Gabriel didn't ask about the blood on Nestor's leg. Or why half of them looked like they'd rolled through a meat grinder in their Sunday best.
He didn't flinch at the bags under Xenia's eyes, the kind of bags that belonged under airport security scrutiny.
He didn't even blink at the weapons—kettlebell, broom-handle spear, and what appeared to be a sharpened spatula—clutched in their hands.
He just opened the door wide and grunted, "Come in. Shoes off if they're not bloody. Carpet's already a mess."
It wasn't a warm welcome. But it wasn't a gun to the face either.
Inside, the cabin screamed "survival over style." The floorboards creaked like haunted violins. A ceiling fan hung from a cracked beam like it had given up on spinning sometime in the '90s. There was one living room, one bathroom with a door that looked like it lost a fight with a bear, and three bedrooms—none with locks.
The walls were plastered with old family photos—some crooked, some proudly upright. A large map of Argenta City hung next to a calendar that optimistically still believed it was March 2022.
Gabriel, broad-shouldered, graying, and with the energy of a man who once shouted at clouds for fun, introduced himself with a nod.
"Gabriel. Forty-five. Been here my whole life. Built that fence out front to keep out raccoons and drunk neighbors. Guess it works on zombies too."
Xenia gave a polite smile, trying to ignore the faint smell of pickled fish.
"Looks like it held up."
Gabriel shrugged. "Had our moments. Once shot a deer who tried to chew the wire. Ate well that week."
The rest of the family was equally… colorful.
Anna, his wife, stood by the fireplace, arms crossed and eyes narrowed like she was constantly judging a baking competition in her head. Brei, the longtime nanny, floated around the room offering water and blankets like a ghost trained in customer service. And then there was Rico—their adult son, tall, lean, hair in a messy ponytail, and the general vibe of a conspiracy podcast host who was just happy someone came over.
As everyone settled in, Gabriel dropped into a wooden chair with the kind of sigh that came from carrying forty-five years and two emotional support chickens (which no one asked about).
"My eldest son—he called us from Argenta when it all started. Said things were getting ugly. Told us to stay put. Then... silence. Either the signal died, or he did."
The room went quiet. Even the crickets outside held their breath.
"We haven't heard from him since," Anna added, arms still folded like they might hold in her bitterness. "And we intend to survive. Just us."
Not exactly subtle.
Tenorio leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees. "We're not trying to invade your doomsday Airbnb. Just looking to rest, help, keep the place from falling apart."
Gabriel nodded. "Food's tight. We fish when the tide's nice and the sharks aren't feeling greedy. There's a veggie patch Brei manages. No power. Just oil lamps and attitude. Water's from a spring nearby. We ration."
Marga's eyes lit up. "You grow vegetables? I'll cry if I see a tomato."
Tenorio and Gabriel started murmuring about fences, blind spots, and whether the chickens could be trained as guards.
Meanwhile, Rico stared at Rafe like a gym rat meeting his protein powder spirit animal.
"You lift trees or somethin'? What's the program? Deadlifts and dread?"
Rafe laughed. "Mostly climbing, running, and dodging death."
"Cool, cool," Rico said, already making mental notes for his nonexistent YouTube channel.
Anna rolled her eyes so hard they nearly spun off. "This isn't a frat house. Strangers bring noise. Noise brings the dead. The dead bring house damage."
"We're not noise," Xenia said calmly. "We're people. Tired people."
Anna didn't answer. But she also didn't kick them out. Progress.
Then Xenia spoke again, this time with the room's full attention.
"You deserve to know what's out there."
Even Brei paused mid-sweep.
Xenia told them everything—how the infection hit during her graduation speech, how it spread like wildfire dipped in gasoline, how the virus destroyed the brain and turned the eyes pale and hollow. How the infected responded to sound more than sight. How you could spot one by their posture: stiff, twitchy, hungry.
"They can't talk. They don't cry. If someone's confused or screaming—they're human. If they're staring at you like a microwave dinner… they're not."
Anna's jaw tightened. But this time, her silence wasn't cold—it was calculating.
Finally, Nestor—quiet all night—spoke up. His voice was low and worn thin.
"I'm staying. I'll scrub toilets with a toothbrush. Just don't send me back out there."
No one argued.
Xenia gently touched his shoulder. "We'll find a role for everyone. But we don't get to freeload. If we stay, we work."
She glanced out the window at the fence, then back at Gabriel.
"This place is solid. But it needs more. Watchtowers. Reinforcements. Traps if we can manage. A moat would be nice. You got a moat guy?"
Gabriel smirked. "No moat guy. But I've got duct tape and stubbornness."
"I studied education, not engineering," Xenia said. "But I can read. And improvise. And I'm great with PowerPoint. That's something."
"She's the reason we're all breathing," Rafe added.
Gabriel scratched his chin. "Got a few old books. Not exactly Home Fortress Monthly, but Rico's good with tools."
"I can weld a little," Rico said, puffing out his chest. "Tried building a drone once. It caught fire."
"Impressive," Xenia said flatly.
Anna sighed, finally sounding more tired than hostile. "And what about food? You gonna plant seeds with good intentions?"
"We ration," Marga said brightly. "We grow, we preserve, and if we're desperate—we barter with sass."
That got the smallest flicker of a smile from Anna. Maybe. Hard to tell under all the judgment.
For the first time that day, everyone nodded in unison.
As the lamplight flickered and crickets resumed their concert, the mood shifted. They weren't just refugees anymore.
They were roommates.
Reluctant. Tired. Slightly bloody.
But roommates nonetheless.
And for now, that was enough.