The cave was quiet—too quiet. The kind of quiet that made thoughts sound louder and breathing feel like sin. A breeze moved through the entrance like a shy ghost, brushing against the living as if to say, "Sorry for your loss, but also… not sticking around."
The survivors had carved out a patch of earth for their dead. No headstones, no marble angels, just hastily softened ground and grief-scribbled tributes etched into scavenged wood. It was messy, lopsided, and beautiful in that we're-trying-our-best-with-a-shovel-and-crying-into-a-leaf kind of way.
Tenorio's grave sat front and center—his bloodied rifle wrapped in cloth and buried beside him like a knight's sword. Because that's what he was now. Their grumpy, machete-swinging, sacrifice-making knight. The kind who hated tears but definitely earned them.
Next to him was Irah. Her resting place was marked with a smooth river stone, a braid of dried flowers resting across it like a crown. She'd only been with them a few days. But she stayed. She protected. She died for someone else. That counted for everything.
Anna's sobs came in quiet waves. Her arms were wrapped around a torn scarf—one of Irah's. She held it like it might still be warm. Beside her, Cecil sat silently, hand clamped around Anna's wrist like a child afraid to let the world fall apart without holding at least one piece of it down.
Behind them stood Marga, arms folded, face like stone. She didn't cry, didn't speak. But the twitch in her jaw said she was barely holding her own damn ribs together.
The others—Rafe, Brie, Nestor, Rico, and Rico's perpetually smiling buddy (who still didn't have a name and frankly, it was starting to feel personal)—stood in a loose, uneven semicircle. Some bowed their heads. Some didn't. Mourning was never symmetrical.
Even Gabriel, newly returned and somehow more sunburned than before, looked older. Tired. He stood beside Xenia, who held the map like it was a will, not a plan.
She dropped to her knees, uncapped a pen, and carved a bold black X over the zone labeled Theremis.
"One down," she whispered. "Fourteen to go. We're doing this, Tenorio. We'll finish what you started, and we'll probably cry a lot doing it."
Out by the shore, Wild Man drew spirals into the sand like he was casting spells. His dog, Blackie, pawed at the lines, immediately erasing them. Over and over.
Honestly, that felt like a metaphor for everything.
---
At night
The cabin glowed with soft lantern light. The air was thick with sadness, as if everyone had collectively agreed not to process anything out loud yet.
In one of the back rooms, Thalia was unpacking what little she owned. Her things were stacked with soldier-level neatness. Tyrone, meanwhile, was already dead asleep on a bedroll, starfished like a log.
Xenia slipped in, cradling baby Rhys—who was squirming like a worm with tax problems. His cheeks were flushed, and his eyes screamed "I regret being born in the apocalypse."
"Sorry," she whispered. "He gets cranky after nine. Like a gremlin but less fuzzy."
Thalia smiled. "Crying babies are better than silent ones. It means they still have something to fight for."
Xenia flopped onto the mattress, gently rocking Rhys. "Thanks for the space-sharing. I know it's not ideal."
"Actually…" Thalia hesitated. "I've been thinking. Maybe I should build a treehouse outside. For Tyrone and me."
Xenia blinked. "I'm sorry, what now?"
"We had one before. He sleeps better when we're above ground. Feels safer."
"Okay, sure—but you do realize this isn't Club Penguin. It's the zombie apocalypse. If he rolls out of that treehouse mid-dream, we're gonna be scraping pieces off roots."
"I'd make it safe. Ropes, retractable ladders, traps."
"You're making this sound like Home Alone: Apocalypse Edition."
Thalia shrugged. "We just… feel better in trees."
Xenia sighed. "Fine. But if I catch him reenacting Tarzan, I'm cutting it down."
They laughed quietly, and for the first time in a while, the room didn't feel like it was caving in.
---
In the next morning
Morning broke with the sound of cluckageddon.
Caleb rolled into camp on a rusted bicycle like some kind of deranged farmer-Santa. Behind him: a plastic crate with two very alive, very confused hens and a sack that smelled like someone had blended cornmeal with disappointment.
"I bring gifts!" he announced, as if the Messiah had arrived with feathers.
Marga nearly screamed. "MORE mouths to feed?!"
Anna groaned. "More poop to clean."
Cecil, bless her soul, was thrilled. "Can I name one Poopy?"
"Absolutely not," Anna muttered.
Caleb beamed, like a golden retriever in human form. "Dad's got four new recruits in the woods. Our place is thriving. Heard what happened. Came to help."
Rafe narrowed his eyes like Caleb was a fly that wouldn't die. "Oh. It's you."
"Miss me?"
"Like a root canal."
Xenia stepped in, because diplomacy apparently meant babysitting grown men now. "Thanks, Caleb. But we're not taking you away from your base."
"Nah. You're doing the Lord's work. Plus, too much testosterone back home. Even the chickens are stressed."
Marga grunted. "Good. Maybe they'll lay eggs out of spite."
Brie just raised a brow. "Bet they scream like I do in group chats."
Xenia pulled out the map like she was about to present at a board meeting. "We're heading to Ceaton next. Rocky, steep, two-day hike. Possible waterfall. Lots of danger. Bring snacks."
"Count me in!" Caleb raised his hand like it was homeroom.
Rafe audibly groaned. "Why."
"You got a problem, Protein Powder?"
"Yeah. Your face."
Xenia clapped her hands. "Hey! This is an expedition, not The Bachelor. Keep bickering, and you're bunking together in a pink floral tent."
Silence. Glorious, petty silence.
Tyrone and Cecil watched the fight like they were at a tennis match. Marga handed one of the hens a death glare. "If you poop on my shoe, I swear—"
Splat.
"…This is my villain origin story," she muttered.
---
Marga built a coop out of literal trash and sheer trauma. One hen immediately laid an egg and the other laid something that looked like revenge.
Inside the cabin, Anna tried to introduce Tyrone to Rhys.
"He poops a lot," Tyrone observed, voice flat.
"Yes," Anna replied, dead inside.
"Sometimes it sounds like he's exploding."
"Correct."
Tyrone leaned in to the baby, whispering: "You're lucky you're cute. That's your only defense."
---
As the sun dipped into the sea, camp quieted. The hens, somehow, were calm now—like they sensed the humans had finally accepted their reign.
Cecil announced she wanted to be a chicken farmer. Brie promised to help and immediately forgot.
Xenia stood by Tenorio's grave again. The stone was cool. The wind was soft.
"We're still going," she whispered. "You said build something real. We're trying. One insane day at a time."
Thalia joined her, hand on her shoulder. "You're not alone."
And then, like clockwork—
"MOM!" Tyrone shouted from inside the cabin. "Cecil says I smell like chicken poop!"
Thalia sighed. "That's it. I'm building the treehouse. Tomorrow."
"Good luck," Xenia muttered, walking off into the night, already mentally preparing to duct tape floral curtains to a tent out of spite.
She didn't know where tomorrow would take them. But she knew it would be stupid, dangerous, and weirdly heartfelt.
Just like everything else since the world ended.