The air smelled like mildew and broken hearts.
Tenorio, Marga, and Gabriel had just walked into what was supposed to be a quiet supply run through the skeleton village of SilverMoon Cay, but surprise! It turned into an emotional bloodbath sponsored by brain rot and bad decisions.
The village was dying. Or rather, it had died, and now its residents were pacing slowly in mildew-soaked cabins, waiting to bite the living. Standard apocalypse ambience.
Cabin Four was the first punch in the gut.
Gabriel froze the second he saw the pacing figure through the cracked slats. Scar along the jaw. Limping gait. Faded shirt from a fishing tournament ten years ago.
"…Benny," he whispered, voice breaking like a plate in a sink.
Benny groaned from inside, slow and clumsy, dragging one arm as if even in death, he couldn't be bothered.
Gabriel stepped back, swallowing grief and bile in equal measure. "He's gone."
"Sorry," Marga muttered. She meant it. The kind of sorry you say when someone's past just tried to eat you through a window.
---
Cabins Five and Six were better—if your bar was set at no one inside trying to chew your liver.
Gabriel scored a half-used first aid kit and a suspicious canteen that smelled like rust and cryptid pee. They also found a pack of coffee beans, and Marga nearly cried. "Do you know what this means?"
"Yes," Tenorio said. "We'll all be more annoying and less sad."
Cabin Six was the real jackpot: bullets, soap, dried mangoes, duct tape, and a radio that looked like it barely survived Y2K.
"If this works, I'm marrying it," Marga declared.
"Fair," said Gabriel. "Stable, quiet, and potentially useful? Better than 90% of men before the apocalypse."
---
Then they got to Cabin Seven. The Sitcom Cabin.
They opened the door and were hit by the scent of sweat, fish, and tragic life choices. In the corner, someone was snoring on a mattress that looked like it had tetanus.
Tenorio crept forward, gun raised.
Then the man snapped awake like a cartoon character coming out of a coma.
"AHHH! WHAT THE—WHERE AM I?! WHO ARE YOU?! WHY DO YOU HAVE A GUN?!"
Tenorio nearly shot him out of spite.
"Are you bitten?" he barked.
"NOI'MNOTBITTENIJUSTRANINHEREDURINGTHECHAOSANDIHIDETHENIFELLASLEEPANDNOWYOUGOTGUNSINMYFACEWHATTHEHELLMAN!"
"Gabriel, who the hell is this circus act?"
Gabriel squinted. Then blinked. "Leonard?"
Leonard screamed, then leapt toward Gabriel like a shirtless koala. "BRO! It's me! You used to buy my fish every Tuesday!"
"You look like you've been living in a dumpster filled with regret."
"I have! I ate uncooked rice and sardines without labels! I don't even know if one of them was cat food!"
Tenorio didn't flinch. "Strip."
"WHAT?!"
"For bites."
"Are you serious right now?!"
"Unless you want your obituary to read 'Died of Drama.'"
Leonard groaned and peeled off his shirt. No bites. Just chest hair and a mole shaped like a comma. Tenorio sighed and lowered his rifle.
"Fine. You're clean. You're also weird."
"Thank you," Leonard sniffled, putting on his socks. "I am weird. And alive."
---
Then—cue the horror violins—Marga shouted from outside:
"BOYS, OUT! THREE INCOMING!"
Gabriel bolted to the window. "Zombies?!"
"YES, FROM THE EAST TRAIL. MOVE YOUR ASSES!"
What followed was chaos ballet:
Gabriel helped Leonard into pants like a mom dressing a toddler. Tenorio reloaded with rage. Marga stood like a boss on the porch, shotgun cocked and hair wild in the breeze like a tragic heroine in a telenovela.
The infected stumbled out of the trees.
One of them—ragged, twisted ankle, jaw slack—made Leonard freeze.
"...Eva?" he whispered.
Gabriel's heart sank. "No. Leonard, don't."
But Leonard—sweet, sleep-deprived Leonard—stepped forward.
"My love," he sobbed. "You're hurt but you're alive! I knew you'd come back to me!"
Eva groaned. Not in love. In hunger.
Leonard did the dumbest thing anyone's done since the start of this apocalypse: he hugged her.
And Eva, formerly-wife-now-walker, bit into his neck like he was the last lechon on Earth.
Blood sprayed. He screamed. And still, he clung to her like a man trying to rewrite fate.
Gabriel shouted. Marga screamed. Tenorio cursed the entire human race.
The other two infected lunged—Gabriel shot one in the temple, Marga blew an arm off another, and Tenorio stabbed his blade so deep into one zombie's eye it made a wet crunch.
Meanwhile, Leonard dropped to his knees, twitching.
Then he started snarling.
Tenorio didn't blink. Bang.
Leonard collapsed, bloody and broken, face buried against the woman he once loved.
"Goddamn it," Gabriel muttered.
Marga stood still, staring down at them. "He died loving her."
"Yeah," Tenorio added. "And stupid."
---
They didn't speak for a while.
Just stood there. Breathing. Processing. Sweating.
Eventually Gabriel said, "Cabin Eight, then we're done. No more romantic reunions, I beg you."
Marga nodded. "If I see my ex crawling out of a tree, I'm shooting him and the tree."
"Reasonable," Tenorio said, already reloading.
They moved forward.
Because in the apocalypse, there's no pause button for grief. Just next cabins and heavier hearts.