Sam lets out a long yawn, stretching her arms over her head as we wait outside the room for Liam to finish changing. "Do you all always wake up this early?" Sam mutters, her voice thick with exhaustion, words dragging like she's fighting against sleep itself. Her half-lidded eyes barely manage to stay open, her movements sluggish, like every step is a battle against gravity.

Kaitlyn, adjusting the sleeve of her neatly folded jacket, offers a sympathetic smile. "Kaindra's usually up before all of us," she says softly, her voice carrying that careful gentleness she always has. "Sorry for dragging you out of bed so early."

Sam lifts a weak hand in a half-wave before burying her face in her palm and shaking her head. "No, no, it's okay. Just a shock. I need coffee, and I'll be good."

"If you want, you can keep sleeping," Jen suggests, rocking on the balls of her feet.

Sam pats Jen's shoulder with sluggish amusement. "I'm good, Jen. It's just... sleeping on a real couch instead of a car seat? Dangerous. I might end up sleeping all day." She lets out a tired chuckle. "Guess I'm not used to the comfort yet."

Jen grins, about to retort, but before she can, Liam steps out, already dressed for the day. He scans the group quickly, lingering on Sam for just a second longer, gauging her state. "Ready to go?" he asks.

I nod along with the others, keeping my hands shoved deep into my pockets as we move down the corridor. We tread carefully, mindful not to disturb those who came in from night watch. My gaze flicks to Sam, her feet dragging slightly as she shuffles beside me. She hasn't had much rest in a while. It's in the way she moves—feet dragging, shoulders slumped, blinking slower than normal. A good night's sleep must be jarring after so long. Comfort is dangerous.

When we enter the cafeteria, voices remain hushed, a quiet reverence for those still resting. Sam makes a beeline for the coffee, movements sluggish but determined, and Jen trails close behind. Though she doesn't need caffeine, she cradles the cup like a sacred artifact, holding it as if it's the only thing tethering her to reality. The rest of us focus on food, though Kaitlyn pauses momentarily to straighten a row of trays before sitting.

Sam slides into the last empty seat beside Liam, her fingers curled protectively around her steaming cup. She exhales before taking a sip, eyes fluttering shut as the warmth spreads through her. After finishing half the cup, she looks a little more alive—her eyes at least visible now. "So what happened to you guys?" she asks, stirring her oatmeal.

"If you mean how we got here, it's simple," Kaitlyn says matter-of-factly, her spoon perfectly aligned on her tray. "We couldn't survive at our school anymore," Kaitlyn says, voice steady, but there's something hollow beneath it. "So we left. Ended up here. Because it was safe." Safe. The word feels fragile, like it could shatter at any moment.

Jen and I exchange a glance, both sighing before rolling our eyes at Kaitlyn's bland answer. She scrunches her nose, catching our reaction. "What?" she asks defensively.

"You call that an answer?" I lean forward, cracking my knuckles. "Here's an answer." Jen smirks beside me.

"We were in class, cramming for finals, when the PA system crackled on, the voice eerily calm: 'All students and staff, remain in your classrooms until further notice.' Then silence. A silence too sharp, too unnatural—until the screams started. Echoing. Distant at first. Then closer."

I pause, watching Sam sit a little straighter.

"The teachers bolted the doors, and for what felt like hours, we sat in complete silence. Then the PA crackled again, instructing us to go to the gym. By then, we already knew something was horribly wrong. When we came down, the commons were drenched in blood—thick, pooling, smeared across the floors and walls like something had been dragged. But there were no bodies. Just the aftermath. Just the proof that something had happened. Something we weren't meant to see. Some people passed out, others threw up at the sight."

Jen gestures dramatically with her spoon. "And all the doors leading outside were blocked with tables and chairs. No one knows what happened, but the screams and growls from outside told us everything we needed to know—we almost died."

"Alright, enough drama," Kaitlyn cuts in, posture stiffening.

"Buzzkill," Jen huffs, crossing her arms.

"A hundred percent," I agree, mimicking her pose.

Liam shakes his head, amused. "On the note of finals, how do you think you would have done if this hadn't happened?"

"I would have done fine," Kaitlyn answers instantly, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle on her sleeve.

"I definitely would've bombed at least one exam," Jen admits easily, lifting her cup in a mock toast to herself.

"I second that," I mutter.

Jen smirks. "It's not like it would have mattered to you if you failed."

I scoff. "Maybe, but failing's still bad—my mom would've killed me."

"True," Jen muses, eyes twinkling with mischief. "But at least you've got plenty of time to make up for it."

Grumbling, I flick her forehead.

