#devoted

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Home was safe.

Home was all you needed.

It was a fortress of pine wood mixed with steel, tucked deep into the highland forests of Scotland's outskirts. Thick fences were woven in barbed wire, encompassing the entire compound. It had rusted with age, being trapped in ivy and other various plants.

Home had sharpened stakes pointing out to the unknown, a line of buses and old camper vans with flattened tires welded as a form of blockade from the infected.

There was only one way in and one way out, which always confused you. But you knew better than to voice your concerns.

Regardless, it was safe and had been standing for over 25 years - if the infected were going to cause an issue with the walls, it would've happened by now.

At least, that's what you would tell yourself to help you sleep at night.

Inside, woodsmoke paired with dampened earth surrounded you, just enough to mask the sweat of those working on their chores.

Everything smelt like woodsmoke here. It clung to everything and everyone like a second skin. The frail clothes on your back, the machete by your hip, even the breath in your lungs. The trees were shield. They hid you all from what lay outside in the dark. The infected, the weather, from whoever remained in what was left of the UK.

The fences and the trees were the only consistent things in your life. You'd never known anything else, nothing that stayed for very long at least.

Home was a compound where an old hydroelectric station used to run, having closed down long before the Rage virus took over. It didn't work, having long since corroded before your group found it - but it was enough. Shipping containers and broken down vans were used as homes, stacked and connected by rope bridges.

Those in the council lived in the turbine room, concrete and without holes, a luxury most dreamed of. The forest canopy hung above, various branches littered with lanterns and jar lights that had to be manually lit every night.

Most of the residents of Home were older, early forties and well past. All hardened survivors who could remember what the world used to be like before the infection started. They would reminisce of electricity, of working cars, hell, some even said they missed working their jobs pre infection.

Now, everything smelt of blood, of mildew and nature. They would mention mundane things like birthday parties and shopping malls, how much they missed grocery shopping and going to bars.

You didn't. You were born after the virus took over, just a few years later. There wasn't anything you remembered that you should miss, just your dad.

Your mother had passed during your birth, the community not wanting to spare what already short supply of medicine they had on someone who willingly got themselves pregnant.

Your father passed just shy of your twelfth birthday, having not returned from a supply hunt.

You missed people you never met and someone you could barely remember. There weren't any photos. No reminders of their voices. Just two expendable members of Home that meant two less mouths to feed.

They didn't let you mourn - they didn't see a point. Gatherers were considered expendable, and the ultimate 'gotcha' of such a tedious job was being killed whilst outside the Home.

It was funny in a way to those inside when someone didn't return, often placing bets on whether it was an infected, suicide or a runaway.

You knew your dad would never have willingly left you behind, so you prayed to whoever would listen that his death was swift and painless - something that he deserved after all of his hard work protecting a community that wouldn't return the favour.

But you knew that wouldn't have been the case.

From what little memory you had - your dad was kind, protective, teaching you how to read and how to protective yourself with little tips and tricks of the outside.

Where traps should be placed, where people would hide even the most small but useful supplies. It was these lessons that stopped the council from throwing you out after he didn't return.

As disposable as you were, useful you are.

You were in your twenties now, and you well and truly knew your place. They made you a gatherer just weeks after your dads death, twelve and out into the world.

The compound wasn't exactly a democracy.

The Council were made up of the survivors who had initially found the place. It was a mixture of ex-military, ex-police, ex-anything that gave them some sense of superiority over those who came later to the station.

The ones who actually ordered everyone around were called the overseers, strutting around and barking orders like the war hadn't been lost years ago, leaving the infected to rule the earth.

There weren't many young people your age around either, actually, you were considered one of the youngest in the compound. The council didn't allow newcomers unless they could benefit the group, and those with children were never considered. Their belongings would be confiscated, and they'd be sent on their way to their deaths.

The very few people around your age didn't gather or scavenge either. They didn't hunt - nor did they know how to even hold a weapon. Didn't do anything really. They were higher up in the hierarchy - council children.

They weren't allowed to get their hands dirty, they were the future after all.

Being insulted daily, made to feel small and stupid. When your supply finds were small, or your hunts weren't up to their high standards - you were punished.

Starved of rations you had found. Starved of game you had hunted. Made to sleep outside the walls if you stepped out of line, or if they deemed your findings insulting, branded.

It was normal, it was Home.

There were only a few other gatherers in their forties, but they wanted next to nothing to do with you. To them, you were considered a liability as both a young woman and 'inexperienced' to the new world.

When they sent you out alone at twelve, you had begged and cried to be let back in, scratching at the metal gates until your fingernails bled.

The world was dark, it was chilling, and infected certainly didn't care if you were a child. The world would grip you in it's claws, sinking it's teeth in until nothing but blood remained.

