Every day, more survivors stumbled in from the wilderness, seeking safety, stability, and answers. Some came alone, others in small groups. They arrived battered, hungry, and afraid, their eyes filled with a desperate hope that Richard had come to recognise.
Hope was a powerful thing. It could build nations—or break them.
Richard stood near the centre of the camp, watching as a new group was led in. They were a ragged bunch, dirty and tired, but their eyes still held a flicker of ambition. That would need to be dealt with.
He stepped forward, his expression calm and composed, the very image of a leader welcoming his people.
"Welcome," he said smoothly, his voice carrying over the quiet murmurs of the newcomers. "You've made it to the Safe Zone. My name is Richard."
The group shifted uneasily, but no one spoke at first. That was common. Most people were still adjusting, still waiting to see if this place was truly what they had been promised.
Richard let his gaze sweep over them, cataloguing details as he always did. Men and women in varying states of exhaustion. A few injured, none seriously. A handful of younger faces—useful. People with children were easier to control; they had something to lose.
Then his eyes landed on two boys standing close together, their expressions wary but hopeful.
They were strikingly similar—both had the same deep-set brown eyes, sharp and observant even in their exhaustion. Their dark hair was slightly curled, messy from days of travel.
The older boy had a more defined jawline, a hint of what would one day become a stern expression similar to one he had seen. The younger one had softer features, rounder cheeks that still carried traces of childhood despite the hardships they had endured.
He softened his expression just enough to seem approachable and crouched down slightly to meet them at eye level. "And what are your names?"
The older of the two spoke first, his voice carrying a protective edge. "Isaac."
The younger one, more hesitant, glanced at his brother before answering. "Noah."
Even through the dirt and exhaustion, the resemblance was undeniable. These were her children.
His mind worked quickly, pulling together everything he knew about her. Desperate. Searching. A mother willing to do anything to find her children.
And here they were. They were his leverage.
Richard gave them a warm, practised smile. "Isaac and Noah. It's good to meet you both. You're safe now."
The boys exchanged a quick look, uncertainty flickering in their eyes.
Richard could use that.
Their mother has been cautious so far. Unwilling to commit. But this... this changes everything.
Richard held their gaze, his smile unwavering.
"You must be exhausted," he said, keeping his tone warm, reassuring. "You've been through a lot, haven't you?"
Isaac hesitated before nodding, his protective instincts still on high alert. "We were with a group, but we lost them."
Noah shifted closer to his brother, his small hands clenching into fists with the trembling courage of a frightened child. "People kept disappearing. We didn't know where else to go."
Richard crouched slightly, lowering his voice just enough to make it feel like a private conversation. "Well, you made it here. That's what matters." He gestured to the growing camp behind him. "You'll be safe here. No more running. No more wondering where your next meal will come from."
Isaac's sharp eyes flickered with something unreadable. Doubt, maybe. Hesitation. But Noah, younger and more desperate for reassurance, seemed to ease at Richard's words.
That was enough.
"You don't have to be scared anymore," Richard continued with calculated warmth. "We look after each other here." He glanced towards one of his inner circle members standing nearby. "Get them something to eat and find them a place to rest. Make sure they know they're welcome."
The man nodded, gently guiding the boys away towards the camp's centre. Richard watched them go, his smile fading into something more calculating.
---
Lily moved through the camp like a ghost, her fingers twitching at her sides. The air smelled of smoke and damp earth, but all she could focus on were the voices—murmurs of new arrivals, whispers of who had made it and who hadn't.
Her chest tightened with every step. Maybe this time. Maybe someone knows.
Then she saw Mira, a girl from her chemistry class back when school was still a thing. Mira had always been quiet, the kind of person Lily would've waved at in the hallway but never really knew.
Now, here she was, alive, her arms wrapped around herself like she was holding her ribs together.
Lily practically lunged forward. "Mira! Oh my god—you're here! Have you—" Her voice cracked. "Have you heard anything about my parents? The Everetts?"
Mira's face did something awful then—a flicker of pity, then guilt, like she'd been caught with stolen goods. "Lily, I..." She glanced away, chewing her lip. "I was there when it happened. Your dad, he—he tried to save them by fighting off that creature. Your mum went back for him. They..."
A beat of silence. Lily's ears rang.
"Oh," she said. Just that. Oh.
She'd imagined this moment a hundred times—pictured screaming, collapsing, _something_. But now? Nothing. Just a numb hum in her skull, like her brain had static where grief should be.
Mira reached out, hesitant. "I'm so sorr—"
"No, no, it's—" Lily interrupted, forcing a laugh that sounded more like a choke. "It's fine. I mean, it's not, but—" She waved a hand, as if swatting the words away. "Thanks for telling me. Really. I'm glad you're okay."
She turned before Mira could reply, her vision blurring. Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't—
---
Maria moved through the outer edges of the camp, eyes scanning the faces of each new arrival. Her hands were calloused from helping build shelters, from clenching and unclenching every time she thought she saw one of her boys. But so far—nothing.
Then she heard it.
Just a whisper between two women hauling water, casual and tired.
"—said there were kids brought in. Couple of boys. Think Richard's keeping them close."
Maria stopped in her tracks. Her breath caught in her throat. "What did you say?" she asked sharply.