"Hey, what was that for?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing? Come here—you're getting flicked back!" Jen lunges at me, and I dodge, holding her back just as Kaitlyn finds herself stuck between us.

"Enough, you two," Kaitlyn scolds, pushing us apart. "It's too early for this. You aren't toddlers."

I stick my tongue out at Jen, pulling down my lower eyelid in retaliation.

Jen mirrors me, and soon, we're making faces at each other like actual children.

Kaitlyn sighs. "These two..."

Jen and I cackle, poking at Kaitlyn's cheeks playfully.

Sam watches, the ghost of a smile tugging at her lips. "How did you guys survive?" she asks.

"Kaindra," Liam answers without hesitation.

"Huh?" Sam raises a brow.

"Kaindra is the one who got us out," Liam says without hesitation. Sam raises a brow. 

Kaitlyn leans forward, fingers smoothing a wrinkle in her sleeve. "She made the calls. Took the risks. Got us through the worst of it." I stiffen. I don't like the weight of their words. I don't like the responsibility they press into my chest.

"I didn't do anything special," I protest immediately, stiffening slightly.

The three of them shoot me pointed looks, their exasperation clear.

"Not much? Really?" they say in unison.

"You helped make plans," Kaitlyn reminds me.

I shake my head. "Those were my friend's plans—I just borrowed them."

"You got the zombies away from people and us when we left the school," Jen presses, nudging my shoulder.

"You told me to help those people," I shoot back.

"You drove the car all the way here and were the first to volunteer to scout and raid," Liam adds firmly.

I run a hand through my hair, exhaling. "I... haaa."

Sam tilts her head, watching me curiously. "How are you still alive after fighting off the zombies?" Sam asks, eyes narrowing slightly. 

I smirk, leaning back in my chair, stretching my arms behind my head. "Because I'm magical." 

She chuckles, shaking her head. "Right. Of course you are. So, that teacher who greeted us—is he in charge here?"

We nod.

"Yep. He was the first to take initiative after everything went down, and he hasn't failed us since," I say simply. "So... here we are."

Kaitlyn leans forward, her fingers smoothing a wrinkle in her sleeve. "So, what about you? Who is your leader?"

Sam cradles her empty coffee cup in both hands, rolling it slightly between her palms as if savoring the lingering warmth. "Her name is Mora. She helped get us out and all the way here. She's really smart and really nice."

Jen grins, leaning back in her chair. "Well, I hope she joins us. More brains to get ideas across are always great, right, Kait?"

Kaitlyn nods, ever meticulous. "I think so."

Sam brightens. "I think so too." She nudges her empty bowl aside, stretching her arms slightly before resting them on the table. "So, what do you guys do during the day?"

I clear my throat, pushing my empty bowl away. "Well, our days are usually packed. We maintain the building, check the electricity and water lines, secure the fences," I list off, ticking each task like a checklist burned into muscle memory. "We train. We research. We raid."

"Currently, we're working on growing our own food," Jen chimes in, propping her chin on her hand.

I nod. "Yeah, we're building an area to grow crops. Hopefully, we can sustain ourselves most of the year if we're lucky."

Sam tilts her head. "And when you say train, what do you mean by that?"

Liam takes this one, his expression easy but assured. "We practice different scenarios for raids. Combat drills, weapons work, shooting practice—we even go outside the fence to practice leading zombies away."

Sam's face scrunches slightly. "What kind of weapons do you guys have?" she asks, eyes flicking between us.

I list them off without hesitation. "Knives, machetes, bows, spears... a couple of crossbows."

She nods, eyes widening just slightly before she collects herself. "And when you say research?"

Kaitlyn, ever thorough, answers immediately. "Medical information, studying maps, looking up medicinal and edible plants, survival techniques—basically, anything that might be useful."

Sam exhales, brows lifting. "Where do you guys get all this stuff?"

I meet her gaze over the rim of my cup, my tone dry. "We raid."

Finishing my water, I push my chair back and stand. "I'm on scouting duty today," I say, grabbing my jacket, slipping it on with practiced ease. "I'll be back before lunch—hopefully." The words are casual, but the weight behind them isn't.

"Scouting?" Sam echoes.

"Oh, right," Jen says, waving a hand. "Kaindra goes out scouting for raids and zombie positions."

Liam frowns, resting his elbow on the table. "Kaindra, you had a tiring day yesterday. Shouldn't you rest?"

I chuckle, ruffling Liam's hair before throwing on my jacket. "No rest for the undead, mate," I say with a wink.