But it wasn't the infected who hurt you.

It was a human who first inflicted pain, your first ever punishment for not listening and following orders.

The scar on your hip was a clear reminder that if you stood out line again, someone would be there with a blade to set you straight.

No one was kind, and you forgot what the word even meant. You were a stain to these people - just another mouth to feed.

You didn't care anymore.

You learned then and there that survival didn’t care about fairness. You worked hard. You pulled your weight until your feet were blistered. You shut your mouth and kept your head down.

And that’s what you did every day since, day in day out. This routine kept you inside the gates of Home for now, and after awhile, it became normal.

You did what you had to in order to keep a roof over your head.

This is what life was supposed to be.

-

You were already dressed and halfway to the gate when someone calls your name from behind, roughly grabbing at your backpack.

"Ye didn't sign out," A gruff voice startles you, and you turn slowly, keeping your eyes trained on the ground. It was one of the overseers, Russ. His beard had gone mostly white with age, and he walked like he owned the place.

Which - technically he did. Still, he hated you all the same, and you wondered if it was because - much to his dismay, you survived more gatherings than anyone else. "Where d'ye think yer going with that bag?"

"It's mine, my last pack was ripped off by an infected sir," You reply flatly, gripping the straps of your backpack tightly. "S'all I have."

"So ye just took it? And without signing out?" His wrinkled hand reaches out, gripping your chin roughly and forcing your head up to look him in the eye.

He wore gold rings across his middle and pinky finger, one engraved with the word 'king', the other a cross. The metal felt cold against your skin. "Is that what I'm hearing?" "No - No, I bought it with my rations," You say quickly before tilting your head towards one of the watchtowers, seeing two figures looking back. "I have signed out, already wrote in with Pete and Colin... Sir."

His eyes narrow, and you know deep down he believed you. He just wanted to find a problem, wanted to have a reason to scold you in front of everyone.

You turn your attention to the front of his vest instead, the very piece of leather never leaving his body in the years you’ve known him.

Weathered but loyal.

You supposed it was just like him in a way.

Russ' boots crunch in the gravel as he shifts on his feet and he reluctantly lets you go, making sure to send your head back roughly as he does so.

He steps forward just a little, hunching down to your level with narrowed eyes. "Y'know, all that lip and attitude will get ye in trouble one of these days," he mutters, his voice thick with threat. "We don't want a repeat of last time, do we now hen?"

You stare at him, your jaw aching from how tightly you clench it. Last time still left a slight ringing in your left ear.

This was already your fourth run this week, having brought back a stag just two days prior, having nearly got your shoulder torn into by an infected doing so.

But you kept your mouth shut. Instead tightening the straps of your bag and nodding. "Sorry sir," you matched him with a more quieter tone. "May I go now please?"

"Mmh, Michael said he wants to see ye when yer back," He starts to back away from you. "Think he wants something' from ye."

You didn't reply, just giving him a sharp nod.

The gates had started opening behind you with a rusty and deafening groan, and Russ nods once, telling you to go be useful.

The Watchers didn't like opening the doors out of sheer laziness, having to pull the levees with muscle they clearly lacked.

There were no ceremonies, no well wishes or even a mutter of 'be careful'. Just eyes watching you, bows and arrows in their hands, ready to mark you down as a no return if you don't show up in the morning.

It was better this way. No one could hurt you and get away with it out here.

You decided to venture further out than usual, keeping moving like you always did. Quietly and with intention, knowing the weight of other people's survival depended on you. It pressed into your spine like a steel capped boot, weighing on you with every step.

The forest stretched on forever, endless greenery and damp soil. Eventually, you had walked far enough to no longer hear Home, and it gave you some relief.

The trees started to whisper with each gust of wind, the sound of nature and birds providing you with some reassurance of there being no nearby infected.

It was the kind of vast wilderness that swallowed everything whole, and you had realised when you were younger that it was part of the reason that not many infected nor non infected had found the compound.

A broken tree marked the start of a new venture, it's trunk having been splintered by lightening many years ago. Past it, you had never journeyed before, and an arrow was already notched, ready for anything that may step your way - whether it be an animal or an infected.

The land felt different out here, the trees especially.

Older, taller, and more to your acknowledgment, none cut down for any nearby shelters. You had never walked this trail before, and you were sure no other gatherer had either.

It was considered high risk on the map the gatherers before you had made, the terrain too uneven, too close to packs of infected and far from any safe spaces.

High risk was good.

It meant more chances of returning Home with a packed back. The stag hadn't been enough last run despite feeding everyone and then some, not that you were allowed seconds. Russ and the other overseers had just stared at you with those scornful frowns, urging you to do better, to be better.

The council children, despite being in your age group, just snickered at you, hiding behind their parents.

