"We need to find your other neighbor," Xenia declared, voice somewhere between an overworked expedition leader and a sleep-deprived Airbnb host running from cannibals. The sun blazed through the canopy as the four of them trudged down the jungle trail—Xenia in front, followed by Rico, Rafe, and Anna.
Marga had been swapped out of this trip like an expired contestant on Survivor: Undead Edition. Anna, ever the pragmatist, had lobbied hard for it.
"Look, I'm not saying I'm scared," Anna had said that morning, rolling up the sleeves of her borrowed flannel like she was about to arrest someone. "I'm just saying Marga once decapitated a zombie with a bamboo pole and didn't blink. That woman belongs on shoreline defense. Not in a forest with zero witnesses."
And thus: Anna in. Marga out. Gabriel and Tenorio stayed back to install the last fence post and (probably) silently judge each other's masculinity. Rico, meanwhile, had already gotten a full dad lecture before they'd even zipped their bags.
"You listen to me, son," Gabriel barked, poking him in the chest like Rico was one bad decision away from becoming a PSA. "You go exploring, you stay with the group. You hear me? No 'I saw a cool trail, let me split up and die' moments. You're not in an RPG."
"I got it, Pa," Rico muttered. "No solo hero stuff. No zombie buffet. Stick with the humans. Got it."
Now, halfway through the sticky, sweat-drenched forest trail, Xenia side-eyed Rico. "So tell me more about this wild man. You're sure he's real? And more importantly—still breathing?"
Rico shrugged, pushing a leafy branch out of their path. "Last time I saw him, he was alive. Healthy. Shirtless in the weirdest way possible."
"What does that even mean?" Rafe asked.
"He wore pants made of… I think woven palm leaves and duct tape. And he had a belt made from a jump rope. It was… a choice."
Xenia blinked. "Okay, and this Tarzan cosplayer—does he have an actual name? Or are we just going with Jungle Daddy?"
"No one knows his real name," Rico said. "Locals used to call him Tarik before the world fell apart. Came from a rich family. Took a vacation here and… just never left. Built a treehouse, stopped paying taxes, started drinking rainwater. The usual."
"What kind of taxes do you even owe from a treehouse?" Anna asked.
"Emotional ones, probably," Rafe replied without missing a beat.
Suddenly, Rico pointed upward. "There it is—his base."
They froze, squinting toward a massive gnarled tree that looked like it came with its own mythos. Perched on a bamboo platform near the canopy sat a man—lean, sun-kissed, and wearing what could only be described as apocalypse couture.
"Wild Man!" Rico called out, waving like they were trying to get autographs from a forest influencer. "Can we talk?"
Without a word, the man swung down with gymnastic grace, landing on the forest floor like a leaf-blown monk. His teeth were surprisingly white. His vibe? Surprisingly chill.
"Why did you call me?" he asked, in a completely normal, non-cult-leader voice.
Xenia blinked. "You… sound sane."
"Living in a tree doesn't come with free insanity," he said, brushing a twig from his hair.
"Noted," Xenia said, then cleared her throat and launched into the pitch. "There's a zombie outbreak. Full-on death parade. You've somehow avoided it so far, which—congrats—but it's out there. We've secured a shoreline base and we're building a community. Real one. Fences. Food. Rotating shifts. Slightly less screaming."
He tilted his head. "Zombies?"
"Dead people. Reanimated. Hungry," Anna explained.
"Think flesh-eating interns who didn't sign an NDA," Xenia added.
The man crossed his arms. "Okay. So what do you want from me?"
"We want you to join us," Xenia said. "But specifically—we need someone reliable on shoreline patrol. We had a sea corpse wash up the other day, and I'm officially distrustful of open water."
The man scratched his beard like a philosopher weighing snack options. "And what do I get?"
"You… want something?" Xenia asked, eyebrows rising.
"If I leave my tree, I want conditions. I like contracts. Even if they're verbal."
"Lay it on me."
He held up two fingers. "One: a house of my own. Doesn't have to be big. Just mine. Two: guaranteed food rations. No haggling. No sharing. No 'community potluck' stuff."
Xenia nodded slowly. "Fine. But I've got one condition too."
"Oh?"
"You get the house and food—but you work the shoreline. Sunrise to sunset. No disappearing acts, no spiritual awakenings mid-shift."
"Deal," he said easily. "But I pick the house color."
Xenia blinked. "What?"
"I like blue."
"…Fine. Pick your shade of trauma teal."
He smiled. "I'll remember that."
"We'll escort you back tomorrow," she added. "Spend the night here, say goodbye to the squirrels. Starting tomorrow, you're a part of the team."
"Tell Gabriel I'm better at climbing than fighting," Wild Man said, eyes gleaming with unspoken treehouse wisdom. "But I'm fast. And I learn."
"He'll be thrilled," Rico muttered.
As the group turned back toward the trail, Xenia felt something rare bloom in her chest—hope. Another lookout. Another oddball with survival instincts. Their ragtag sitcom-of-a-survivor-group was expanding.
"Guys," she said, "if we make it out of this alive, I'm writing a book: How to Lead a Post-Apocalyptic Commune Without Losing Your Sanity (Or Your Planner).
"I'll read it," Anna replied.
"I'll proofread it," Rafe offered.
"I'll pirate the eBook," Rico added.
Behind them, Wild Man climbed his tree one last time, maybe imagining his future blue hut, his rationed beans, and a fence that wasn't just metaphorical.
Tomorrow, he'd leave the trees behind.
And everything, again, would change.