Sam looks even more baffled, blinking at me. I just chuckle again, waving at them while I set down my dishes. Then I slip out through the front doors, the morning air crisp against my skin.

I make a detour to the laundry room, grabbing my jacket and gloves. I check the seams out of habit, fingers brushing over the fabric to ensure no tears or weak spots. It's not about comfort—it's about survival. Once satisfied, I slip them on and head out.

I step past the fence, the morning air crisp against my skin, the world stretching wide before me. My pace is controlled—never too fast, never too slow. Every breath measured. Every step deliberate.

Having checked everything on my list, I take a detour past the buildings to the town's edge. The maps are etched in my mind, routes memorized down to every intersection. The wind picks up as I vamp down the dirt roads, dust curling around my boots. A familiar bite of cold hits my skin, but I don't shudder—I pull my jacket tighter, a small reflex that serves no real purpose. It's not about warmth. It's just instinct.

I halt at the entrance to a driveway, scanning the area. It's a berry farm, but nothing's sprouted yet. Soil looks decent—maybe worth revisiting when the seasons shift. My eyes flick to the fences, the placement of the crops, mentally marking details for later.

I move on, checking each farm for fifteen kilometers, cataloging what I see—wheat, berries, signs of cultivation. My thoughts drift to sustainability, to how long these resources might last. Thinking ahead is all that matters now.

The distant mooing of cows catches my attention. I slow, instinctively lowering myself a fraction, listening. The sound is steady, unpanicked. Not a threat. Could be useful. I track the noise five kilometers back in the opposite direction. My muscles tense slightly, but I keep moving.

After another ten kilometers, I stop. A stretch of animal farms spreads ahead, just as the maps suggested. Cows, pigs, chickens—even a couple of horses. Potential resources. Or problems, depending on the people running this place.

A sharp bark snaps my focus to the nearest farm.

A shaggy mutt bounds forward, posture defensive but calculating. Behind it, a man on an ATV barrels toward me, rifle balanced in his grip.

I don't flinch. Hands rise, fingers spread—not submission, just reassurance.

He points the barrel directly at me. "Who are you? Where did you come from?"

I keep my movements controlled, my voice level. Fear is just another tool—use it right, and people underestimate you.

"My name is Kaindra," I say, steady. "I come from the town nearby. My group sent me scouting for supplies."

His gun lowers a fraction, but his shoulders remain stiff. Suspicion lingers in his stance, in the way his fingers twitch near the trigger. He's a survivor, careful. I can respect that.

"The town was overrun with zombies," he says. "How could you have come from there?"

I flick my gaze toward the sound of approaching footsteps behind him, calculating. A little shift in tone, just enough hesitation, just enough shaken breath—it's a performance. One I know how to play well.

"We barricaded the IKEA with cars and a fence," I say, voice lighter—just enough fear to make it believable. "When we got there, most of the zombies were in other parts of town."

Tilting my head further down to keep my face hidden from his view, I let a faint grin flicker across my lips, amused by my own frightful act. It's almost too easy to play vulnerable—to let my stance shrink, my shoulders tense just enough to seem shaken. Fear is a tool, one that people never question.

"Jerid, what are you doing aiming a gun at a young girl?" The woman's voice cuts through the thick tension, hurried and sharp. "Look how scared she is!"

I turn my gaze back to Jerid, watching his grip falter slightly. He's still uncertain, still trying to decide whether I'm a threat or just another lost survivor. The woman pushes past him, stepping between us with urgency. Jerid lowers his gun, but his shoulders stay stiff, ready to react if needed.

"My child, you must be so frightened," she exclaims, reaching for me with unwavering certainty. She doesn't hesitate. Maternal instinct, maybe? Or just desperation to hold onto something good in this wrecked world?

A low growl rumbles behind me, sharp enough to catch my attention. I glance at the forgotten dog, its stance rigid, eyes locked onto mine. It knows better. It understands something about me that its humans don't. Smart animal.

I hold its gaze for a beat longer, letting my eyes flicker red—just for an instant.

The dog whimpers, ears flattening against its head, stepping back in reluctant submission. Even the instinctive ones recognize a predator.

We walk slowly down the lengthy driveway toward the white house. Jerid drives alongside us, his eyes scanning the sparse treeline, gun still balanced across his lap. He trusts his wife's kindness, but not completely. Good. He shouldn't.

A young girl, perhaps a year or two older than me, opens the door as we approach. She lets us in without question, locking it securely behind Jerid and the dog. Her movements are smooth, practiced. She's done this before—welcoming strangers and sealing them inside.