You’d bitten your tongue until you were adamant it bled, until you could taste iron. And now you were here, walking deeper into the unknown than anyone from Home had before.

Because at the end of the day, it wasn't enough. It was never enough.

You were born having to prove yourself.

Over and over again.

After hours of walking - you came across a stream, taking the time to rest and refill your water canister. Your thighs burned slightly as you sat on a rock and you looked around, taking in the sights.

It was beautiful all things considered, that is if you ignored the whole lingering threat of death at every corner.

Your breath appeared in front of you with every exhale, a reminder of just how cold and sharp the morning was. Your clothes weren't exactly suited for the climate either, but you had to choose with your rations whether to buy new clothing or a backpack, and so you sat by the waters edge, rips and tears in your shirt and trousers.

Your shoes were one hard run from falling apart, and so you walked with caution, taking notice of the rocks and roots that hid in the mist.

Every step was calculated after you left the stream. Bow in hand, machete at your hip. Every click, you would pause, waiting to hear any telltale signs of infected, for the rustle of birds, anything.

Bloaters, runners, alphas... anything.

But there was nothing.

And that was almost worse.

It was past midday when you found an old trail. Nature had well and truly taken it back, but there was no mistaking it had once been walked on in the past.

It took you past what used to be an old farmhouse, long collapsed with it's roof eaten by rot. Beside it lay another trail, a narrow break in the underbrush.

You hesitated, wondering whether to stay on your chosen beaten path or opt for the new, albeit more edged out path. If supplies were out there, they'd be hidden in places like this.

Hidden in the earth.

Forgotten about.

Places that others, not just from your group, would fear to follow.

You adjust the straps on your back, double checking the machete on your hip before gripping the bow in your hand tighter. The air was colder the more you walked, and every now and then, you would spot the remains of fences, something once man made hiding beneath.

There would even be literal remains, skeletal figures lying in and amongst the tall grass, having been killed during the early days.

When you were a kid, the idea of death would scare you, naturally, but now it gave you something to think about.

You would often wonder if any of the many bones you'd find belonged to your dad. Or about who they might've been before they met their end.

You were envious in a way, jealous of their peace.

Most of the houses you found were one hard fart away from collapsing, and so you kept on with a steady pace. Eventually, you came across a low set house that didn't appear on your map.

It was stone built, half of it being swallowed by the earth. Ivy strangled it's windows, reminding you of the rusted fences back Home. The roof however, much to your shock, was mostly intact.

You circled it a few times, bow raised as you peered into any window that wasn't smashed or glazed over. The door was locked, or more so blocked by something inside.

It didn't budge as you shoved your shoulder against it, and you sighed, making the decision to climb through the closest window that wasn't littered with shards of glass.

The air beneath your feet had swirled around you as you landed on the ground with a huff. It was stale, reeking of something once forgotten, but to your delight - no stench of death, no stench of infected.

You moved quick, having swapped your bow for your machete. Items were strewn across the hallway as you walked, a sign whoever had left here was in a hurry.

It reminded you of what your dad had once said - that a lot of people didn't have time to prepare when the virus started. Many had escaped, or tried too, with just the clothes on their backs.

In what used to be the kitchen, you found drawers that hadn't been opened in a long time. Two packets of pasta, a bag of what looked like white rice, a roll of wire. You bagged them all, heart thudding at such rare finds.

It still shocked you that some things could last this long without expiring. In what used to be a bedroom, you found what probably would make every overseer cheer, whiskey.

Dusty and it's label well and truly worn, it was unopened, and you wondered if its original owner had been waiting for something special to drink it. It weighed your bag down, but you ignored the strain, pressing on.

They might even praise you for the find, might even let you have a sip of the luxurious drink. But deep down, you knew better - you had found plenty of fancy drink in your time gathering, and not once were you allowed to try.

You weren't sure what was so special about it, but you knew that when the overseers and other council members had a lot of it - they were nicer. They didn't yell as much, call you names.

Not useless this time, you thought. They’ll have to admit that, at least.

You couldn't help but smile - they might even thank me.

You'd never been thanked for anything before.

Upon finding some more various items that could be traded with, gloves, a scarf and even a pocket knife - you left, climbing out of the same window you arrived in.

It was mid afternoon now, and you knew you would have to find some shelter soon. The house was honestly your best bet, but with still a few hours of daylight left, you wanted to keep gathering.

You made note of it on your map before venturing out once more, your pack noticeably heavier now.

Every step felt quieter now. More careful and concise. Your map read that were was a village ahead, or what would've once been a village, but you moved around it.

It was marked with a clear red X.

It belonged to the infected.

So you stuck to the beaten track like before, the light dimming through the trees. It would've been a few hours before sunset when you heard it.

