Day 3
Xenia woke with a throat like sandpaper and a spine that crackled when she moved—like her vertebrae were popping bubble wrap one by one.
Her eyes burned from patchy, dreamless sleep. Not that anything could compare to the sleep she had before — you know, the kind where people didn't scream while dying three floors below you.
What struck her first wasn't noise.
It was silence.
A brutal, unnatural silence.
No distant sirens. No gunfire. No screaming.
No wet footsteps dragging across pavement.
It was 5:40 AM, according to the cracked plastic clock hanging crookedly over the gym scoreboard. The red second hand ticked like it was trying to prove time still existed.
She sat up slowly, the emergency blanket sliding off her shoulders like a glittery piece of regret. Her back popped in three distinct places.
Fantastic. I've aged twenty years overnight.
A few other survivors still slept across the makeshift camp. Nestor was snoring like a man trying to assert dominance over the silence. Officer Tenorio sat upright against the wall, arms crossed, eyes open—definitely not asleep, probably not entirely human either.
Across the court, a figure moved with ritualistic rhythm.
Marga, guardian of the mop and first of her name, was already sweeping the floor with the intensity of someone who refused to let the apocalypse ruin her clean streak. She didn't even look up.
Just swish. Swish. Swish. Like she was fending off the end times with nothing but elbow grease and spite.
Xenia padded across the mats, her bare feet touching cold cement that jolted her awake better than any espresso shot ever could. She cleared her throat gently, not wanting to startle the woman mid-mop.
"You're up early," she said softly.
Marga didn't stop. Just leaned on the handle like a battle-worn staff. "Can't sleep long when the dead might come through the vents," she muttered. "Also, someone spilled beans last night near the water jugs. I nearly stepped in one. One."
Xenia smirked. "A true crime."
Marga grunted. "You joke, but I will absolutely throw hands over a wasted bean."
There was something oddly comforting about her presence. Like a foul-mouthed lighthouse keeper who'd seen too many storms.
The two women stood in companionable silence for a moment. The air inside the gym felt heavier in the mornings. Less like safety, more like waiting.
"This place used to be my kingdom," Marga finally said, quieter now. "Before all this. I knew every creaky tile, every leak in the ceiling, every candy wrapper some brat tried to hide under the bleachers."
"You still know it," Xenia said.
"Sure." Marga swept another patch of floor, eyes distant. "But now it's dying. And I'm just dragging a mop across the bones."
Xenia sat down on the nearest bench. "I think we all feel that. We're alive, but only in the technical sense."
Marga glanced sideways. "You're smarter than you look."
Xenia raised an eyebrow. "Thanks?"
"Don't push it."
The silence returned, but this time it had weight. Tension. Truth.
Marga looked up at the ceiling where the faintest breeze rattled a cracked windowpane. "We've patched this place with tape, towels, and prayer. We're not surviving—we're stalling."
Xenia leaned forward, elbows on her knees. "I was thinking the same thing. This place isn't built to last. It's not a base. It's a coffin with a snack table."
Marga didn't respond right away. She just stared into space like she was mentally retiling the roof with raw willpower.
"If I had a blueprint, or even just a book on long-term sheltering…" she muttered.
Xenia shook her head. "If I had my phone, I could probably pull up a hundred doomsday prepper videos in under a minute."
"But you don't."
"Nope."
"Which means we improvise," Marga said flatly.
"Or… we stop playing defense."
Marga's mop stilled. "Go on."
Xenia stood, pacing slowly toward the shuttered gym doors. "This isn't a refuge. It's a liability. It's visible. Crumbling. And it makes us predictable. The longer we stay here, the more likely we get picked off."
Marga followed her gaze. "So what's the alternative?"
"We find a way out. A vehicle. A plan. Movement."
She hesitated, then added, "Hope."
"Hope's been dead since day one."
"Maybe. But I'd rather die moving forward than rot on a bench waiting for the roof to cave in."
Marga studied her for a long second. Then, surprisingly, nodded.
Xenia exhaled.
---
An hour later, the group gathered on the gym floor like a town hall meeting hosted by trauma.
Rafe stood next to Xenia, arms folded, gaze bouncing between her and the others. Tenorio leaned against the wall like a tired gargoyle. Nestor sat cross-legged, already annoyed. Marga? Mop holstered. Game face on.
"I know this place has kept you alive," Xenia began. Her voice was low but carried weight. "It's warm. Familiar. It feels like safety. But it's not. It's just familiar danger."
They were listening. That was already a miracle.
She continued. "Food will run out. Water will follow. And the infected outside? They're not getting fewer. They're getting hungrier. We either sit here and wait for them—or we outsmart them."
Tenorio arched a brow. "And your plan?"
"We leave. We find a vehicle—big enough for all of us. Stock it. Prep it. Get out of the city."
"Go where?" Nestor asked, squinting.
"Somewhere less dense. Rural. An empty house. A farm. Anywhere that doesn't echo like a tomb every time someone sneezes."
"And if it's worse out there?" Tenorio pressed.
"Then we come back. But at least we'll know. Right now, we're waiting to die."
Silence.
Then: "You sound like you've done this before," Rafe said, studying her.
Xenia met his eyes. "I haven't. But I study. I prepare. I adapt. And right now? We don't need more fear—we need a plan."
Tenorio pushed off the wall. "She's right."
"What?" Nestor sat up. "You're siding with her?"
"I'm siding with reality," Tenorio said. "This gym's a trap. A slow death. I'd rather go out on my feet than suffocate under gym mats."
"I'll go," Marga said, no hesitation. "Can't mop the apocalypse. Might as well try something new."
Nestor grumbled. "You people are crazy."
Rafe chuckled, placing a hand on Nestor's shoulder. "You taught me how to siphon gas with a garden hose and two prayers. You're not staying behind."
Nestor groaned. "Fine. But I'm calling dibs on shotgun. Literally. If we find a shotgun—I want it."
Xenia smirked.
They had a plan now.
Not a perfect one. Not even a good one.
But it was something.
In the next few days, they'd scavenge for supplies. Look for a vehicle. Build emergency packs. Create maps from memory and street signs. If it failed, they'd regroup.
If it worked?
They'd stop being survivors.
And start being human again.