The sky was clear. The insects were humming. And Xenia hated it. The kind of quiet that made you feel like a jump scare was crouched behind a tree with a clipboard.
Inside the fence, however, the world was anything but restful.
Nestor, limping and mumbling like a one-legged pirate with anger issues, hammered boards into the half-dug food pit. His shirt was stuck to his back like cling wrap, and he hadn't blinked in an hour. Probably dehydrated. Possibly possessed. Xenia made a mental note to check.
Over in the garden, Brei and Marga were on their second round of weeding. Brei looked like the ghost of gardening past, her scarf wrapped tight like she was shielding her brain from bad decisions. Marga hummed an old tune as she yanked weeds like she had beef with them personally.
"Spacing, Marga," Brei said, pulling vines like she'd been born in a cabbage patch. "Don't suffocate the sweet potato. It's not your ex."
Marga grinned. "If my ex was a plant, I'd plant him upside down and let the worms judge him."
Valid.
Meanwhile, the sounds of tree homicide echoed from the forest, where Rafe and Rico had vanished with axes, a wheelbarrow, and mutual overconfidence.
"Don't drop another tree on your foot," Rafe called.
"I didn't drop it," Rico yelled back. "It slid. Aggressively."
---
At the center of this oddly functional chaos sat Xenia, crouched over a dusty baking tray, charcoal in hand like she was auditioning for Apocalypse Interior Design: Home Makeover Edition. She'd drawn a map—Gabriel's land, the perimeter, the well, the sad excuse of a garden. She was one haunted Pinterest board away from reinventing permaculture.
But something itched.
"Gabriel mentioned neighbors," she murmured. "A plant shop…"
She squinted toward the horizon like it owed her answers. "Where are they? And why haven't we seen a single smoke trail, flashlight, scream, or corpse pile?"
(She hated that corpse pile was now part of her checklist.)
She found Gabriel on the porch sharpening a blade like it owed him money.
"Gabriel."
He glanced up. "You look like you're about to assign homework."
"I am," she said. "You mentioned a guy. Plant guy. Sells seeds. Recluse. Ring a bell?"
"Conrad," Gabriel grunted. "He's out past the gully. Twenty-five minutes northeast. Never liked visitors. Even before the dead came knocking."
"And you haven't checked on him?"
Gabriel sighed like she just reminded him to pay bills in the apocalypse. "I figured if he was alive, we'd see signs. Smoke. Screams. Bonfires. Anything. But it's been radio silence."
"Or," Xenia said, arms crossed, "he's holed up like you were. And if he's got seeds, he's got land. And if he's got land—we can expand."
Gabriel raised an eyebrow. "You wanna what, now?"
"Expand," she repeated, in her best fake-confidence tone. "Bigger farming space. Better positioning. If we keep growing with one weak fence and a glorified puddle for water access, we're just painting a target on our butts."
"You want a secure corridor to the well," he said slowly.
"Yes. Lit. Guarded. Maybe even pretty. Functional and aesthetic, Gabriel."
He stared. "You're serious."
"Would I be drawing irrigation lines on an old cookie sheet if I wasn't?"
"…Maybe."
Fair.
---
An hour later, the team gathered around her baking tray map like it was a treasure chest. She didn't pace, but her voice did that thing it always did—organized panic disguised as leadership.
"This is what we build," Xenia said. "A future. A fence. A corridor to the well. Maybe a garden that won't die from emotional neglect."
Rafe whistled. "Wow. I thought we'd get to relax once we stopped getting chased."
"Relax?" Brei snorted. "Girl, the spinach is watching."
Marga muttered, "If she makes me water one more patch, I'll start naming the vines after my regrets."
Anna folded her arms like judgment incarnate, but didn't say no. That was a win.
Nestor looked up from his pit. "If I build a watchtower, do I get to stay off the scavenging team?"
"You already blackmailed me into that yesterday," Xenia replied.
He nodded. "Then I'll make it strong. Two, maybe three weeks. No rush. Just let me do it right."
"Done," she said. "Do it weird, do it brilliant, just do it safe."
---
By midday, she was in full command mode: calendar drawn, schedule pinned to the wall with rusted nails and desperate hope.
WORK DUTY ROSTER
Marga & Brei – Garden & Water Logistics (5:00 AM – 7:00 PM)
Rafe & Rico – Lumber & Build Crew (8:00 AM – 6:00 PM)
Nestor – Watchtower Chief (Flexible, Moody Hours)
Xenia, Tenorio, Gabriel – Scouting, Expansion, and Risk Mapping (Leave by 7:00 AM)
Note: No one works hungry. Noon break is sacred. If you skip breakfast, we mock you.
---
Later that evening, Tenorio found her sitting on the porch, notes in her lap, face lit by the golden-hour guilt of someone pretending to relax.
"You sure about this?" he asked.
"No," she whispered. "But I can't afford to not be."
Tenorio smiled. "That's exactly what leadership sounds like."
"I'm not trying to lead," she said. "I'm just trying not to die creatively."
Gabriel joined them with a faint grunt. "We leave at dawn. Conrad's first. If he's alive, we talk. If not…"
"We borrow seeds," Tenorio finished.
"And maybe his fence," Xenia added.
Gabriel looked at her, squinting. "You're something else."
"I was valedictorian," she muttered. "Now I'm just trying to fence a well and not cry while doing it."
---
That night, as fish crackled in the pan and dusk settled over their hopeful, crumbling kingdom, Xenia stood by the edge of the fence with her hands in her pockets and her heart hammering in her chest.
This wasn't school.
There were no midterms.
No gold stars.
No Wi-Fi.
Just planks, sweat, fish oil lamps, and seven people who might live if she kept drawing good lines.
She didn't know if this plan would work.
But it was better than waiting.
And in a world where waiting meant dying, even a half-assed blueprint scrawled on a baking tray?
Was a revolution.
---
☠️ Quotable Lines (per your request):
"I'm not trying to die creatively."
"Would I be drawing irrigation lines on an old cookie sheet if I wasn't serious?"
"If my ex was a plant, I'd plant him upside down and let the worms judge him."
"Girl, the spinach is watching."
"This isn't a farm. It's a chaotic garden-themed group project."