Or stopped hearing if anything.

The birds had stopped their singing, even the wind felt different.

You didn’t trust the quiet. Quiet brought bad.

Your path opened to the remnants of an old road, swallowed by ferns and weeds. You followed it hesitantly, knowing that eventually it would bring you to some more man made buildings.

Your stomach dropped as something darted in front of you, a blur of ginger and white, and you relaxed just a little, watching as the fox scurried off further down the road. You waited with your arrow notched, pointing to the ground.

No growls. No shrieks. No twitching infected.

Still, a running animal always left you on edge.

Another hour passed. Maybe two, you recklessly stopped keeping track, wanting nothing more than to try and find more for the compound.

You had found a small shack buried beneath broken beams. It was dangerous but you had left with a lighter and a box of bandaids. You stood in front of it's broken door, zipping up your bag when something caught your eye.

Another blur of colour in the trees, but this time, it was vibrant.

Red.

You blinked, and it was gone.

But there was no denying that something, someone had been watching you.

Your heart pounded in your chest, and you quickly threw your bag back onto your back, once again lifting your bow. Your eyes scanned the tree line, not finding anything.

It was an infected, you would've heard them, hell, you would've been attacked by now.

You should’ve turned back. You knew that. But something about the carelessness of it all  pulled at you.

You moved slower now. Quieter. Bow in hand.

Following in the direction of the colourful blur, you crouched, looking at the soil. The footsteps were clear, deep and heavy in the dirt and you shivered, knowing you were in fact being watched.

You followed the tracks for what felt like hours, but you knew it would've only been over ten minutes.

Your mind screamed at you to turn around, to find somewhere to sleep and return Home - but that childish part of you, the little part that the compound hadn't completely cut down was jumping at the chance of exploring.

Eventually the tracks disappeared as you came across another stream, almost like a divide between the land. A log lay in the middle, and you looked around, knowing whoever it was had crossed and done so quickly.

The sun was beginning to set, and so you continued, following after them with haste.

You were tracking the footsteps again when a scream sung out.

Snarls followed it. Wet. Gurgling with shrieks.

Infected.

You moved without thinking, swift and quickly, jumping over tangled roots and into trees with each tussle of your backpack. The forest opened above a shallow glade when you noticed them.

Two people, non infected, were surrounded. Except, they weren't screaming in fear like you had thought, instead they were grinning from ear to ear, makeshift weapons in their hands.

The infected had them cornered. The pale, blistered skin of the monsters causing a contrast to the bright clothing of the strangers.

Are those wigs?

They wear wearing blonde wigs.

You blinked, confused and bewildered. Apart of you wondered if the dust you had been inhaling was making you see things - but one of the non infected, a woman in red, screams again in delight, raising her weapon as she strikes the first infected that came too close.

They were wearing tracksuits.

The other, a man in a white, raised his own weapon, taking out another. They both fought against the infected as they ran towards them with their grins never falling, but more infected piled in, and eventually the two were once again pushed back.

You snapped out of whatever daze had taken over you, lining up your arrow with an infected that lunged for the woman.

It fell at her feet, and she looked up with widened eyes, locking onto where you stood in between the trees, even taking the time to wave at you before striking another down.

You kept firing, taking out the bloodied bodies as they continued charging. Shot after shot, they fell down in a heap, arrows lodged in their heads or throats.

They were laughing.

The woman swings a baseball bat around, the man practically dancing between lunges, wielding what looked like a pronged staff. Their wigs whipped around with each swing, tangled and long.

You weren't sure if they were insane or just... confident. Something about the ease of their movements, the way they work side by side. They weren't new to this by any means, and it shocked you, seeing people close to your age outside.

One infected breaks from the little circle they pounced from, fast and silent, heading straight for White's blind side. Your body reacts before your mind catches up, letting another arrow slices through the air and into the infected's eye socket from behind.

It drops mid-sprint, falling into a heap by White's feet. He spins, wild-eyed, then follows the arrow’s direction back to where you're standing.

You’re standing taller now, bow still raised. Your heart hammering in your chest.

You had never done this before.

The most you had ever had to do with strangers was the occasional trading - never putting yourself at risk.

And yet, you just did. Your arrows dwindled in numbers, stuck into the many infected who lay in the dirt.

Red throws her head back and laughs, waving again - this time for you to come down from your little hill. "Hey!" Her breathing was laboured, an attempt to catch her breath as White took out the last runner. "Come on down!"

The two strangers are still catching their breath, though neither seemed shaken or worried. If anything, they’re thrilled. Their eyes flick between you and the dead infected with something close to admiration and familiarity.

"C'mon!" She yells again, not seeming worried about her volume by any means.

You hesitate, not being used to strangers - let alone friendly ones.

