Day 22
"There's still some fuel here," Rafe said, wiping the sweat off his brow as he crouched near one of the half-rusted pumps. The morning sun cast long shadows over the quiet, looted gas station. Cracked glass crunched under their boots, and the faint stench of gasoline and rot hung in the air.
The gas station was still intact—miraculously. While the store shelves were bare and the convenience store looked like it had been hit by a storm of desperate hands, the pumps still had fuel. A rare find.
"I guess we need some gallons to store the fuel," Xenia noted, glancing around.
Thalia, ever quick on her feet, emerged from behind the back of the station holding several plastic containers. "Here—five gallons of fuel," she said, setting them down. "We'll fill them, and I'll cover them with a tarp. No one will even dare to notice this place."
Before Xenia could ask what she meant, Thalia grabbed a recently decapitated zombie head—its eyes blank and jaw still twitching—and plopped it on top of the hidden fuel stash.
"That was... cruel of you, Thalia," Xenia muttered, grimacing.
"It's better to be safe than sorry," Thalia replied coolly. "There are survivors out there, but they're harder to find now. And most would kill for this kind of fuel. We need deterrents."
"Right," Xenia said, trying not to gag.
Later, back at their temporary outpost near the woods, Thalia got to work. She pulled out what little she had in her military pack—metal scraps, bits of cloth, torn wiring, and used casings—and began crafting two devices: one loud but harmless, and another that would cause a fire.
"Luckily, we found enough empty bottles to make these worthwhile," she said, tying off a cloth fuse soaked in alcohol.
Xenia knelt beside her. "What I'm worried about... is what we'll lose by setting the mansion on fire. There could be more supplies in there. Medicine, food, tools... things we can't get back."
Thalia didn't look up. "Don't worry. There are other houses nearby. Plenty to loot."
"But it'll take miles and miles just to get there."
"Not a problem once we get that car," Rafe cut in. "Or two, if we're lucky."
The three of them worked in near silence, the tension of what they were about to do gnawing at the edges of their minds.
As the sun peeked over the treetops, casting a pale golden hue over the forest, they took positions.
Rafe moved into the shadows near the rear end of the mansion, crouching low behind a broken statue. Thalia and Xenia, hidden behind thick underbrush near the front gate, kept their eyes on the entrance.
The mansion loomed over them like a sleeping giant. Ivy clung to its walls, windows shattered, the air around it still and waiting.
Boom!
The loud explosive went off behind the mansion.
Zombies began to shuffle from their hiding places, drawn by the sound like moths to flame. Dozens poured out through shattered windows and broken doors, their groans rising into a grotesque chorus.
Thalia counted under her breath. "Ten... nine... eight..."
At one, she sprang forward and unlocked the rusted gate with a practiced click. It groaned open just enough for the two of them to slip inside.
Xenia froze. Her eyes locked onto something lying on the grass near the stairs. Tenorio's rifle.
Still stained with blood, still warm from memory.
Her breath caught, and her feet moved on their own. She picked it up with trembling hands.
"He would've wanted you to take it," Thalia whispered.
In the distance, another boom echoed—the fire bomb. Flames erupted behind the mansion as the back windows shattered. The zombies, now fully distracted, began wandering deeper into the fire's direction.
Thalia sprinted toward the Fine Van parked near the side garage, hotwired it with deft fingers, and smiled as the engine roared to life. Gas tank full.
She reversed it carefully out the mansion gates and parked it on the side of the road. Then, without skipping a beat, she dashed back inside.
This time, she went for the red sports car—a sleek machine that screamed speed and fuel inefficiency. The moment the engine growled to life, it caught the attention of a straggling zombie nearby. She didn't wait. Reversed it, tires screeching, and floored it out of the gate.
Rafe reappeared just in time, slashing the last of the crawling undead with his katana. He spotted the red car, and then his eyes found Xenia... holding Tenorio's rifle.
His joy dimmed.
They didn't say anything. The grief sat heavy between them.
The ride back was mostly silent.
In the Fine Van, Thalia drove while Tyrone sat strapped beside her, humming a lullaby he barely remembered.
In the red car, Rafe drove. Xenia sat in the passenger seat, rifle in her lap. Her fingers grazed the scratched initials Tenorio had carved into the stock.
He was the one who believed in going further. In saving more people. In expanding. In risking the unknown. And it had cost him everything.
Suddenly, static filled the car.
Rafe reached forward and clicked the radio knob. To their surprise, the static cleared—and a voice crackled through, calm and steady, on repeat:
"The Argenta Base is located in the city of Moore. It is fortified. All survivors are free to come. If you are infected, a separate facility will provide care. Please save lives. Don't be a burden to others."
The message repeated again. And again.
Rafe frowned. "It's on loop. Could be automated. Probably abandoned."
"Maybe," Xenia whispered. "Or maybe it's still there."
Her thoughts drifted to Zoe. Her roommate. Her only friend before the world ended. Zoe's family had moved to Ferri Land. She hadn't heard from them in weeks. Were they safe? Alive?
She felt helpless. Like she was on the wrong side of the world.
"We'll check it out eventually," Rafe said, reading her expression. "Not today. But someday."
She nodded.
Back at the camp, the survivors gathered as the cars rolled in. Cheers erupted. They'd brought back more than vehicles—they brought back hope.
The children ran up to greet them. Anna hugged Xenia. Tyrone stared wide-eyed at the other kids, clutching his mother's hand.
They unloaded the supplies—canned goods, tools, Thalia's equipment—and placed Tenorio's rifle at the cabin's altar, under a candle and his jacket.
They would mourn him.
But they would also honor him.
The wheels were turning now.
And the island was slowly starting to feel like home.