Chapter Text
The bell above the gun shop door jingled.
No one reacted.
The only sounds inside were hurried footsteps and the clatter of metal. Shelves were already stripped bare. Broken glass covered the floor.
"Grab every box of twelve-gauge!"
"Already got it!"
"Ludwig, stop looking at the bones!"
"I am not looking! I am appreciating zhe craftsmanship!"
Jeremy slid across the floor on one knee, sweeping boxes of pistol ammunition into a duffel bag. "Backpack's full!"
"Then use your pockets!" Dell called without even looking up.
Misha effortlessly lifted an entire crate of ammunition onto one shoulder. Tavish stuffed grenades into another bag. Mick worked silently, checking rifles before tossing them into the pile.
Jacques calmly pocketed boxes of handgun ammunition with the practiced efficiency of someone stocking groceries.
Pyro wandered past carrying enough fuel canisters to make everyone else nervous. "Mmph!"
"...Where did dey even find dose?" Jeremy muttered.
No one answered. They'd long since accepted Pyro's mysterious scavenging abilities.
A low groan drifted through the shattered storefront, which made everyone freeze.
Another answered it. Then another. Then dozens.
Mick slowly looked toward the boarded windows. "...We've got company."
THUD. Something slammed into the front door.
THUD! Another impact, this time making glass crack.
Jane immediately pointed toward the rear exit. "Strategic withdrawal!"
"For once, I agree!" Ludwig shouted.
The barricade splintered as hands began forcing themselves through the opening.
But nobody panicked. Nobody screamed. Five years ago, they would have. Now everyone simply moved.
Jeremy swung a duffel bag over one shoulder. Dell grabbed another. Misha effortlessly collected three more. Tavish kicked open the back door. Jacques was already outside checking the alley. Mick covered the rear with his rifle. Pyro lingered just long enough to shove a heavy display cabinet into the doorway.
The cabinet bought them exactly three seconds. It was enough.
The group burst into the alley at a dead sprint.
The bags were heavy, too heavy for one person.
They ran like links in a chain. Without thinking— Jeremy's free hand caught Tavish's wrist. Tavish grabbed Dell. Dell caught Ludwig before he stumbled. Ludwig grabbed Misha's sleeve. Jacques hooked an arm around Pyro to keep them from lagging behind. Mick brought up the rear.
No one gave an order. They'd done this hundreds of times.
Ahead, their battered pickup truck waited.
Dell reached it first, keys already in his hand.
The engine roared to life. "GO! GO! GO!"
Bags were thrown into the truck bed. Jeremy practically dove into the passenger side. Misha climbed in after shoving Pyro safely into the cab first. Jane jumped into the back before the truck was even fully stopped.
The infected poured into the alley just as Dell slammed the accelerator. The tires were already screaming as the truck fishtailed—and shot out onto the empty highway.
Jeremy looked over his shoulder. "...Dhink we got enough guns?"
Everyone looked at the mountain of weapons piled in the truck bed.
"...No," Dell answered. "We're still low on shotgun shells."
The truck barreled through the ruined streets, its suspension groaning every time it slammed over abandoned cars or chunks of broken pavement.
Behind them— thousands. A sea of infected poured through the streets, climbing over one another with inhuman speed.
"Hold on!" Dell shouted over the roar of the engine, white-knuckling the steering wheel as he jerked the truck around an overturned city bus. "We're almost at the safe zone!"
The truck lurched violently.
"WOAH—!" Jeremy, sitting on a pile of scavenged supplies in the back, was nearly launched into Misha.
Misha caught him by the back of his jacket before he could hit the floor. "Sit."
Jeremy grinned sheepishly. "...Dhanks."
Outside, Mick had almost his entire torso hanging out of the passenger-side window. One hand gripped the roof, the other steadied his rifle.
He wasn't even looking at the infected anymore. He was looking past them.