The clearing smelt like blood and damp moss. The wind has shifted, colder, and the sun was sliding behind the hills fast, dragging darkness across the glade by the minute.

The area was becoming dangerous by the second, and this many runners usually meant an Alpha wasn't too far away.

But the pairs attitude was careless in away, and so you make your way down, sliding against the grassy hill until you were level with them.

Red tracksuit steps over a corpse, holding out her hand. "Thank you muchly," Her voice was light, but breathless. "Jimmy Ink,"

You eye the hand, not used to to such formalities, nor genuine gratitude. It felt abnormal, foreign in a way, almost undeserving. Maybe she didn't mean to thank you, the words slipping out her mouth by accident.

Slowly, you raise your hand and she takes it, shaking for the both of you. "Where you from? Haven't seen you around these parts."

The man in white wipes his hands on his already stained trousers before taking your hand afterwards, introducing himself before you can speak.

His wig sat crookedly, wispy bangs clinging to his forehead with sweat. "Jimmy Snake, you?"

It confused you to no end, the whole 'Jimmy' schtick, but you knew better than to question people.

You give them your name with a nod, looking around incase any more infected were hiding. "You were watching me up by that house." It wasn't a question, you knew she was.

Ink shrugs with another playful grin. "Guilty."

"Okay... Well - it was nice meeting you two, I'll uh, I'll be off now," You give them an awkward thumbs up, not used to conversing with people outside of the compound. They were incredibly unusual, a stark difference to the people you had grown up with. "I'm just gonna get my arrows and be on my way."

They looked almost upset at your instant dismissal of them, clearly used to people their age being more receptive. It didn't matter. There wasn't time for a back and forth.

"What? Wait - wait, no," Snake says, shaking his head. "You don't live around here yeah? Where are you gonna go?"

"Sun's coming down," Ink matches his concerned tone. "Why not come back with us? We owe you one."

“Aye,” Snake immediately cuts in again, watching as you shake your head, walking around to start collecting your arrows from the dead infected. “It's not far."

"I don't know you guys," you mutter, bending down to pull an arrow that was lodged in someone's skull. Your boot pressed on the naked skin of their back, using them as leverage to free your arrow with a huff. "S'fine, just - you go your way and I'll go mine, y'don't owe me anything."

You take a step back.

Ink is still talking, gesturing to somewhere behind them like they’re pointing to salvation. Snake flashes another lazy, sideways grins like it might be enough to reel you in.

But you’ve heard this pitch before, albeit from other survivors much, much older than you. Clearly ones wanting something more.

The same story.

Safety. Supplies. People.

“No.” You say, flat and final, a tinge of fear lingering beneath your skin at your harsh tone. People were dangerous.

People were more savage than the infected who laid dead at your feet.

Their smiles flicker, eyebrows furrowing.

You adjust your bow on your shoulder and start walking. Not fast. Just enough to say this conversation is over - we are done here. The wind bites at your neck as you move back up the ridge.

You had already turned around, walking away when you hear them muttering amongst themselves - hearing snippets about another 'Jimmy' and 'like the stories'.

“Hey,” Ink calls after you. “We’re serious, you'll love it, we'll even throw a little party."

You don’t respond.

You’d rather take your chances in the dark than deal with strangers who giggle when taking down infected and wear wigs.

It didn't concern you, and so you continued back to the hill when a flock of birds fly overhead causing you to flinch, followed by a stillness in the air.

Like the forest itself had started to hold it's breath in anticipation.

Then the sound comes.

A low, guttural growl, not like the other shrieks that belonged to the infected. Not panicked or feral. Controlled. Deep.

Too deep for a normal human throat. It vibrates through the ground, through your broken boots and into your spine.

Your blood felt like ice.

An Alpha.

The others - runners, they would scream as they charged.

But Alphas - they watched. They waited.

And when they moved, it was never alone. Alpha's were just that, in charge of their packs.

Behind you, you hear someone exhale sharply, Snake.

“Sounds close.”

Ink mutters with him. “Mm hm."

You turn halfway, hands shaking slightly as you swap your bow for your machete - trying to pin point the direction of the feral infected.

You didn't stand chance if one found you - a machete was a fucking paper cut to those large freaks.

The glade grew darker as orange and purple hues peaked through the trees, the dark well and truly lingering around the corner.

You glance over your shoulder, Ink and Snake are still there with almost knowing smiles. They weren't running. Just waiting.

For you.

You stare at them for a moment. The wind tugging at the blond strands of their scratchy wigs. Blood dried on their ridiculous tracksuits, the one thing that echoed your own appearance.

You don’t say anything, looking over at them as you stop moving.

Ink notices first. “Change of mind?”

You turn around, nodding lowly as you grip your machete tighter “At least if you kill me - you won't pull my spine out," you walk towards them as they laugh. "Rather deal with you lot than what's out there."

