By the time twilight dipped the island in that cinematic shade of doom, everyone was already crowding inside Gabriel's Cabin—forks clinking, plant-based meals being silently judged, and Marga loudly complaining that the cassava root was starting to "taste like punishment."
Then Xenia walked in, holding a baby.
Silence. Like, kill-the-music, drop-the-spoon, is-this-an-apocalypse-or-a-hallmark-movie silence.
Marga froze mid-chew. "What the heck? You were gone for four hours with Rafe and came back with a baby?"
She pointed. Dramatically. Like she was casting a spell of judgment.
The group burst into a cacophony of gasps, laughter, and uncomfortable eyebrow raises.
Rafe blinked, looking like someone just accused him of fatherhood and tax fraud at the same time. A faint red climbed up his ears.
Xenia, blushing way more than she liked, adjusted her grip on the baby and sent Marga a look that said absolutely not.
Internal Monologue Time™:
No. Nope. I am twenty-three. I hoard novelty stickers, I once cried because my phone fell on my face, and I cannot parallel park to save my life. Rafe? Late twenties? Mid-thirties? Has the skin of a man who drinks water and minds his business? Either way, not the father. Not the plan.
Anna, suddenly auditioning for Gossip Girl: Apocalypse Edition, leaned over to Irah and whispered with a devious smile, "Well… I have noticed chemistry."
Irah just chuckled softly like she'd been waiting for this plotline all week.
"Can we not do this right now?" Xenia deadpanned, clutching the baby like a protective lesbian aunt at a family reunion.
"We found him. In a cabin. Alone. Possibly abandoned during the outbreak. No bites, no wounds. Nearby homes were crawling with infected. We had no choice."
"I saw it too," Rico piped up, looking nauseous. "There was blood on the door of Cabin Four. I think that used to be Ms. Benny's place. It's bad out there."
Anna gasped. "Ms. Benny? Oh no…"
Rafe crossed his arms, still avoiding eye contact. "We only got through four cabins. If we stayed longer, the baby—Rhys—might've cried. And that would've turned the whole clearing into a buffet."
"Wait. Rhys?" Brie asked, peering at the blanket burrito. "You named him?"
Xenia hesitated. "I… yeah. Rhys. Like in Welsh mythology. Means enthusiasm. Passion. It just… fit. The island's name is SilverMoon Cay and—look, okay, I've been reading too many fantasy books to stay emotionally detached."
Cecil gasped with delight. "That's such a cool name! He sounds like a prince!"
Nestor rolled his eyes so hard it probably counted as exercise. "Can we skip the bedtime story and get back to the part where I requested scrap metal?"
"Relax," Tenorio said, already taking off his boots. "We had to cut the trip short. There were infected everywhere. Xenia didn't even blink—just scooped up the kid and said we're leaving. No room for debating logistics when there's a baby involved."
"Still," Xenia said, finally settling Rhys into a laundry basket padded with rags and Brie's ugly but functional crocheted scarf, "we didn't come back empty-handed."
Rico stepped up like a war-weary postman.
"Anna—first aid kit. Cecil—storybook. Gabriel—map. Nestor, here's a flashlight. It's not a metal wall, but maybe you can blind a zombie to death."
"I'll take it," Nestor muttered. "Bare minimum standards are my new religion."
Xenia handed the torn regional map to Gabriel. "Might help us chart safe zones. Or fake a treasure hunt. Whatever works."
The atmosphere began to unclench. Marga handed Xenia a boiled sweet potato with the casual grace of a peace treaty. Even Nestor stopped muttering for five seconds, which was basically a national holiday.
But Xenia couldn't relax. The baby changed everything. A tiny apocalypse curveball, wrapped in spit cloth and emotional damage.
"We need to contact Conrad again," she said finally, breaking the moment. "He has goats. He has meds. He has the ability to be emotionally unavailable on a daily basis."
Gabriel raised an eyebrow. "He's not one for charity."
"Then we negotiate," she replied. "Two goats—one male, one female. We build a pen. We make milk happen."
"Can't believe I'm saying this," Tenorio muttered, "but I'm with her. That baby's not surviving on leaf juice and optimism."
Marga sighed. "Do we even know how old he is?"
"Six, maybe seven months," Xenia said. "He's light. Has a few teeth. Doesn't crawl yet. Doesn't cry much, either. Probably in shock."
The room went quiet. Not awkward. Not dramatic. Just… still.
Rhys shifted in the basket, and Xenia's hand went to his back automatically. A small rub. No panic. Just comfort.
Anna sat by Irah again, quietly watching the scene unfold.
"Tomorrow, we move," Xenia said, her voice clear. "Tenorio, Marga, Gabriel—you're scouting the northern cabins. Roofs. Scrap metal. Fencing. Anything baby-related is now top priority."
Gabriel nodded. No complaints. Just silent planning mode.
"Irah needs more medicine," Anna whispered.
"I know," Xenia replied. Soft. Heavy. Like every responsibility was now stacked on her shoulders like bricks wrapped in baby blankets.
Rafe stepped beside her. "And us?"
"We're going to see Conrad," she said. "And if he says no, I'm ready to trade two jars of peanut butter and a moral compromise."
Tenorio crouched beside the baby. "He's… cute. You think he even knows what's happening?"
"No," Xenia said. "And maybe that's the point. Maybe he'll grow up not remembering how bad it got. Maybe that's what we're building for."
Everyone stared at her. Not just because she'd accidentally sounded like a TED Talk—but because it made sense.
Hope was dangerous. But it was also contagious.
Outside, the coconut trees whispered in the wind like they were eavesdropping on survival.
Inside, Xenia took one deep breath.
"New mission tomorrow," she repeated. "But tonight…"
She looked around at all of them. The weirdest sitcom cast fate had ever thrown together.
"…let's just survive one more night."
Rhys let out the tiniest squeak. Like an agreement.