"Theah!" He spotted a rusted pedestrian walkway spanning the street ahead. Its supports had been weakened by years of neglect.
He chambered a round. "Dell!"
"Yeah?!"
"Keep the bloody truck steady!"
Dell grimaced. "Ah'm tryin'!"
The truck bounced over another crater, but Mick managed to adjust without missing a beat.
His breathing slowed. The chaos around him disappeared. One familiar squeeze of the trigger—
CRACK. The bullet struck a corroded support beam, making metal scream.
The elevated walkway twisted, collapsed, and crashed directly into the street behind them. The wave of infected vanished beneath hundreds of tons of steel and concrete, the impact heavy enough to shake the truck.
Jeremy twisted around to look. "...Holy—"
Misha gave an approving nod. "Good shot."
Mick finally climbed back inside, dusting concrete powder off his sleeve.
"Thanks." He casually reached for another round. "...Won't stop 'em fawr long."
As if to prove his point— hands began emerging from beneath the rubble. Then heads. Then dozens of infected started climbing over the collapsed wreckage.
Jeremy groaned. "...I hate it when dey do dat."
From somewhere in the back of the truck came an enthusiastic, "Mmph!"
Pyro sounded almost impressed.
They've been doing this for years. Nobody panics. Everyone already knows their job. Dell is the driver and problem-solver under pressure. Mick is the calm marksman making impossible shots. Misha is everyone's safety net. Jeremy is agile but impulsive. And Pyro is simply unfazed by the chaos.
The truck bounced violently over another pothole, making everyone inside lurch.
"Sorry!" Dell yelled from the driver's seat.
"You hit another crater!" Jeremy shouted from the back.
"I noticed!"
Another jolt rattled the cab.
In the rear of the truck, Ludwig had one knee braced against the floor to keep from losing his balance. His one gloved hand pressed against Tavish's side while the other carefully guided a curved needle through torn flesh. A surgical mask covered the lower half of his face, leaving only his narrowed blue eyes visible as he worked.
It quietly showed how the apocalypse has changed Ludwig. Before the outbreak, he had hopes of rebuilding his medical career. Five years later, he's performing emergency surgery in the back of a stolen truck while it's bouncing through ruined streets.
The truck hit another bump. Ludwig steadied his hand before continuing the stitch. "...Zhere."
Tavish hissed through clenched teeth. "Ooooooh... that smarts..."
"I know." Ludwig's voice remained calm, almost soothing despite the circumstances. "I am doing zhe best I can."
Another bump.
His hand wavered for only a fraction of a second before steadying again. "Unfortunately, I seem to have misplaced my operating zheater."
A few quiet chuckles came from the others despite the situation.
Ludwig tied another knot. "I also appear to be lacking proper lighting, sterile instruments and an assistant who is not currently hanging halfway out of zhe passenger vindow."
Outside came Mick's voice. "Oi heahrd that!"
"You vere meant to."
Tavish managed a pained laugh. "...Fair enough, Doc."
Ludwig finished another stitch before gently pressing fresh bandages over the wound.
"It is not pretty..." He checked for continued bleeding. "But it should hold."
Tavish nodded appreciatively. "Aye."
He reached into his pack and pulled out a familiar bottle, unscrewing the cap.
Ludwig sighed the instant he saw it. "Please tell me zhat is disinfectant."
"...Depends." Tavish took a long swallow. "Fer inside or outside?"
Ludwig pinched the bridge of his nose. "It is vhiskey."
Tavish gave a small shrug before taking another sip. "Best painkiller A'v got."
Ludwig couldn't exactly argue. Not out here. Not anymore.
"...Very vell." He finished securing the bandage. "But no more zhan zhat."
Tavish flashed him a grateful grin. "Aye, Doctor."
As someone who has spent five years keeping eight other people alive with almost nothing, Ludwig still has dry humor, but beneath it is genuine professionalism. That's why he still wears nitrile gloves and a surgical mask despite the collapse of civilization. He's adapted to a world with almost no medical resources, but he still clings to proper medical hygiene whenever he can.
