The mess hall breathed like a living creature.
The mess hall door resisted her at first.
Ambrosia pressed her shoulder against it, feeling the familiar shudder through the metal as she pushed onward. It creaked, then gave with a hollow groan, letting out a spill of warm air laced with aromas that clung to the ceiling like low fog — rabbit stew, oats simmered with dried berries, a whisper of ground coffee, fried duck fat, boiled greens, and beneath it all the persistent perfume of gun oil, cigarette smoke, and too many bodies crammed together for warmth.
The noise hit next.
Not loud, not chaotic — more like a dense, low hum woven from dozens of conversations layered atop clattering utensils, scraping chairs, and radio static from the old wall unit near the serving station. The breakfast crowd was always the largest. Everyone came here before they scattered across the compound for their daily tasks.
Organized chaos.
Ambrosia threaded herself into it like a ghost moving through mortar. She was exhausted — that special kind of exhaustion where the edges of the world blur and sounds smear together, where thought and instinct trade places without warning. The infirmary had been brutal the night before. Don drifting in and out. Three others with fever that wouldn't break. One older woman they feared might not last the week. The medical staff rotating in shifts so no one collapsed.
And her.
Always her.
Her feet felt numb, her pulse fragile, her eyes grainy from too many hours awake. She kept her gaze down as she slipped through the first cluster of survivors — a group hunched over steaming bowls of stew, one man laughing through a cough about how he'd "nearly blown my damn toe off trying to fix that trigger last night."
Another group argued over barter prices:
"You said two jars of lard was fair."
"Yeah well, turns out you overvalued your own damn ammo."
"Overvalued? Buddy, I'm the last man who knows how to reload .308 in this whole place."
"You're also the last man who can't count to ten without help."
"Screw off."
Ambrosia let the voices drift off behind her.
She passed a pair of teenagers cleaning their rifles at the end of a long table.
She sidestepped a man carrying a crate of tin cups.
She ducked around someone shaking out a blanket.
Warm, crowded, loud — a hive of voices and bodies pressed into a space never designed for so many souls. The morning air was thick with the mélange of scents that defined State House life: the savory steam of rabbit stew, the gamier undertone of duck fat sizzling on the grill, the earthy sweetness of cooked oats, the acrid tang of gun oil clinging to coats and hands, cigarette smoke drifting from three different tables, and the faint lingering note of alcohol from last night's contraband.
Metal utensils clattered against tin bowls. The woodstove popped as a log split inside it. Someone shouted for more plates. Someone else cursed about ration cuts. Boots scraped across the floor in arhythmic stomps as people came and went in waves, leaving the room in a state of perpetual churn.
Ambrosia stood just inside the entrance, shoulders hunched slightly, scarf still looped around her neck. She had slept maybe… an hour? Two? It was hard to tell anymore. The night in the infirmary had blurred into a slurry of blood, fever, whispered triage commands, and Don Martell's broken mumbling.
Her body felt like a vessel half-filled with sand — heavy, sluggish, aching.
Harper spotted her.
"AM-BRO-SIAAAA!" Harper's voice rang above the rising chaos, followed by a wildly enthusiastic arm_wave, her whole forearm whipping back and forth as if she were signaling ships from the coastline. Her grin was enormous — a bright, ridiculous, comforting thing carved into a face that otherwise wore too much worry for someone her age.
Ambrosia exhaled, a soft tired sound that wasn't quite a sigh, and wove her way through the mess hall.
People were everywhere — clustered in groups, shoulder to shoulder at too-small tables. Militia guards in layered coats argued good-naturedly about whether they had enough .308 rounds for next week's patrol. A trio of scavengers bartered in low voices over jewelry found in an old boutique. Someone smoked a cigarette right over their plate of oats. Someone else sharpened a hunting knife beside two teenagers still rubbing sleep from their eyes.
A man scrubbed at a rifle bolt with a stained cloth. A woman scraped the bottom of a stew pot into a bowl for her child. A pair of mechanics whispered about carburetors. Two of the State House teenagers bickered over the last slice of duck, one trying to bribe the other with a stick of gum.
Ambrosia slipped between all of them like a shadow.
She nodded to people who recognized her. She forced small smiles. She ignored the second glances — the ones that lingered on the exhaustion in her face, on the blood still faintly staining the cuff of her sleeve, on the rumor-fueled worry in their eyes.
The infirmary ran on rumors as much as bandages.
Her boots finally reached Harper's table. The bench groaned as she slid onto it. She didn't even bother speaking before her hand wrapped around the metal handle of the coffee pot. She tipped it and filled her mug to the brim. Dark, almost viscous liquid steamed upward, grounding her immediately.
Harper leaned forward the moment the mug settled.
"Okay spill it," she demanded, eyes wide and bright with equal parts worry and nosy joy. "C'mon. There are so many rumors already. People keep saying Thalia and Rowan dragged him in. Others swear it was Jerry and Rick. Who actually found him? Who carried him? Was he really the only survivor? I heard he passed out in the snow. I heard he walked all the way from the damn ridge. I heard—"
Ambrosia pinched the bridge of her nose.
"Geez," she muttered. "Rumors already?"
Harper threw up both hands. "You know how it is. Anything that happens past the walls goes from truth to folklore in twenty minutes. Now spill it. You work the infirmary more than half the staff combined. I want every detail."
Ambrosia took a slow sip first — a stall tactic, but a necessary one. The coffee was strong and slightly bitter, but its scent dulled the harsher odors of the room and loosened something tight in her chest.
Harper stared at her like a hound waiting for a treat.
Finally Ambrosia set the mug down. Her expression shifted — softened first, then drained of its earlier humor, replaced with a sober, drawn tension.