Inside, the woman guides me to the sofa. Once she ensures I'm settled, she takes a seat on the loveseat opposite me. Jerid sits beside her, his gun laid casually along the armrest—not forgotten, just accessible. Dia, their daughter, pulls up a chair, posture tight with curiosity.

"So, child, start from the beginning," the woman—Genny, I assume—says gently. "What's your name? Where are you from? How did you get here?"

I open my mouth to answer, but Dia cuts in first. She doesn't like the interrogation, doesn't like how her mother rushes into care without thinking.

"Mom, you can't just start questioning her," she sighs, exhaling deeply. "We don't know what she's been through since this started."

Her attention shifts to me, eyes sharp, dissecting. She doesn't trust words alone. She wants to understand me for herself.

"I'm Dia," she states, watching me closely. "These are my parents, Jerid and Genny."

"Genny with a G," her mother corrects with a small smile. Like it matters. Like it's some detail that will make me feel safe.

Dia ignores her. "And you? Who might you be?"

I cradle my elbows in my hands, keeping my posture small, presenting the perfect image of nervous uncertainty. My voice is soft when I speak, carefully controlled.

"My name is Kaindra," I say, not a whisper, not a plea—just quiet enough to sound unsure. "I come from a nearby town. My group and I have barricaded the IKEA, so it's safe from the zombies. I was sent out to scout for supplies."

Genny turns to her husband, her face twisting with worry. "They sent you out here all alone? On foot?"

Her voice wavers as she repeats, "A child... alone?"

I nod slightly, not enough to seem eager, just enough to confirm her fears.

"Our group is mostly kids my age," I say, voice measured. It's the truth, just not the whole truth. "We came from our school. They had no one else to send."

Genny gasps, hand pressed against her mouth. "Kids? They sent kids?"

"More than me," I admit, but only because I want her reaction to build.

"I was the only one sent out alone."

Her hands tremble. She sees me as fragile, as lost. Good. That's what I need her to see.

Dia watches me, but her eyes narrow slightly—not quite convinced, not fully believing the helplessness I'm selling.

Genny gasps again, burying her face in her hands. The silence lingers, their expressions drenched in sympathy. It's not pity, not exactly. It's the kind of sorrow people feel when they imagine a fate worse than their own.

Then, suddenly, Genny sits up, reaching out to clasp my hands. Her grip is warm, firm—an anchor I don't need but she insists on giving.

"You don't have to be scared anymore," she says, her voice thick with emotion. "You can stay with us. You won't have to go out alone anymore. We have plenty of food on our farm."

I watch her silently, letting her words hang in the space between us.

"I have to report back my scouting by nightfall," I argue, not hard, not demanding—just enough resistance to seem genuine.

She shakes her head. "It's impossible for you to make it back on foot by nightfall. It's okay. You don't have to venture out alone into that frightening world. If you don't return, they'll assume you're dead—so you can stay."

Assume I'm dead. That's what she thinks will happen. That's what she wants to happen.

"But my friends," I try again.

"Hush now, child." She strokes my hair gently, her tone soothing. "There's no need to fear those things any longer."

I suppress the urge to stiffen. Her touch is unfamiliar. Unwanted. Too much.

Aghhh, are these people clingy and child-loving? Why hasn't the daughter or husband intervened?

I glance around, trying to anchor myself somewhere else. A photograph catches my eye. A family of four beams at the camera, a farmhouse looming in the background. The daughter doesn't look much different in the picture than she does now, but who's the other girl?

Scanning the room, my gaze lingers on the photographs scattered across the walls, each one capturing fragments of a life steeped in warmth—too much warmth. The same faces appear over and over, their smiles unwavering, the two girls frozen in time at different ages. Oh, Mother.

I refocus on the family portrait. My eyes narrow slightly, dissecting the details—the girl about my age, dark brown hair untouched by the reddish tint from my father, dark brown eyes mirroring Jerid's. A missing piece in the family. They must have lost her early on.

A quiet unease settles in my chest. Loss changes people. Loss makes them cling harder to what remains.

Clicking back into the present, I realize Genny is still brushing my hair, her fingers sweeping through in soft, rhythmic motions, murmuring reassurances that feel strangely distant. A comfort I don't need, yet one she insists on giving.

As I stand, the air in the room shifts. The others circle around Genny, the moment heavy with expectation, their movements deliberate.

She opens her arms, poised for an embrace.

I don't move forward.

Instead, I take half a step back, shaking my head. The affection, the clinging—it won't get me anywhere. It won't get them anywhere either.