It was the truth, and they respected it. Any sane person would avoid an Alpha at every opportunity.

Snake grins once again, no smugness present. Just understanding. "You're gonna love it, trust me."

You didn't trust them. You just didn't want to be ripped apart by an overgrown infected, so you ignored his comment.

Ink waves you along with a call of your name, her friend having already turned around and beginning the walk. "C'mon, tracker."

She waits for you with a gentle smile, noticing your hesitancy. But still, you wait, letting her walk head as you follow behind them, scanning the tree line with your machete in your grasp.

The growl echoes again, deeper this time, and you find yourself closer too them before you even realise it.

They don't comment, don't belittle you for already going against your word.

"You been out here for awhile?" Snake asks as you walk, not even seeming phased by the nearby Alpha, eyes locking onto your bow. "You hunt?"

You nod. "I'm a gatherer."

It felt unusual talking to people this close to you in age, not used to proper conversation that didn't follow with an insult or a request for supplies. Ink and Snake walked just a metre in from of you, just enough to give you space, clearly having sensed your uncertainty about them.

You trail behind, machete in hand, eyes constantly peeking around and scanning your surroundings. It worried you how careless they were acting, not even walking with haste.

They move ahead like they've walked this path a hundred times, which clearly they have. Every now and then, one of them would place back, making sure you were still with them.

All three of you walked further into what felt like unknown territory. It was darker, the sun having well and truly set. The Alpha hadn't caught your trail yet, nor had you heard any familiar growls, but that didn't settle the pit in your stomach.

"So where's your camp?" Ink asks, looking over her shoulder.

You didn't answer, just staring at her before looking back to the trees.

Snake fills the silence, giving their friend a knowing glance. "You clearly run back to somewhere."

"Not important," You don't look at them when you finally answer. "It's just Home."

Ink scoffs. "Short 'n sweet, nice."

You keep walking, almost worried that your truthful answer might've upset them. "No it's uh, it's actually called Home, just a compound."

"And they send you out to scavenge? Where's your partner?" she asks.

"Partner?" you say, looking almost confused by their once again shared glances. You’ve seen pity before. This doesn’t feel like that. "No partner, I gather by myself."

Snake frowns, now looking over his shoulder too. "You should always have a partner," he elbows Ink as he says it. "How long you been running for?"

"Since I was twelve."

Neither of them responds right away.

Ink’s voice shifts. Lower, calmer even, but her irritation was evident. You wondered if you had said something wrong. “They sent a kid to do runs?”

It was your turn to be confused. Of course you were sent to do runs. The sooner you could prove your worth, the better. "You had to pull your weight, the council made sure of it."

Snake mutters something under his breath, but you don’t ask for him to repeat.

"It's better this way, lose one gatherer instead of two," you add, almost defending your situation. "What's wrong with that?"

"That's... messed up Tracker," Ink grimaces, and your stomach drops, feeling bemused. "Real messed up."

You finally look up, meeting her gaze head on. "That's normal, no?"

Snake glances once again to Ink, but neither of them answer.

"What does your family think about that?" Ink asks after their pause.

You shake your head, your eyes now narrowing as the dark closes in. You didn't have a torch, but the two in front of you didn't seem worried. "No family."

"Friends?' She follows with, her voice hopeful.

“No.”

The quiet that followed you was heavier. You decided to flip the questions back, a little surge of confidence trifling through you in an attempt to change the subject. “What’s with the Jimmy thing?"

Snake cracks a grin, though it wasn't as sharp as the others. "It's just who we are."

"Everyone is Jimmy with us," Ink continues for her friend. "Keeps things equal, keeps things fun."

"Whose your overseer?" You ask with a squint.

"Overseer?"

"Whose in charge," you repeat, your hand spinning your machete around to avoid the cramping on your fingers. "Runs the place."

"Sir Jimmy Crystal," They answer at the same time, their tones pleasant - proud even.

You were so used to sirs, men who ran places with iron fists. But they seemed happy to mention him.

As if sensing your thoughts, Ink once again peeps over her shoulder. "Hey, he's not like whatever it is you're dealing with, he's good - good to us."

"I don't... I don't know what you're talking about." You didn't understand, nor did you like her tone.

"Yeah, you do. You've got that little look to you, like you've been thrown around."

You glance at her, almost embarrassed at being read so easily. Again, it confused you.

Was it not normal?

"No judgment here," She assures you, stopping so that you caught up. She walks with you now, Snake just ahead. "I was the same once, then I found this lot, found Sir Jimmy."

Still, you don’t answer.

"It's true," Snake cuts in, still listening in. "He's looked after us, kept us safe - wouldn't have made it out here without him."

