The camp was loud when we got there. People were running around, carrying scraps of wood, salvaging tarps, tying ropes together like they were trying to convince themselves it was all normal. Smoke curled into the sky from half-burnt fires, and the air smelled of wet earth, sweat, and faint gasoline.
Max and I helped where we could—lifting broken planks, moving stones, carrying buckets of water from a cracked pipeline. It wasn't hero work, but it made us feel less useless. People nodded at us, sometimes muttered thanks, though most just kept their heads down.
After a while, Max nudged me. "We should check my house. See what's left."
The walk there was brutal. Every step reminded us of the truck that had carved half his home away. The sight of it made Max stop for a second—just staring at the wreckage like he was trying to force the pieces back together with his eyes.
The truck hadn't exploded. Somehow. Its massive frame sat half-buried in what used to be his living room, metal twisted and blackened at the edges. Half the house was gone, but the kitchen and Max's room had survived by some miracle.
"Guess I'm still luckier than you," Max said, his usual grin forcing itself onto his face. He gestured at the rubble. "At least my room's still standing. Yours would've folded like paper."
"Right," I shot back, "but your living room looks like Michael Bay directed it. So, congrats, I guess."
He snorted, but the sound cracked halfway through. We didn't talk much after that. Just went through the kitchen, scavenging canned food, bottled water, even some snacks that hadn't expired yet. From Max's room, we stuffed a backpack with clothes—his jeans, shirts, and that stupid hoodie he loved.
When we got back to camp, we joined a group going house to house. Some doors were smashed open already, others we forced with bricks or by climbing through windows. We found blankets, utensils, flashlights with dying batteries, even a few lighters. Each item felt like gold, even the useless ones.
That's when we saw her again.
The little girl from earlier—the one we'd pulled out of the rubble—was sitting near the edge of camp, her tiny hands clutching a piece of cloth like it was life itself. She looked small, lost, eyes swollen from crying.
Then a woman's voice broke through the noise. A desperate, broken call of her name. The girl froze, then spun toward the sound.
"Mom!"
She bolted across the dirt, stumbling over stones, and the woman scooped her up, falling to her knees as she crushed the child to her chest. Both of them sobbed, clinging like they'd drown if they let go.
Around them, people stopped what they were doing. For the first time since all this madness began, there was a silence that wasn't fear. Just… relief.
I glanced at Max. His usual smirk wasn't there. Instead, he watched quietly, a softness in his eyes I didn't see often.
"Worth it," he murmured, almost to himself.
We didn't linger. There were still things to do, and people needed help.
By the time the sun started sinking, shadows stretching long across the wreckage, Max turned to me. "Let's head to your place. Safer to sleep there."
The walk back to my neighborhood was quieter. Less destruction here—houses still stood, even if cracked, and half the roofs hadn't caved in. Only about fifty percent of the homes looked ruined, which made it feel almost… normal. Almost.
There was another camp set up near my place. Smaller than the first one, maybe thirty people huddled under makeshift tarps. Max and I helped them before night fell—lifting what we could, passing out the supplies we'd found. They smiled at us, grateful in a way that stung. Grateful for scraps.
But night came fast. And with it, the weight of memory.
The sky was still strange, even if no one wanted to admit it. It wasn't the same as last night's nightmare, but the clouds shifted wrong, like they weren't just drifting but crawling. It was a view that made you want to keep looking, even though you knew it would keep you awake later.
Most people in the camp stayed restless, whispering about whether it would all happen again—whether the sky would split open and crush them where they stood.
But Max and I? We were too tired to care.
We stumbled into my house, into my room. The bed, thankfully, was wide enough for the both of us. We dropped everything—bags, shoes, worries—and lay down. The mattress was rough, the air thick, but compared to everything outside, it felt like paradise.
As I closed my eyes, I could still hear faint voices outside, hushed, afraid. But exhaustion won.
The world could end again for all I cared. I just needed sleep.