The women blinked, startled. One of them shifted awkwardly. "Just something I heard. Probably nothing. You know how rumours are."
"Boys," Maria repeated, stepping forward. "How old?"
They exchanged a look. One shrugged. "Ten? Twelve, maybe? I didn't see them."
"Where?"
"Don't know. Honest. Someone said they were being looked after near the centre of camp, but that area's pretty locked down."
Maria's heart slammed in her chest. She forced herself to nod, thank them, and move on. But her legs felt heavy, her breath shallow. It could be them. It could be them.
She spent the rest of the day chasing shadows. Subtle questions to guards and runners. Casual comments tossed at supply officers and cooks. But no one gave her anything solid. The moment she mentioned children, faces closed off. People grew cautious and tight-lipped.
---
Ethan wandered towards the makeshift training yard, not really expecting much—just needing to move. He chewed absent-mindedly on a strip of dried meat, eyes scanning the camp.
Then he stopped.
A tall, broad-shouldered man was helping stack broken pallets for firewood. Mud up to his shins, hair greyer than Ethan remembered, but—
"Eric?" Ethan's voice cracked halfway out of his throat.
The man looked up, confused for a second... then his face split into a disbelieving grin. "Ethan? You've got to be kidding me."
They embraced like brothers. Like men who thought they'd never see each other again.
They sat beside a fire pit, catching up in low tones. They reminisced about the past—they were best friends since childhood, brothers in every way except blood.
They laughed about the past.
"Remember when we broke into that old warehouse downtown?" Ethan said, a grin spreading across his face. "We thought we'd find treasure or something."
Eric chuckled. "Yeah, and all we found was a bunch of old rags and a stray cat. But man, we felt like kings that night."
The memory brought a bittersweet smile to both their faces, a reminder of simpler times and the bond they shared.
The warmth faded quickly when Ethan asked about their old crew.
"Gone," Eric said bluntly. "Jamie didn't make it past the first day. The twins got pulled into a weird structure—they didn't come back out. Lisa... last I heard, she was taken by bandits."
Ethan didn't speak for a while. Just sat there, staring at the ground.
"You made it," Eric said, trying to lighten it. "That's something."
Ethan looked around the camp. Looked at the guards. The hierarchy. The closed-off areas and said, "Doesn't feel like it."
---
Victor stood near the northern watch post, leaning against a support beam, pretending to read a list he didn't care about. He didn't know why he stopped. Something about the movement in the distance.
And then he saw her.
Across the outer path, her hair pulled back, hands full with a bucket of supplies. Dressed like everyone else—worn, grey, forgettable—but he knew that walk. He'd memorised it, once.
Emily.
His ex-wife.
His jaw tightened. She hadn't seen him. She was thinner than he remembered, older, or maybe just more tired. She was talking quietly to a man he didn't recognise.
He didn't call out. Didn't move. Just watched.
Then, she was gone again, disappearing into the settlement.
His mood soured. She made it, and this is where she ended up? Under Richard's boot?
---
Walter, meanwhile, had taken to helping wherever he could. He delivered messages. Checked in on elders. Sorted supplies.
That's how he found her.
A thin woman resting near the medical tent, bandaged arm in a sling. Her hair was longer now, but her eyes hadn't changed. It was his daughter-in-law.
"Claire?" he whispered, nearly dropping the bundle of herbs in his hand.
She looked up, blinking at him. Then she smiled faintly. "Mr Greaves... wasn't expecting to see you here."
He knelt beside her, overwhelmed. "Me too. I... I started thinking that you and—"
Claire's smile vanished. She stared down at her lap, where her free hand absently traced the edge of her sling, fingers trembling.
"They didn't make it," she said quietly.
Walter closed his eyes. He didn't ask which 'they.' He already knew.
David. His son, who'd inherited Walter's stubbornness but none of his patience. Who'd rolled his eyes at proverbs but quoted them later like they were his own.
The baby. Little Sophie, who'd been learning to crawl before the world ended.
A silence settled between them, thick with all the words they couldn't say.
Claire exhaled sharply, almost a laugh. "David—he tried to get us out. Told me to run whilst he..." She trailed off, jaw clenched. "Stupid. Always so _stupidly_ brave."
Walter's breath hitched. He could picture it too well—his son squaring his shoulders, that same reckless tilt of his chin he'd had at seven, as he stepped in front of bullies. Now at thirty, stepping in front of something worse.
"Sounds like him," Walter murmured.
Claire's composure broke then. A sob tore loose, and she leaned into him, her good arm hooking around his shoulders. Walter held her, his own tears soaking into her hair.
They stayed like that—grieving together, for the family they'd both lost.
Claire pulled back first, wiping her face with the back of her palm. Walter studied her—the bags under her eyes, the way her fingers still trembled—and felt an old instinct rise: _Protect what's left._
"You should come with me," he said softly. "My group could use someone with your skills."
Claire's gaze flickered to the medical tent, where a line of injured survivors waited. "I'm needed here," she said. A pause. "And I could be wrong, but I get the feeling you won't be letting Richard continue with this."
Walter sighed. "Something like that, yeah."
A sad grin crept up onto her face. "Just like David." For a moment, neither spoke. Then she squeezed his hand. "Go. But don't get in too much trouble. I've lost enough family."
He nodded, his throat tight.