded painfully in his chest as he rushed forward, panic surging in waves. One of the bodies was his father—bloodied, bruised, pale. The dog let out a distressed whimper and ran to his actual master—the selfish Whitaker, lying unconscious a few feet away from the others.
"Dad! Hey!" Maarg fell to his knees, gently tapping his father's cheek. "Wake up, please. Come on…"
Jack crouched beside the others and checked pulses. "This one's breathing. So's this guy… they're not dead." He looked up. "Just unconscious."
Maarg's father groaned and shifted slightly. His eyes fluttered open, and he blinked up at the dim ceiling, then at his son.
"Maarg…?"
"Yeah, it's me dad," Maarg said, trying to keep the tremble out of his voice. "Don't talk too much. Just breathe. You're alright now." Maarg hugs his father tightly.
Slowly, Jack helped wake the others. Whitaker stirred last, muttering something unintelligible as his dog licked his face persistently.
Maarg's father sat up with a grunt, wiping blood from his lip. His face was swollen, but his eyes were sharp.
"What happened?" Jack asked.
"We found supplies in the back of the store. Not much, but enough for a few days," he began, voice hoarse. "Just as we were about to leave, another group showed up. Armed. Organized. They didn't say a word—just attacked us."
"Why?" Maarg asked.
"Probably wanted everything we gathered. They didn't want to share, and didn't want to risk resistance. Easier to knock us out and take it all."
Maarg looked around. No supplies. Empty backpacks. Gone.
"We failed," one of the volunteers muttered bitterly.
"No," Maarg's father said firmly. "We're alive. That's more than I expected when I told you all to come with me. That means something."
The group fell into silence. The only sound was the occasional whimper from the dog and the distant howls of the infected.
"We need to move," Jack said. "There could be more coming back. Or worse."
"There's another store," one of the men whispered. "Smaller. A bit deeper into the neighborhood. We skipped it earlier because it was too risky… but we don't have a choice now."
Maarg stood and offered his hand to his father, who took it and slowly got to his feet.
"Then let's go," Maarg said. "We're not leaving empty-handed."
He handed out water bottles and energy bars from his pack. "Eat first. Get your strength back. We move in ten."
The group huddled together, bruised and bloodied, but no longer broken. As they quietly ate and prepared to move on, Whitaker sat with his dog in his lap, silent for once. He didn't offer thanks, nor did anyone expect him to.
They'd come for supplies. But more importantly, they'd come for each other.
And that mission, at least, had been a success.