With a slow, controlled breath, I pull my hands from Genny's grasp, my movements measured—not abrupt, not hesitant, just decisive. Dusting off my pants, I take my time, the action more about regaining a sense of order than any real need. My fingers brush through my hair once, restoring what Genny's touch had disrupted.

I gently fend her off, shaking my head. This sentimental attachment isn't helping. It won't get me anywhere.

"Genny, Jerid," I say, voice even, clipped but firm. "I need your cattle and any farm supplies that can be moved."

The shift in tone makes them pause, their brows furrowing at the contrast to my earlier quiet demeanor.

Genny tilts her head slightly, an uneasy smile stretching across her lips. "Oh, honey, you don't need that to be moved. It's all here already," she says, stepping closer.

Huffing, I exhale through my nose, jaw tightening. I meet their gazes directly, no longer softened, no longer uncertain. My stare is steady, piercing.

"No." My voice carries weight, pressing into the space between us. "I need it for my group. You're more than welcome to come along, but the cattle and supplies are needed. As much as you can spare, we'll make do."

Genny lets out another airy coo, dismissing my words as she gently waves them off, rambling again about how I won't need those things, about how it's safer here.

The sun sinks, dragging time with it, stretching shadows long across the road. We're losing daylight.

My snarl sharpens, a low rumble that sends the dog skittering out of the room with a pitiful whimper. My eyes flare a deeper red, cutting through the hesitation clouding their expressions.

"I need the cattle now."

The words slice through the resistance like a blade, breaking past logic and into instinct. Their breathing quickens, pulses hammering beneath their skin, hearts pounding to the rhythm of my command.

Their eyes dull—glass-like, vacant—as they move, compelled by my frustration.

Like machines, they begin working, limbs moving without question. The four large trucks are filled, cattle shuffled in, grain packed away, the task executed without resistance.

Once it's complete, they crumple to the ground, trembling as I step forward.

Jerid is the first to react, his hands scraping against the dirt as he scuttles back, his face contorted with raw fear. "P-please," he stammers, his voice cracking. "Don't hurt us. We—we're sorry for trying to keep you here."

My eyes remain red, pulsing faintly in the thickening darkness, cutting through the dim light like embers. I inhale slowly, containing the rising frustration, tempering it into something controlled.

With a sigh, not of pity, not of remorse, just resignation, I crouch to their level, carefully maintaining the distance between us. Too close, and they might bolt. Too far, and they might think they still have a choice.

"I never had the intention of hurting you." The words are smooth, factual—not coaxing, not comforting, simply a statement. "And my offer still stands. You can come with me. We don't know how to handle these animals, and I can't drive four trucks alone."

They stay silent, shaking visibly, their bodies stiff with fear they can't rationalize.

I sigh again, an action that's become muscle memory, weighted by too many moments like this. Rising to my feet, I move forward.

As I do, they scramble backward, fear overriding thought, hands gripping the dirt like they could somehow dig their way out.

"Please," Jerid gasps, his voice raw, broken. "Stay back—don't hurt us."

I don't stop. They reach the barn wall, fumbling against it, nowhere left to retreat.

When they slump, defeat sinking into their limbs, their fight draining, I kneel before them. Their eyes tell me everything. True, visceral terror—a kind of horror I haven't seen in a long time.

Yeesss, my vampire side hisses, thrumming beneath my skin, reveling in the sight of prey trembling before me.

I stomp it down. Bury it. Control it.

My eyes flare a deeper red, stronger now, unrelenting.

 "Forget that you know what I am," the command is sharp, weighted, undeniable. "You never saw anything. We talked, and you agreed to come with me to our base at IKEA—with your cattle—to help us."

The words curl around their minds, sinking in, replacing fear with acceptance.

Their eyes shift—the glassy haze recedes, dark brown returning, the compulsion taking full hold.

Standing up, I watch them wipe their tears in confusion, their bodies still trembling from terror they no longer understand.

"You mentioned IKEA, right?" Jerid asks, his voice steadier now, but his hands still weak as he grips his knees. "Lead the way. You do know how to drive, don't you?"

I chuckle, the sound lighter than the moment deserves, but necessary. "Yep, I can drive," I say easily. "Follow me."

We all take a truck, their belongings already packed, their movements seamlessly following my instruction.

We take food from their house, anything useful, anything that might run low. Finally, we pull away, the sun dipping below the horizon behind us.

Luck. Good luck. Bad luck. Who knows?

I've found people skilled at animal care, I've secured resources. I nearly lost control. I nearly caused harm.

Let's settle on good.

My friends are fine. My family is safe. Our base is secure. And, piece by piece, we're gathering what we need to survive the winter.

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