Likewise, Tavish's whiskey isn't just a joke. It's a practical, old-fashioned way of dulling the pain when there are no anesthetics left. That small exchange says a lot about how scarce medical supplies have become without needing to spell it out.
Finally, the rusted truck rolled through the military checkpoint.
Concrete barriers. Sandbags. Watchtowers. Barbed wire. Floodlights.
And for the first time in days, nobody was trying to kill them.
A soldier waved them through after a quick inspection. "Safe Zone Twelve."
Dell finally killed the engine, with silence settled over the cab.
For a long moment, no one moved.
Then Jeremy let out a breath he'd apparently been holding the entire drive. "...We made it."
Misha climbed out first, boots thudding onto the dirt. The truck's suspension visibly rose as his boots hit the pavement.
One by one, the others followed. Stretching stiff limbs and beginning to unload their scavenged supplies.
Mick slung his rifle over one shoulder. Ludwig gathered his worn medical bag. Tavish climbed down more carefully, one hand unconsciously protecting the fresh bandages around his torso. Pyro hopped out last, clutching their battered metal pipe.
Almost immediately, people stopped unloading supplies and conversations died away.
Dozens of eyes turned toward the newcomers.
The camp was used to seeing survivors arrive alone. Sometimes in pairs. Families, if they were lucky. Groups of four were already considered unusually large.
Nine? Nine adults who all looked healthy, well-armed, and coordinated? Heads naturally turned all across the camp.
Whispers spread faster than the truck's engine had cooled.
"...Count 'em."
"...Nine."
"...Nine?"
"...How the hell have they kept that many alive?"
"...Must've joined up recently."
"...No way. Look at 'em."
"They move like they've been together forever."
"How long do you think that'll last?"
"They'll split up."
"They always do."
An older survivor leaned against a crate, giving a dry chuckle. "Or kill each other."
Jeremy shifted uncomfortably beneath the stares. "...Why's everyone lookin' at us?"
"They're counting," Mick muttered as he hoisted his rifle case over one shoulder. "They've never seen a group this big."
In this kind of world, everyone else survives by keeping their groups small because larger ones tend to fracture from conflict, lack of resources, or simple bad luck.
The safe zone survivors have learned that lesson the hard way, while these nine have survived because they stayed together. So to the camp, they're an anomaly.
Before anyone could say more, three older survivors wandered over. Weathered faces. Sun-faded jackets. The kind of men who'd lived long enough to think experience made them experts.
One looked over the group with an amused smirk. "Hell of a crowd you've got. Nine of you, huh?"
Nobody answered.
He chuckled. "That's cute. Word of advice. The bigger the group, the quicker it falls apart."
Another nodded. "Too many mouths. Too many opinions. Too many people to protect. You're gonna learn."
Dell set a heavy crate onto the ground with a controlled thud, and straightened slowly.
"We've managed this long." His tone stayed polite, measured. "There's safety in numbers."
One of the old men snorted. "There's safety in knowin' when to leave people behind."
The words hung in the air.
Jeremy whimpered softly. Misha's expression hardened. Pyro tilted their head. Jane's jaw clenched.
He stepped forward, stabbing a finger toward the men as if accusing enemy officers. "This is psychological warfare! They seek to divide our platoon before the next offensive!"
He spun toward his companions. "We have to choke 'em!"
Jeremy sighed. "...Here we go."
Dell muttered under his breath, "Every time..."
Even Tavish looked tired. "We've been here thirty seconds..."
By now, everyone knows Jane's first instinct is to solve interpersonal problems with overwhelming force. But before Jane could march another step, a gloved hand settled firmly against his chest.
Jacques had been unloading supplies from the truck, but paused only long enough to close the tailgate with a measured clang.
The Frenchman smoothly moved between Jane and the old men without so much as raising his voice. His masked face remained composed beneath the brim of his fedora.
