The city retreated behind them, fading into the gray haze like a bad decision slowly being forgotten. And Xenia—curled on a torn vinyl seat, her map crumpled in one hand—let herself exhale for the first time in days.
Marga sprawled near the bow, chewing on a protein bar like it had personally wronged her. Nestor, wrapped in a mylar blanket, looked like a sad burrito of existential dread. Rafe sat beside her, silently cleaning his knife like it was therapy.
Xenia stared at the sea. Endless, indifferent, quiet.
She whispered, "I miss home."
"I miss Netflix," Nestor groaned.
"I miss showers," Rafe added.
"I miss not knowing what people's screams sound like," Marga said softly.
That shut everyone up.
For a moment, the boat was just a floating confessional.
"I miss thinking the future was… something you could plan," Xenia said. "Like, I had a laminated five-year roadmap."
Rafe smirked. "Of course you did."
"I was going to teach. Get a place. Maybe take a cooking class, fail it, complain on Instagram. Now I'm just hoping my boat doesn't sink and my friends don't die."
A silence.
Then Rafe said, "You're doing great."
"You're just saying that because I haven't screamed into the ocean yet."
"No," he said. "I'm saying it because you're still steering."
Hours Later — The Inlet
By midnight, the boat drifted into a crescent inlet. Several flooded mansions lined the shore like abandoned gods. One still stood, mostly intact—minus the roof and dignity.
Tenorio killed the engine.
The silence was jarring.
They disembarked cautiously, weapons ready, breath held.
No movement. No screams. Just the gentle lapping of waves against dock.
"This better not be haunted," Xenia muttered.
"Worse," Rafe said. "It's rich-people haunted."
They stepped inside.
And for a brief, stupid, perfect moment—
No one died.
And that was enough.
They camped out in what used to be an indoor pool room, drained of water and filled with scattered lawn chairs and melted pool noodles. Xenia leaned against a lounge chair, her legs finally giving out. Her muscles buzzed like they'd just learned pain was a lifestyle.
"We rest here until sunrise," Tenorio announced, setting up a makeshift barricade by the broken sliding doors. "Then we find that island."
"The one with the maybe-cabin or maybe-cryptid?" Marga asked, half-asleep already.
"Exactly."
Xenia stared at the ceiling. A chandelier hung above her, still swinging gently like it had survived the apocalypse out of sheer spite.
Day 7
They left the mansion before dawn.
The sky was purple and bruised as they rowed back into open water. Xenia took the map from her pocket, now stained with sweat, sea salt, and regret. She pointed.
"There. West corner. Island with a dot and a questionable sketch of a box. Probably a shack. Maybe a bunker."
Tenorio adjusted their course.
It took most of the day. The sun rose, then cooked them slowly like sad rotisserie chickens. Nestor threw up twice. Marga sang sea shanties with increasing sarcasm. Rafe almost fell asleep while rowing, which would've been fine if they weren't surrounded by water that screamed tetanus.
By the time they reached the jagged coastline, everyone was sunburned, dehydrated, and emotionally bankrupt.
But the cabin was real.
Nestled atop a hill, guarded by sharp cliffs and seaweed-covered rocks, it looked like a doomsday prepper's fever dream. Metal sheets covered the windows. Barbed wire crowned the fence like a punk-rock tiara. A red blinking light pulsed above the front door.
"That's our best shot," Tenorio said, already climbing out.
They hauled the boats up the shore, every step feeling like a punishment from a gym teacher with a personal vendetta. Gravel crunched underfoot. Birds screeched somewhere overhead, offended by their presence.
They reached the door.
Tenorio knocked.
No answer.
Then a metallic clack. A peephole slid open.
Behind it: shadow.
Then a voice, gravelly and old. "Bitten or not?"
Xenia stepped forward, her voice steady despite her chapped lips. "We're not. We came from Argenta. No bites. Just five exhausted humans."
"Argenta's gone."
"We know," Rafe said. "We were there when it happened."
A long silence.
Then: the sound of locks. A shotgun lowered slightly behind the shadow.
"Five of you?"
"Yes," Xenia said.
"Armed?"
"Improvised. And tired."
"You follow rules?"
"Do they involve not dying?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Then sure."
The door opened.
The man behind it looked like Santa Claus if he quit Christmas to start a bunker YouTube channel. Gray beard. Sharp eyes. Clothes patched with duct tape and paranoia.
He waved them inside.
"Come in. Sun's going down. And out here, the dark doesn't forgive mistakes."
They stepped inside.
And for the first time in days, the door closed behind them.
Locked.
Secure.
Safe—maybe.
For now.