Sometimes, silence is worse than screaming.
Especially after a cracked-bone sound echoes through the trees like a warning shot from Mother Nature herself. And by "Mother Nature," I mean the post-apocalyptic cryptid that now wears human skin and probably hates goats.
Xenia sat by the fire, clutching Rhys like he was both shield and anchor, the warmth of his tiny body the only thing keeping her from sprinting directly into a breakdown. Or a bottle of bleach. Whichever came first.
Around her, the makeshift camp had gone full ghost town. Shadows flickered, eyes darted, and the whole "brief moment of peace" vibe? Dead. Buried. Possibly eaten.
Rico was pacing like a raccoon on caffeine. "That was him. That scream? That wasn't just random zombie moaning. I know his voice. He always had this raspy yelp, like a kettle that never finished puberty."
"We know," Xenia said softly, bouncing Rhys gently. "You once wrote a haiku about it."
Rico didn't even flinch. "It won second place in the pre-apocalypse poetry slam."
Rhys stirred in her arms. He didn't cry—just pressed his cheek to her shoulder and sighed. A baby sigh. The kind that could rip your heart open like a Christmas present you didn't deserve.
"He trusts me," Xenia thought. "He's only been alive for like seven months, and somehow he trusts me. Me. The girl who once failed Home Ec because she set her rice cooker on fire."
Across from her, Anna sat silently sewing Irah's blanket back together by candlelight, eyes puffy but focused. Not crying. Just… preserving. Mending. Like she was trying to sew time back into the fabric.
And Cecil, that sweet little knot of sunshine and trauma, had fallen asleep curled up next to her, hugging the Rafe doll to her chest like it had healing properties. (Honestly? With those arms? Maybe it did.)
---
A thud sounded from the goats' pen, and for a hot second Xenia forgot what a pulse felt like.
She twisted around like a caffeine-fueled owl—only to see Nestor adjusting the wheelbarrow they'd converted into a supply sled.
"Sorry," he muttered. "Just trying to make sure this thing's stable for tomorrow."
"You couldn't have done that before the world sounded like it was cracking in half?" she hissed, readjusting the baby's blanket with trembling hands.
He gave her a sheepish shrug, his bandaged arm cradled like a broken promise. "Better nervous than dead."
She rolled her eyes so hard her skull clicked.
---
Meanwhile, deep in the woods, the testosterone parade was underway.
Caleb walked like he was born to patrol—quiet, balanced, aware of every twig. Rafe followed a few paces behind, his expression set to brood mode, aka: "I have thoughts, but I will never share them without at least three life-threatening situations."
Tenorio, bringing up the rear, muttered to himself like a dad who just wanted five minutes of peace before someone set the kitchen on fire again.
"Can't believe I'm babysitting a love triangle during a zombie rescue. What's next? A musical number?"
Caleb suddenly raised a hand. Stopped. Tilted his head.
They all froze.
And then… the forest breathed.
A sound rippled through the trees. Not quite a scream. Not quite a growl. But it vibrated in their ribs like an earthquake whispered directly into their lungs.
Tenorio whispered, "What the hell kind of thing makes that sound?"
Caleb adjusted his rifle. "Something that's still deciding if we're worth the calories."
Rafe stepped ahead. "Then let's make sure we taste bad."
Oh. Okay. That was hot. (Not that Xenia could hear it—but let's be honest, if she had, she'd be spiraling over it for three internal paragraphs.)
---
Back at camp, Xenia tried to focus.
She rearranged the supplies beside the fire. Checked the sardine cans like they were tarot cards. Stirred the rice water for Rhys even though he was already asleep. Anything to stay busy. Anything to not think about what that sound really meant.
"Stay here," she muttered, voice barely above a breath. "Stay safe. We'll figure out baby formula. We'll fix the radio. We'll build fences. We'll survive."
The baby didn't answer. Just breathed softly, one hand curled near his mouth like a tiny spell.
The fire popped. Sparks flew upward, tiny golden screams escaping the wood.
Then—movement.
A figure emerged from the dark, slow, dragging something heavy.
Xenia stood in a panic—but it was Marga.
"Relax," she said, half-panting. "Found a deer carcass. Mostly intact. Might've been hit by something, but no bites. Caleb's carving. Rafe's sulking. Tenorio's doing his weird muttering thing."
Xenia sat back down, weak with relief. "You're back. You're alive. That's all I care about."
"Well, also—meat," Marga said. "Protein is character development."
---
Hours passed.
More fire. More quiet.
Eventually, the full rescue party returned, dragging what was left of the deer, and no sign of Wild Man.
Just a torn strip of his coat.
And a knife with his initials, still warm with blood—but not his.
They found something, but not him.
That night, no one spoke much.
They ate, quietly. They cleaned. They watched the woods like it might reach in and pluck someone else out of their circle.
Xenia laid beside Rhys on a blanket of stitched-together jackets, her eyes burning but dry.
Above them, the moon cracked through clouds like a broken tooth.
Somewhere beyond the firelight, the forest whispered secrets none of them wanted to hear.