Gabriel had seen a lot of things since the world went belly-up—brains liquefied, intestines strung like garlands, the slow psychological disintegration of people with bad hygiene and worse survival instincts—but standing inside that cave, staring at the glint of basalt and clay like a medieval Minecraft tutorial had just unlocked, he felt something dangerously close to joy.
"This is it," he whispered, pressing a hand against the jagged stone. "This is what we need."
(Cue inspirational music, if they still had speakers.)
Behind him, Xenia arrived with the energy of someone who had skipped sleep, processed three existential crises before breakfast, and was still ready to micromanage you into a better future. Her eyes swept across the cavern like she was planning the next great zombie apocalypse renovation show.
"Listen up," she said, volume calibrated to leader voice™. "New mission: we fortify the cabins. No more bamboo toothpicks pretending to be walls. We're building smarter, thicker, hotter."
Gabriel blinked. "You mean stronger?"
"Whatever. I want our house to survive a horde and look good doing it."
The group nodded. Not because they weren't tired, sore, or deeply traumatized—but because, dammit, Xenia was right. Again.
---
They cleared the mouth of the cave, assembling a makeshift crafting station using the sacred trinity: stolen hardwood planks, salvaged nails, and sheer spite. Gabriel got to work, his hands moving with that quiet precision only dads and serial tinkerers develop.
First came the saw—a hacksaw blade tied to a wooden handle with metal wire, resin glue, and enough prayer to qualify as spiritual engineering. Then the hammer. Basalt head. Leather grip. Solid enough to crush stone—or skulls, if it came to it.
For chisels, they repurposed metal tent stakes. For a spanner? A broken wrench duct-taped into submission.
Franken-tools, born of necessity and post-apocalyptic thrift.
---
Meanwhile, Rico was having his engineering anime protagonist moment. He discovered that the coal veins were actually viable. Add in firebrick stones, bamboo shavings, and metal sheets from ruined bunk beds, and bam: zombie-age forge unlocked.
He and Rafe cobbled together a smelter so janky it should've exploded—but didn't. It glowed like a dragon's belly and smelled like hot rust and bad decisions. Rico even rigged a tiny dynamo out of a bicycle wheel and salvaged magnets.
Spin it fast enough? Boom—light. Enough for a few bulbs or a moody campfire playlist. (Pending working radio and battery, obviously.)
"I call it the Apocalypse Alternator," Rico said proudly.
"You're one rogue lightning bolt away from being a supervillain," Marga muttered, but she was impressed. And slightly turned on.
---
Rafe, in the meantime, took one look at the basalt and saw weapons. You know, normal Friday thoughts. He carved short spears, daggers, and a cleaver so heavy it needed its own name.
"Basalt Fang," he said, holding it like it whispered vengeance.
"Sounds like a metal band," Brie replied, not looking up from the stew pot. "Or an anime arc."
"Both," Rafe grinned.
---
Back at the cabin, Anna and Cecil went full cozy-mode meets pioneer woman. They molded pots and bowls from cave clay with such love it felt like therapy. Cecil shaped hers into a smiling face—probably inspired by Rafe, judging by the dramatic eyebrows.
The pieces were sun-dried, then fired in the coal pit when it cooled. Primitive, beautiful, practical.
"Oh look," Anna said, cradling a finished water jar. "We made something that doesn't scream when you touch it."
Cecil giggled. "Mine's for goat milk!"
---
Meanwhile, Xenia was working on her side quest: a proper crib for Rhys. Because nothing says unhinged maternal panic with a side of architecture like hand-sanding a wooden baby bed in the middle of a zombie economy.
She padded the inside with salvaged cloth and added a mobile made from twine, buttons, and a ribbon someone definitely stole from Marga's hair tie drawer.
She even made a bottle out of a glass vial and rubber sandal sole. Filed the nipple with a pin. Prayed it wouldn't leak or explode.
She fed Rhys in silence, the baby nestled in her lap, tiny mouth suckling like the world wasn't one catastrophic mistake away from going full necromorph.
"I know it's selfish," she whispered, tears prickling. "But you're the one thing I don't want to share with survival. You're mine. My little reason to give a damn."
Rhys grabbed her chin with sticky fingers. Giggled.
She kissed his forehead like a promise.
---
Elsewhere, Wild Man was being… helpful?
Which felt wrong. Like cats doing taxes.
Brie gave him wood duty. He nearly chopped his own foot off. Then tripped over a bucket. Then carried the wrong kindling to the wrong fire pit.
But slowly… he got better. Axe split. Rope carried. Water fetched. Mortar moved.
Nestor barked from the scaffold tower, "Hey, beard boy! Bring the rope!"
"I'm trying!" Wild Man yelled, tripping again. "I've never functioned before!"
"You're learning," Nestor grunted. "Sort of."
---
By sundown, the whole camp looked like a medieval village run by Pinterest witches. The first floor of Gabriel's cabin was stone-fortress realness:
Limestone walls mortared with clay
Windows reinforced with shuttered planks and salvaged iron brackets
Stone floor laid and polished using sand and sheer elbow grease
Clay plaster walls dried into sturdy white streaks
And a coal fire quietly roaring inside the forge pit
Dinner came late. Tired hands. Aching backs. But no complaints.
Brie passed around bowls of stew. Marga slipped everyone a slice of dried mango like it was contraband. Rico used a tiny bulb powered by his dynamo to light the table. Rafe sharpened Basalt Fang. Gabriel outlined plans for the second floor.
And Xenia sat on the steps, Rhys asleep in her arms, his little crib beside her. She watched them all move like puzzle pieces finally clicking together.
Tomorrow, they'd build more. Higher. Safer. Together.
And maybe, just maybe, she could teach Cecil how to read. Because even if the world ended, someone needed to know how to pronounce "mortuary" without sounding like a Muppet.