"There's still some fuel here," Rafe said, crouching near one of the rust-splotched pumps like a guy squatting at a yard sale hoping for treasure. He wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his arm, smearing a streak of grime across his temple. The sun had barely dragged itself above the tree line, but the heat already carried that sticky premonition of regret.
Around them, the looted gas station stood like a hollowed-out memory of capitalism: broken windows, shelves stripped bare, and a lingering stench of gasoline, rot, and some poor guy's expired hotdog dreams.
Xenia stepped carefully around shattered glass. "Okay, miracle confirmed. Now we just need containers that won't leak like my last relationship."
As if summoned by sarcasm, Thalia appeared from behind the half-collapsed back wall with the swagger of someone who definitely wasn't afraid to decapitate something before breakfast. She dropped three plastic gallons and two semi-crushed jugs in front of them.
"Scavenged from the utility shed," she said, kicking one with the toe of her boot. "Five gallons, good condition. No leaks, no blood. You're welcome."
"Thank you, Apocalypse Santa," Xenia muttered.
Thalia smirked, then vanished behind the station again. When she returned, she was holding something much worse.
A severed zombie head.
Its jaw still twitched. Its eyes were milky, dead, and weirdly judgmental.
"We hiding the fuel," Thalia said casually, "and adding a layer of deterrent."
Before Xenia could say absolutely the hell not, Thalia dropped the head on top of the tarp covering the fuel stash like it was the world's grossest paperweight.
Xenia gagged audibly. "Okay, sure, and maybe we can garnish it with some fingernails and eyeballs?"
"Better to scare people than invite them," Thalia replied without a shred of irony. "You want this fuel? Earn it."
---
By midday, the three of them were back at their forest outpost. The temporary shelter was little more than a ring of trees, camo netting, and piles of crap they hadn't bothered organizing yet. But it felt safe.
Thalia knelt on a tarp, her hands busy transforming junk into chaos. She laid out metal scraps, frayed wires, alcohol-soaked cloth, and spent bullet casings with the precision of someone who had clearly DIY-ed a bomb before. More than once.
Xenia crouched beside her, eyeing the materials like a nervous substitute teacher grading a science fair volcano.
"What I'm worried about," she said slowly, "is what we'll lose if the mansion goes boom. There might be stuff in there. Medicine. Food. Board games."
Thalia didn't look up. "There are other houses. Probably better stocked. That mansion? It's a coffin with wallpaper."
"But the wallpaper might be silk."
"You want to die for fancy drapes?"
Xenia sighed. "No. But I want to live for antibiotics."
Rafe chimed in from behind them, arms crossed. "We get the car, we can reach other towns. Supply runs. Clean exits. No more walking our calves into extinction."
"Fine," Xenia muttered. "Explosions it is."
---
At dawn, the world felt... too still. Like the trees were holding their breath.
Rafe took position behind a crumbling angel statue in the overgrown backyard. He crouched low, hand gripping the hilt of his katana. The blade still had dried zombie gunk on it. No one wanted to talk about that.
Up front, hidden in brush near the gate, Xenia and Thalia waited.
The mansion loomed. Broken windows, twisted ironwork, ivy strangling its bones. The air smelled of old ghosts and bad decisions.
Boom.
The first explosive went off like God had just slammed a dumpster lid. The ground trembled. Dust rose. And from within the shadows, the groans began.
Dozens of the dead stumbled out like concertgoers chasing a noise. Groaning, twitching, dragging their rotting meat suits across the once-elegant yard.
Thalia counted. "Ten... nine... eight..."
Xenia thought of Rhys. Of the camp. Of Tenorio.
"Three... two... one."
They slipped through the gate as it creaked open.
And Xenia froze.
Near the stairs lay Tenorio's rifle. Still coated in blood. Still waiting.
She picked it up slowly. Her hands shook.
"He would've wanted you to have it," Thalia said softly.
Xenia said nothing. She just nodded. Swallowed. Moved.
Another boom rocked the air. This time with fire.
Flames licked the back of the mansion. Zombies began staggering toward the heat.
Thalia sprinted to a dusty Fine Van tucked near the garage. She hotwired it in seconds. The engine roared like it was happy to be alive.
She reversed, tires crunching gravel, and parked on the road.
Then she ran back in.
This time, for a red sports car that practically whispered bad financial decisions.
It roared to life. A nearby zombie perked up.
Too late.
Thalia floored it out the gate.
Rafe emerged from behind the statue like a horror movie final boy, katana dripping. He spotted the car. Then Xenia. Then the rifle in her lap.
His smile faded.
Nothing needed to be said.
---
The drive back was quiet.
Thalia in the Fine Van, Tyrone beside her, singing lullabies like it kept the world stitched together.
In the red car, Rafe drove. Xenia stared ahead, rifle across her knees, fingers tracing the carved initials Tenorio had etched into the stock.
T.E.
He believed in doing more. Helping more. Dying for more.
And now he was gone.
Suddenly, static cracked through the radio.
Rafe turned the knob. A voice emerged:
"The Argenta Base is located in the city of Moore. It is fortified. All survivors are welcome. If infected, proceed to the quarantine zone. Please save lives. Don't be a burden."
The message repeated.
"Loop," Rafe muttered. "Might be abandoned. Might be real."
Xenia didn't answer. Her thoughts were drifting.
Zoe. Her roommate.
Was she alive?
---
Back at camp, cheers erupted.
The kids ran to meet the cars. Anna pulled Xenia into a hug so tight it felt like stitches.
Tyrone clung to Thalia. Wide-eyed. Safe.
The Fine Van and red sports car were parked like trophies.
They unloaded supplies. Canned food. Rope. Tools. A first aid kit.
They placed Tenorio's rifle on the altar by the cabin's hearth. Under his jacket. Next to a flickering candle.