...in which tea is served, trauma is shared, and the apocalypse becomes a group project.
Inside the treehouse, everything smelled faintly of pine needles, smoke, and desperation—three very on-brand aromas for the end of the world. Thalia poured warm herbal tea into mismatched mugs made from salvaged porcelain and creatively repurposed coconut husks. One had a faded Hello Kitty sticker on it. Another said "World's Best Dad."
The dim lantern in the corner swayed lazily with the tree's motion, casting flickers of gold against the patchwork walls made of branches, tarp, and weathered canvas. Shadows danced like they had secrets. The wind outside howled like a tired banshee on unpaid overtime.
Xenia sat cross-legged on the floor, hands wrapped around her tea mug like it could keep more than her fingers warm. She wasn't shaking, not visibly—but her grip gave her away. Steady hands had long left the chat.
"Go ahead," she said after a long silence, voice pitched low and cracked at the edges. "Ask what you want to ask."
Thalia didn't waste time. "Does your camp have its own leader?"
There was a pause—just long enough to taste the hesitation.
Xenia stared into the steam rising from her tea like it might whisper the correct political answer. "To be honest… not really. We're more like… organized chaos."
Rafe let out a soft laugh. "She's being humble again. Don't let her fake modesty fool you."
He stretched out beside the wall like it was a therapist's couch and he'd just declared bankruptcy on his emotional filter.
"It's Xenia. She's the one who got us this far. She's the reason the cabin didn't fall apart on Day 5. She planned the farming zones, organized security watches, figured out how to purify water using only solar sheets and toxic optimism."
He leaned back, folding his arms. "If we're a dysfunctional cult, she's definitely the unintentional leader."
Thalia's gaze softened. She glanced toward her son, Tyrone, who sat quietly in the corner arranging pebbles like they were soldiers in a tiny war. The kid looked eerily calm for someone living in a tree during the zombocalypse.
"I'm sorry," Thalia said suddenly, voice steady but weighed down. "About what happened back there."
Her words fell gently, like apology-shaped leaves.
"I didn't mean for any of it. I was just trying to keep you away from that place. The mansion is... a hive. It's where the infection exploded. I thought locking it would protect people."
Xenia nodded slowly, jaw tight. The grief sat in her chest like a squat, angry boulder. Every breath she took around it felt like a betrayal to Tenorio's memory.
"I can't undo that," Thalia continued, gently stirring her tea with a dried sprig of lemongrass. "But I want to help you now. I'm a former scavenger soldier. I know tactics. Weapons. How to improvise with sticks and duct tape."
She paused, her eyes drifting to her son.
"But I have one condition. Help me protect Tyrone. That's all I ask."
Tyrone blinked up, sensing the attention. He gave his mom a proud, gap-toothed grin.
"Where are you going, Mommy?" he asked, his voice small but sturdy.
Thalia crouched beside him, brushing a thumb along his cheek. "I have to go fight the evil dragons, remember? Like the ones from your books."
Tyrone gasped. "The ones with fire breath and acid pee?!"
"Exactly those," she nodded, eyes twinkling despite the fear behind them. "So you'll stay here. Be brave. You're the knight of the tree now, remember?"
"I'll protect it!" he said, saluting with a serious little face that nearly broke Xenia in half.
The moment splintered something inside her—something maternal and soft and barely holding together with duct tape and denial. Her fingers clenched tighter around her mug.
"I miss Rhys," she murmured.
The name cracked through the quiet like a dropped plate.
Thalia turned gently toward her. "You have a son too?"
Xenia hesitated. "Not… biologically. He's a baby. Just a baby. His parents didn't make it. But I chose to be his mom."
There it was. Out in the open. Raw. Real.
Thalia gave a slow, respectful nod. "That's brave."
"He's at our cabin," Xenia said, voice fragile. "With Anna. She takes care of him when I'm gone. We also have a little girl named Cecil. She's... chaotic. But she tries."
"It sounds like you've built something worth protecting," Thalia said gently.
"We're trying," Rafe added. "But we came out here with a plan."
Thalia raised an eyebrow. "Let me guess. You want a car."
Rafe smirked. "Or two."
"You'll need one if you're going to expand. Or escape. Or go on emotionally complex supply runs."
She leaned back, eyes narrowing. "That mansion has cars. A couple, I think. I saw them before I locked the place. But getting in? You'll need a serious distraction."
Xenia perked up. "You said you were a soldier. Could you help us make one?"
"Like what?" Thalia asked. "Smoke bomb? Firework? Unholy mixtape of cursed accordion music?"
"Whatever makes the dead chase noise instead of us," Xenia said. "Get in, grab the keys, get out."
Thalia ran a hand through her cropped hair, thinking.
"We'll need three things: metal scraps, fuel or alcohol, and fire starters. If we can gather those, I can craft some timed incendiaries. Loud enough to pull the horde. Not loud enough to blow off your eyebrows."
"There's a gas station not far from here," she added. "It was looted early, but there might be leftovers. Cans, lighters. Maybe even a miracle."
"And if we find two cars?" Rafe asked. "I can drive one."
Thalia nodded. "Me too. What about you?"
Xenia lifted her hand halfway, then lowered it awkwardly. "I took the bus. And... tricycles. I can balance on a grocery cart if that helps."
Rafe chuckled. "So that's a no."
"It's a firm, panicked no."
"Then it's muscle-boy and me behind the wheel," Thalia said, smirking. "Got it."
"We move at dawn," she added, the soldier voice slipping back in. "Too dark now. The forest is… chatty after dark."
Xenia looked toward Tyrone again. "Will he be safe here?"
Thalia nodded. "He's trained. There's a hatch under the floorboards—supplies, flare, a little radio. He knows not to open the door. And if things go bad, the tree collapses outward. We rigged it."
"You rigged the tree to collapse?"
"I don't do things halfway."
The three of them fell into a comfortable, tired silence. Tea mugs slowly emptied. Outside, crickets sang their sad little EDM symphony. The tree creaked in rhythm with the breeze, rocking them like apocalypse babies in a cradle made of loss and stubbornness.
No one cried. No one dared. But the ache hung thick in the air—ghostlike. Heavy.
Somewhere beyond the leaves and wood and sky, the undead waited.
But inside the treehouse, for now, there was only warmth.
And the thinnest strand of hope, stubbornly refusing to break.