"Non, soldier." His tone was calm, but left no room for argument. "Nothing good would come from causing a commotion when we have only just arrived."
"They have declared psychological warfare!"
"Zey have declared zat zey are old fools." Jacques folded his arms. "And old fools are not worth our time."
Jane frowned. "But—"
Jacques met his eyes. "Remember how difficult it was to find zis place. Let alone reach it."
…And everyone also knows Jacques is one of the few people who can shut him down immediately. Five years ago, Jane probably would have argued. Now, his shoulders remained tense for another moment.
"If you won't do it for ze team," Jacques tilted his head toward the truck. "Zen do it for ze docteur. He needs proper equipment. A medbay. Sterile instruments. Medicine. If we start a fight before we've even entered ze camp, we risk losing all of zat."
Ludwig hadn't been paying much attention to the conversation—simply unloading carefully wrapped medical supplies from the truck, his surgical mask still hanging around his neck, his expression as unreadable as ever—a dented metal case. A box of salvaged bandages.
He paused only long enough to glance toward the two's general direction. "...Hm?"
Ludwig doesn't have to ask for protection anymore.The others have seen enough over five years to understand how essential he is.
He held a battered medical bag that had been patched so many times it barely resembled its original shape. Jane's eyes lingered on it. He remembered Ludwig stitching wounds by flashlight. Resetting broken bones with scavenged splints. Performing surgeries on dirty floors because there had been nowhere else.
His shoulders slowly relaxed—the tension drained from his fists.
"...Right." Jane let out a slow breath. "Fritz needs a hospital."
"Exactement." Jacques stepped aside. "Now help unload ze truck."
Jane's military posture vanished as quickly as it had appeared. "Right away!"
He immediately began hauling crates as though the previous five seconds had never happened.
Jeremy let out an audible sigh of relief. "Dat was close."
Dell chuckled quietly as he picked up another crate. "Good thinkin', Jacques."
Heavy simply nodded once. "Doktor comes first."
"Mmph." Pyro carefully lifted Ludwig's largest medical case before he could reach for it himself.
Ludwig looked up, blinked once, and gave a small smile. "...Danke."
The older men scoffed and wandered away, convinced they'd made their point.
As they disappeared into the crowd however, Jeremy quietly muttered, "...Jerks."
"Well..." Dell looked at the sprawling safe zone. "Took us five years. We finally found someplace to rest."
None of them noticed the military officer standing on a nearby watchtower, binoculars raised. He wasn't looking at the truck. Or their supplies.
He was watching the way the nine interacted.
How the giant unconsciously stood where he could shield the others. How the engineer deferred to the sniper on matters of security. How even the odd drifter was accepted without question. His the doctor reorganized his dwindling medical supplies.
Jacques stepping in is that it reinforces why he naturally became the team's de facto diplomat. Jane was ready to escalate because he takes the insult personally, but Jacques understood that winning an argument isn't worth jeopardizing their place in the camp.
It's a very fitting solution, one not often seen by many survivors these days. Not backing down out of fear, but choosing the battlefield where the fight is actually worth having.
The other survivors assumed a big group is a weakness because they've probably seen large groups implode—through fear, selfishness, or infighting. These nine are the exception because most survivor groups were collections of individuals—but this wasn't. This was a unit.
They don't consciously think about helping each other anymore; it's become instinct. Misha lifts the heavy crates because that's what he always does. Ludwig checks injuries because that's his role. Mick watches the perimeter because everyone trusts him to. Jeremy lends a hand without being asked because someone once did the same for him.
And that made them interesting.
The last crate hit the ground with a dull thud. Around them, the safe zone slowly settled back into its usual rhythm.
Campfires flickered to life. Children chased one another between tents. Soldiers rotated onto the evening watch.
For the first time all day, things were quiet.
Dell stretched until his back cracked. "Well, that's everythin'."