"Sure."

Ink nudges you gently with her elbow. “I think he'll like you.”

You frown. “He doesn’t know me.”

“He doesn’t have to,” She says in a matter of fact tone. “He reads people, got this sixth sense n' all."

“You talk like he's some kind of prophet." You could already sense what kind of person this 'Jimmy Crystal' was.

"Either way, I think you'll like it at the Sanctuary," You can't help but notice she didn't deny your choice of words. "I know everyone will love you, especially after what you did today."

You shift your pack higher on your shoulder with your free hand, the weight starting to get to you, just nodding. You were sure that when you arrived at their 'sanctuary' that you'd either be torn to shreds and robbed or ignored.

Either way, you were too exhausted to care, the day finally starting to weigh down.

--

After what felt like an hour, the woods began to thin, the familiar smell of woodsmoke greeting you. Distant laughter echoed through the trees, not panicked or reserved - genuine.

Your steps slow without meaning to.

A fucking castle.

It was incredibly old looking, some sections in disarray. But for the most part, and from what you could see from outside, it was in good condition. You had seen countless scattered around the countryside in your time, most in ruins or beyond repair.

Ahead, torches were flickering across stone walls - high and sturdy, patched together from what used to be an old fort. A bunch of figures wave down from two watchtowers standing either side of a sturdy gate.

The gate opens quickly, it's sound matching the one back Home.

"This is the Sanctuary,” Snake says, patting your shoulder as he runs ahead. "C'mon!"

You were shocked at what lay ahead. It felt almost impossible, like a scene you had only read about.

Life.

Real life.

Everywhere, not just hiding away like the council in their concrete walls.

People rush forward, faces lit by fire and something even rarer - joy, relief. It alarmed you to no end.

“They're back!” Someone calls out.

“Guys!”

Voices raise, laughing, calling out. Someone whistles, and then others join in, a ripple of noise that echoes across the open courtyard.

Had they been away for weeks?

Did everyone think they were dead?

You’re weren't ready for the way everyone rushed forward. Men and women, all in tracksuits of various colours.

All different ages. Kids even. You weren't expecting to see literal children, having been some time since you saw anyone under the age of 20.

Most were wearing the same chopped up blonde wigs, some messy, some were braided, others were just resting on their heads like afterthoughts.

Some didn't wear one at all, either hair buzzed, sporting shaggy curls or other unusual styles.

There's no rule, just a shared sense of strangeness.

They pull Snake and Ink into embraces like they’ve come home from war.

And then, one hugs you.

It caught you off guard, tensing instantly, the grip on your machete tightening. They weren't trying to disarm you or pat you down, merely patting you on the back like you had returned from a long journey.

Arms were thrown around your shoulders, large smiles, a woman around your age beaming at you with a missing front tooth. "Welcome home."

Home.

No. This wasn't Home. This wasn't anything like Home.

Ink just laughs, gently guiding their friend off of your shocked frame. "Easy, easy - don't scare her off just yet."

"I'm not staying." You mutter, instinctively, but no one was listening.

They just... stare. Happy. Content. It bleeds out of them all in waves.

Ink urges you forward, and you finally look around.

It was massive.

The sanctuary is built around the castle, it's outer stone walls still surprisingly intact. Vines climb up the barriers and wooden scaffolding reinforce the still standing towers.

Tall torches burn along the interior perimeter, reminding you of Home, jar lights scattered around cast a golden red hue over everything. Inside, the sanctuary looked almost like a village - rows of man made cabins, albeit mismatched, rest side by side, their walls made from salvaged scrap.

It was a noticeable difference to the vans and shipping containers back Home. The homes looked lived in, loved. Hammocks swayed in between trees and beams, some already holding people resting.

That alone caught you off guard.

People are lounging.

Others sit by fire pits, meat crackling ahead. A group of 'Jimmy's' sit around it, passing around a jug and laughing over something you can't hear.

You already catch yourself scanning for any weak points, an exit, any weapons. It was habit. Reflexes that never left.

But there weren't any. There's storage huts. Smokehouses. It was clear even the castle was being lived in.

More people wave at you as you pass. Smiling like they already enjoyed your company.

You don't return the gesture, but you don't glare either.

"Over there's an old office," Ink leans in as you both step further into the centre of the sanctuary, pointing to an old building that had been built before the fall. "It's where we store a lot of our clothes, y'should go for a shop."

"Shop?" You ask, eyebrows furrowing. You knew what the concept was, but you didn't know how you could 'pay' for anything.

"Yeah, grab some things - you're cold aren't you?" She tilts her head towards your outfit, causing you to look down at your stained and ripped clothes. "'Cause I'm cold just looking at you."

Your shirt had plenty of tears, just like your trousers. Your jacket no longer zipped up, and your shoes were well and truly losing their outsoles.

