The Houston Quarantine Zone was supposed to mean safety. That's what the broadcasts promised. That's what the General shouted at the gates. But inside, safety felt thin as paper.
Michael had been in enough warzones to recognize it immediately: this was a camp, not a sanctuary. Barbed wire and rifles held it together, not peace. And camps could only hold as long as the people in charge stayed stronger than the desperation around them.
They were herded with the other new arrivals to a registration point a folding table under a sagging canopy, manned by two soldiers who looked more tired than threatening. Their armor was scuffed, their rifles slung lazy across their chests.
"Names," one muttered without looking up, scribbling on a clipboard.
Michael kept his voice even. "Michael." He nodded to his side. "Sarah. Lena."
The soldier didn't bother asking for last names. Just wrote, tore three scraps of paper from a pad, and shoved them across the table. "These are your IDs. Don't lose them. You'll need them for rations. You break the rules, you lose them. You lose them, you starve. Next."
And that was it. No welcome, no comfort. Just a number scrawled in ink and the threat of hunger.
They found space near a half-collapsed office building. Canvas tents stretched in rows around it, patched together with tarps and whatever cloth people could scavenge. Fires smoldered in metal drums, smoke drifting between the tents like low clouds. Children cried. Men and women muttered. Somewhere, an argument turned into shouting before a soldier stomped over to silence it with the click of his rifle's safety.
Michael kept Sarah and Lena close. He scanned everything the layout of the camp, the rhythm of patrols, the places where people seemed to gather. Survival wasn't just about food and water. It was about knowing where the lines were drawn before anyone else did.
"Stay here," he said, guiding them to a corner near the office wall. "I'll check the ration line."
Sarah tugged at his sleeve. "I want to come."
He looked down at her. Her eyes weren't scared anymore. They were steady. Tired, yes, but steady. She reminded him of a soldier too young to be one wanting to prove themselves.
"You'll come," he said finally. "But you stay behind me. Always."
The ration line stretched across the cracked pavement, guarded by three soldiers with rifles and blank faces. Survivors shuffled forward, clutching their scraps of ID paper. At the front, a folding table held crates of canned food, hard bread, and cloudy water in plastic bottles.
It wasn't enough. Not for the numbers pressing in.
Michael noticed it immediately rations being counted by hand, portions cut smaller with every new batch. The soldiers at the table whispered, glancing nervously at the line. They knew they couldn't feed everyone.
"Keep your head down," Michael murmured to Sarah and Lena as they joined the line. "No complaints. No stares. Take what's given."
When it was their turn, the soldier at the table shoved three cans and two bottles across. His hands shook slightly. He didn't meet their eyes. Michael took the food without a word, guided the girls away.
Behind them, a man shouted, "That's not enough! My kids!"
A soldier stepped forward, shoved the man hard in the chest. He went sprawling, the crowd going silent.
"You'll take what's given," the soldier growled. "Or you'll take nothing."
Sarah flinched, but Michael kept walking. He knew better than to get involved not here, not yet.
Later, when the rations were shared out by their fire, Lena stared at the bread in her hands. "This won't last a day."
Michael chewed slowly, swallowing before answering. "Then we make it last. Eat slow. Drink slower. And keep your eyes open. People will get desperate fast."
Sarah sat across from them, eating in small bites like he'd taught her. She glanced around the camp, then leaned closer. "Those kids over there," she whispered, nodding toward a group sitting near a broken-down car. "They don't have anyone."
Michael followed her gaze. Four of them, the oldest maybe fifteen, the youngest no more than eight. Their clothes were dirty, their faces hollow with hunger. They huddled together, whispering.
"They'll die," Lena muttered.
Sarah frowned at her. "Not if someone helps them."
Michael studied Sarah for a long moment. She had her father's eyes Joel's same fire. The kind that refused to look away, even when it hurt.
Finally, he sighed. "Go," he said. "But don't promise them anything we can't give. Understand?"
Sarah nodded eagerly, grabbed the smallest can from their pile, and hurried across the pavement.
Michael watched, tense, but she moved like he'd taught her shoulders low, eyes scanning. She crouched by the kids, spoke softly. They looked at her like she was a miracle.
When she came back, her face was lit up despite the dirt and exhaustion. "They said thank you."
Michael handed her the rifle. She blinked at him, surprised.
"Lesson one," he said quietly. "Kindness is good. But kindness without strength gets you killed. If you want to help people, you protect yourself first. Then them. Always in that order."
Sarah nodded, clutching the rifle carefully.
The days bled together. The sun rose and fell, and life in the zone settled into a cruel rhythm: stand in line, take what's given, keep your head down. Soldiers barked orders. Survivors whispered rumors. Some said the infection was spreading inside the walls already. Others said the army was planning to relocate everyone to another city.
Michael didn't trust any of it.
At night, when the fires burned low and the soldiers' patrols grew lazier, he taught Sarah and Lena quietly. How to walk without sound. How to keep their weapons ready without drawing attention. How to tell the difference between anger and desperation in a crowd because one meant trouble, the other meant danger.
He shared stories, too. Not the whole truth of his past, but fragments. Missions where he'd had to rely on improvisation. A man who taught him how to sharpen scrap metal into blades when supplies ran out. A woman who showed him how to set simple traps using nothing but wire and nails.
"Everything you learn now," he told them, "is another chance to stay alive later."
Sarah listened like every word mattered. Lena, too, though she hid her fear behind a hard face.
And slowly, they weren't alone anymore.
Sarah made friends with the kids she'd given food to. She sat with them by the fire sometimes, telling little stories or teaching them to play simple games with stones. Lena spoke with an older woman who knew about herbs and simple medicine.
Michael let it happen. Because survival wasn't just about killing. It was about building something that made living worth the fight.
Still, every night, when he lay back against the cold wall and stared at the floodlights sweeping the camp, he knew this was only a pause. The infection would find its way in. The army would break. The walls would fall.
And when they did, he would be ready to move.
Because he had to be.