Misha wiped the sweat from his brow before grabbing two more duffel bags anyway. "You missed these."
"...Right." Jeremy laughed. "How do ya even see stuff like dat?"
Misha simply shrugged. "I look."
Nearby, Ludwig was already reorganizing his dwindling medical supplies while Tavish insisted he was perfectly capable of carrying boxes despite the fresh stitches in his side.
"You are not lifting zhat."
"A'll be fine."
"You are literally bleeding."
"'Tis only a wee bit."
"It is soaking zhrough your shirt."
"...Aye. Fair point."
Jacques silently inventoried their ammunition. Pyro wandered after him, carrying three heavy fuel cans without seeming to notice their weight.
Jane was enthusiastically explaining defensive fortifications to a bewildered military engineer who had made the mistake of standing nearby.
"And then we mine the perimeter!"
"...Sir, we don't have any mines."
"We shall acquire some!"
The engineer looked increasingly concerned.
Off to one side, Mick leaned against the truck, arms folded. He noticed Jeremy grabbing another sack from the truck.
As he turned—a fist suddenly drifted toward his face.
Jeremy leaned back just enough for it to miss. "Nice try."
"Oh, that's how we'ah doin' this?" Mick answered with a lazy jab, the punch cut harmlessly through empty air.
Jeremy grinned as he bounced lightly onto the balls of his feet, and threw a deliberately slow jab.
Mick leaned his head an inch to the left and the punch missed by a mile. "Oh, that's adawrable."
Jeremy laughed. "Oh, c'mon!"
He threw another. Mick slipped it again, the lazily flicked out a light jab that tapped Jeremy squarely on the forehead. "Boop."
Jeremy stumbled backward dramatically. "Oh, cheap shot!"
"It touched yah fawrehead."
"It was psychological damage!"
"Sounds payynful."
Jeremy snorted. "Oh, you're askin' for it now."
The two began circling each other, exchanging exaggerated, easy-to-read punches while laughing the entire time.
Mick answered with a quick hook and Jeremy ducked beneath it while setting a crate onto the ground.
Neither punch had any real force behind it. It was a game—one they'd clearly played countless times.
Misha watched them from the corner of his eye, a deep chuckle escaping him.
Dell laughed outright. "They're gonna drop somethin' one of these days."
"They niver dae," Tavish replied with a grin.
Even Ludwig allowed himself a small smile as he packed away his medical kit.
Jane looked up from stacking crates. "Excellent hand-to-hand drills!"
"Non," Jacques answered dryly. "It is flirting wiz stupidity."
Pyro watched the exchange with an enthusiastic "Mmph!" as if cheering them on.
Every now and then one of them would break off long enough to grab another crate from the truck before immediately resuming their ridiculous "fight."
"Too slow."
"Says ya!"
"Ya telegraph every punch."
"I'll telegraph this one!" Jeremy lunged.
Mick stepped aside with practiced ease, and Jeremy's momentum carried him directly into Misha's back.
Misha didn't even budge.
Jeremy bounced off him like he'd hit a brick wall. "...Ow."
Misha looked over one shoulder. "Little men finished?"
Jeremy rubbed the back of his head. "...Maybe."
Around them, the others chuckled.
The camp's survivors couldn't help but stare. Five years into the end of the world—most groups barely spoke to one another anymore.
These nine laughed.
The engineer, the doctor, the immigrant, the demolition man, the sniper, the spy, the soldier, the drifter, and the kid who never got to go to college.
The camp thinks a group of nine is a liability, but the very interaction showed why this group has lasted five years—they actually enjoy each other's company.
Not bound by blood. Not by contracts. Not by war.
Just by five years of refusing to leave one another behind.
Five months earlier.
Boston Logan International Airport.
The departure board flickered overhead as Jeremy Willis bounced excitedly in his seat, rereading the college acceptance letter in his hands.
His old life was about to end, he just didn't know it yet…