Back at the camp, a rare moment of peace settled under the cracked stars and moonlight. Tenorio, Marga, and Gabriel returned from the village sweep, coated in dust and sweat but with tired smiles on their faces.
They dropped their haul onto the makeshift table—survivors gathering around like children at a Christmas bonfire.
Items from the Village Sweep:
Box of bullets
Half-used antiseptic spray
First aid kit (partial)
Two rolls of duct tape
6 cans of sardines
Pack of coffee beans
Firestarter
Hunting knife
Tin of dried mangoes
Cracked radio with intact antenna
Two soap bars
Jar of pickled radishes
Coiled snare wire
Old canteen
Stack of books (mostly soggy)
"I know it's not a gourmet feast," Gabriel said, lifting the sardines. "But hey, at least we can stink together."
Laughter rippled around the fire.
Then came another group approaching—the bleating of goats cutting through the night. Xenia returned with Rafe and a new face in tow: Caleb, carrying a rifle and leading four goats by rope.
Two males, two females—exactly what Xenia requested.
"Guys," she announced, rubbing her tired eyes. "This is Caleb. He helped us get the goats."
Caleb gave a short nod, his eyes cautious but observant. His gaze lingered on each of them—Tenorio, Marga, Nestor, Rico—his soldier's training scanning for danger, alliances, weaknesses.
"Pleasure," Tenorio said, shaking his hand. "You armed?"
"Always," Caleb replied with a calm grin.
Marga gave him a respectful nod but said nothing. Nestor raised a hand in greeting, his arm still bandaged. Even with the pain, he gave Caleb a warm smile.
But Rafe… didn't even look at him. Arms crossed, jaw tight, he simply stared at the flames as if Caleb didn't exist. Caleb barely acknowledged him either.
Xenia noticed the tension but said nothing. She had other worries.
---
Dinner was humble: boiled rice water for baby Rhys, split sardines over heated rice, and a few slices of dried mango shared like gold.
Everyone gathered around, some sitting on crates, others on blankets or overturned buckets. The fire crackled as shadows danced against makeshift tents and walls of scrap.
For a moment, it felt almost… normal.
Until Rico frowned and stood abruptly.
"Wildman's gone," he said flatly.
Everyone looked up.
"I brought his food. The lunch I dropped earlier was still untouched. Same spot. And his dinner? Still lying on the floor like no one touched it. That old coot never misses a meal."
Xenia's heart sank. "Are you sure?"
"I checked twice. He's not in his usual tree. Not snoring. No signs of him."
"It's already dark," Tenorio said, setting down his tin cup. "We'd be risking more lives heading out now. The infection's reached the small village. We go at first light."
"I don't like it," Rico muttered. "He's weird but he's not careless."
"I know." Xenia rubbed her temples. "He leaves traps. He's resourceful."
"But not invincible," Gabriel added grimly.
Trying to shift the tone, Gabriel held up the cracked radio. "Found this beauty. Rico, help me fix it? Might be able to get frequencies again. Maybe news. Maybe survivors."
Rico perked up a little and nodded. "Yeah, I can jerry-rig the antenna and patch the circuit board. Give me some copper wire and duct tape."
Marga tossed him the duct tape. "Be careful. If it works, it might pick up more than just humans."
---
Nearby, Irah, the frail older woman, lay on her cot. Her skin had grown more translucent by the day, her breathing thinner. She reached out with a bony hand and touched Anna's wrist.
"Will my granddaughter… Cecil… be alright if I'm gone?"
Anna knelt beside her, eyes full of sorrow but gentle strength.
"Yes, my dear cousin," she whispered. "She's safe. She's with us."
Not far off, Cecil sat on a mat, humming to herself and playing with two knit dolls—one she made, and one that looked suspiciously like Rafe, complete with black yarn hair and a serious scowl.
"I already made your request, Xenia," Nestor called from near the goats, his voice a little strained. "The wheeled box. Took us all day, but it's sturdy. It'll carry supplies, and the goats can pull it. Might just save our backs."
Xenia's lips quivered with gratitude. "Thank you."
Nestor gave her a weak smile. "Besides, my shoulder's feeling better. Maybe all this hammering was physical therapy."
The group chuckled again—soft, exhausted.
And for a moment, peace returned.
The fire crackled.
The baby, Rhys, let out a tiny coo in his sleep.
And somewhere in the night beyond the trees… something howled.
The fire cracked low as Rico suddenly stood, his eyes wide. His chest heaved with something deeper than fear—recognition.
"It was him," he said, his voice shaking. "The Wild Man. That sound. He's in danger."
Everyone froze.
A faint, distant thud echoed in the forest, followed by a low, broken howl that didn't sound like any infected they'd heard before. It was ragged—almost pleading.
Caleb immediately stood, grabbing his rifle in one swift motion. Rafe, not even hesitating, reached for his own weapon, slinging it over his shoulder as he brushed past Caleb with silent determination.
It was subtle—but unmistakable. The tension between them wasn't just about survival. It was a silent contest.
Caleb tilted his head slightly, smirking. "Try to keep up."
Rafe didn't respond. He just kept walking, boots crunching into the dirt.
"Oh boy," Tenorio muttered, grabbing his machete. "Are they always like this?"
"They just met," Xenia muttered, tightening her hold on baby Rhys as she backed into the shadows of the tent.
"Well, nothing spices up a rescue mission like testosterone," Marga said dryly as she followed, arms crossed but eyes alert. "Besides, if Wild Man's out there screaming like that, I want to see what the hell did it to him."
Xenia watched them disappear one by one into the darkness.
Her fingers curled tighter around Rhys, pressing him against her chest as if shielding him from the very air. The baby squirmed a little, letting out a soft whimper before falling silent again. Her heart thudded in her ears—not from fear of what was out there, but what might be drawn to them now.
They had goats. A child. A growing camp. Food and supplies.
They were becoming a target.
She sat down beside the fire, cradling Rhys, rocking gently.
"Shhh… it's okay, little one," she whispered. "Let the strong men play their games. We'll protect each other… right here."
But her eyes never left the darkness, nor the edge of the woods where the others had vanished.
And somewhere deep in the trees, something cracked. Not like a branch—like bone.