You shook your head. You weren't allowed new clothes if you hadn't earned them, or more so paid for them with your rations. Any clothes you found when gathering were given to the council. "I can't trade for anything."

"What? No - Tracker," She stops, putting her hands on your shoulders like you had ben friends for decades. "You don't trade, if you need it - you take it."

Your eyes widened at the idea of just taking something, immediately stuttering over your words as you tried to dismiss the notion.

"Hey hey, It's okay, we don't have to worry about that now," She just laughs, resting her hand on your shoulder as she continues guiding you. "We should get a move on anyway, I'm sure He'll be waiting."

You look up as she continues talking, raving on about how you'll fit right in, how he'll love you, how you're just what is needed.

The castle looms over everything, weathered and ancient but clearly taken care of. Lived in. Some windows were shattered, boarded up with more scavenged scrap. It's towers held more people on watch, lit up by more torches.

At the very top of the main tower, you see a singular figure. Standing. Watching. Hair swaying in the wind.

Their arms were folded behind their back, and they were the only person not standing in the light.

You didn't have to ask, and you knew that Sir Jimmy Crystal himself was observing everything that was happening.

He was gone before you could ask Jimmy Ink if you were right, his shadowed figure disappearing somewhere into the castle.

Ink looks towards you again before her gaze looks down, noticing you were still gripping your machete. She raises an eyebrow, and you mutter an apology, quickly sliding it into your holster.

It wouldn't be difficult to pull out again if need be.

She guides you over a stone bridge, and you peer over the edge with each step, seeing rushing water beneath. You could already tell that if infected found their way in - the castle was a failsafe.

You follow Jimmy Ink past doorways draped in beaded curtains. There’s laughter echoing from somewhere deeper in the structure, a soft, distant sound. No one seemed tense. No one is watching the windows for any threats.

The inside is not what you expected.

You thought it would be like the outside, cold stone and dust. A ruin patched together with more scrap. Instead, it’s alive, just like the little village that surrounded it.

The air inside was warm, a grand fireplace standing at the end of the room. It smelt of lavender and smoke, and you noticed jars of the plant littered around. Mismatched fabrics were strewn across the walls in wild patterns, connecting to each other like someone had hand stitched them themselves.

Candles flickered in old bottles resting in alcoves, lighting up the room alongside the fireplace. Rugs in an assortment of colours covered the stone floors, overlapping each other.

It was oddly inviting despite it's cold exterior. Someone had tried to turn a once war torn fortress into what felt like a children's dream of royalty. There we even toys scattered around, the odd teddy bear and action figure spread amongst the organised chaos.

It was colourful. Loved.

And yet, beneath it's inviting interior, you could feel the pressure in the air, like the walls were alive and watching everything.

You're led into what was once clearly a throne room, the high ceilings, tall stained glass windows, the way the room narrowed towards a raised platform. Beanbags, cushions and couches were all around leading towards a throne that rest in the centre.

A tall and carved wooden throne, hand made and intimidating. Around it, the space was warm, matching the room outside. Thick furs, a low table where cups and candles sat. A painted mural rest behind, a sunrise, small figures raising their arms towards an almost glowing figure outlined in gold.

You already guessed who it was meant to be.

Footsteps echo through the hallways outside, stopping just where you had once stood. You turn around, seeing Jimmy Snake and another man beside him.

Sir Jimmy Crystal.

He's the complete opposite of what you were expecting, much like your original opinion of the castle he resided in.

He’s hard not to look at. Even if you try to avoid looking him over.

He was older than you by a few years, having clearly been around when the Rage Virus took over.

The dark purple tracksuit he wears looked almost shiny under the candlelight. His blond hair, real hair, falls to his shoulders, half brushed, half wild.

On his head, a little crown - almost childlike in design, reminding you of the pictures in the books your dad would sneak in and read to you.

He wears it with an unbothered confidence.

Gold rings rest on every finger, some stacked, reminding you of Russ. Around his neck, various chains and an upside down cross, polished like a holy relic.

He's handsome in a way that shouldn't matter to you. His teeth are rough and marked by time, but none of it detracts.

"Our little tracker," he says as he approaches, arms wide and voice wrapped in velvet. "I just heard what ye did out there, quite the warrior if I hear correctly."

Immediately your eyes cast down, looking to his feet. You've been around enough authority figures to know your place by now. You nod, barely.

His head tilts, noticing your instant change in demeanour.

"None of that now, lift yer head," He tuts, walking closer until he stood just a blink away. "Ye don't look down in my house, I think you of all people earned better than that,"

It worried you. There was going to be a catch. Slowly you raise your head, and you meet his gaze. "Much better," He says, smiling again as he holds out his hand.