"It was bad, Harp," she said, voice low and gravelly from lack of sleep. "Not just the wounds. Though… god, his wounds were awful." She rubbed at her forehead, eyes closing briefly. "But the way he talked… the way he described what happened…"
Harper's excitement wilted. Her grin dimmed by half. "What do you mean?"
Ambrosia swallowed.
"The way he said the person killed his friends," she whispered. "He said the man was too fast. Too strong. That he didn't just kill them — he tore them apart. Like he…" She hesitated, stomach tightening. "Like he enjoyed it."
Harper froze, lips parting.
Ambrosia continued, voice slightly shaky. "He kept saying it wasn't one of the dead. He was absolutely certain of that. Positive. Even through the blood loss. Even while fading in and out."
Harper's breath hitched. Her playful tone evaporated.
"Fuck, Rosia…" she murmured. "That… that doesn't sound human. But it doesn't sound like one of the special ones either."
Ambrosia looked down at her coffee. The steam curled around her fingers. "He could be delirious. Or in shock. Blood loss messes with people's heads. Hell, he might've seen a special infected and gotten confused."
"But his wounds…" Harper frowned. "If it was one of them, wouldn't he have turned by now?"
"That's what I keep thinking," Ambrosia said. "He should've. But he hasn't. And if it was human…" Her jaw tightened. She didn't finish the sentence.
Harper shook her head quickly, trying to snap herself out of dread. She forced a smile back onto her lips, but it faltered. "No way one guy wipes out a whole hunting party alone. Not without getting torn up himself." Her voice dipped softer. "Right?"
Ambrosia had no confident answer.
So she reached into her coat pocket, pulled out her cigarette pack, slid one free, and offered the rest to Harper.
"Looks like a bear attack," she said flatly. "That's my explanation. If it was a special infected, he'd be dead or turned. Arden put all hunting parties on high alert — he thinks it was a wild animal too."
Harper accepted the cigarette, shoulders relaxing a fraction. She lit it, exhaled a plume toward the ceiling.
"Well… you've got a point," she muttered. "Any wound turns. Always."
Ambrosia poured another splash of coffee into her mug and pushed the sugar jar toward Harper.
"Whatever it is," she said softly, "we'll be okay. We always are." Her voice wavered just a hair. "But those poor people… that whole party… it's awful."
Harper nodded slowly, adding milk to her coffee. "People just have to learn to be more careful. They keep treating the woods like they're still in damn suburbia."
Ambrosia snorted faintly, stirring her black coffee. "Yeah. Too many of them are getting too comfortable. Carelessness gets you killed."
Harper flicked ash into a tin dish. "Lucky for us we're on odd job duty today. Inside the walls. No fucking snow. No patrolling. No frozen toes."
Ambrosia barked a tired laugh — the kind that came from someone running on fumes but grateful for a moment of normalcy.
"Yeah," she breathed. "I'll take sweeping floors over freezing my ass off any day."
They clinked their coffee mugs together — an informal toast amid the noise.
Around them the mess hall continued its morning churn. Bowls scraped empty; dogs barked outside; a baby cried; someone shouted for more ammo count slips; guards argued about the next supply run; the kitchen staff slammed pans and refilled trays; the old radio crackled in the corner with static-laden patrol chatter.
But under all of it, in the tight set of Ambrosia's shoulders and the flickering uncertainty in Harper's eyes, an invisible tension lingered like a shadow waiting for shape.
They both took another sip of coffee, letting the warmth settle deep in their bones.
A group nearby erupted into laughter as one man dramatically reenacted slipping on ice.
The card players behind them started arguing again.
"You counted wrong!"
"Your ass counted wrong!"
"Pay me, Sinatra!"
"I hate all of you."
Harper smirked.
"Charming bunch, aren't we?"
Ambrosia shook her head with a tired smile.
And yet — beneath the warmth, beneath the banter, beneath the gentle push-and-pull of daily life —
— something felt wrong.
Deeply wrong.
Ambrosia felt it first. A pressure behind her ribs. A tautness at the base of her spine. An almost imperceptible tremor in the air, like the world itself was holding a breath it wasn't prepared to release.
Harper sensed it too.
Her cigarette ash trembled slightly at the tip.
Her eyes flicked toward the frosted windows again.
Her voice dropped lower, quieter.
"Rosia… you don't think Don saw something real, do you?"
Ambrosia wanted to lie.
She wanted to say no.
But the memory of Don's trembling hands, his wide eyes, the way his voice cracked on certain words —
those things returned with brutal clarity.
"I don't know," Ambrosia whispered.
Harper's fingers tapped nervously against her mug.
Ambrosia leaned back in her chair, fatigue dragging her deeper into it.
Around her, life surged on.
People joked.
People ate.
People made plans.
People tried to forget that fifteen hours ago, a man stumbled into the compound covered in the blood of people he loved.
The world didn't stop.
It couldn't.
And so—
Despite the horrific tragedy that had shattered the quiet of yesterday, life pressed onward inside the compound.
Not without grief. Not without remorse.
But because it had to.
People survived by continuing.
By working.
By pretending the horror outside the walls couldn't slip in through cracks they didn't see yet.
Yet Ambrosia felt something lingering in the air — a heaviness, a static prickle, the aftertaste of fear.
Harper felt it too.
She looked toward the barn windows across the yard, narrowing her eyes as if expecting something to move beyond the frost.
It wasn't just dread.
It wasn't just grief.
It was the sense of a shift, subtle but vast — the world bending in a direction they couldn't name.
Life moved on.
But something in the marrow of the morning whispered otherwise.
——————————————————-
Steam curled from their shared mug of coffee when a smaller girl — maybe five-five, slim, with wavy dark-red hair and bright blue eyes — approached carrying two heaping plates. Eggs, baked bread slices, crisp potatoes, and a few cuts of rabbit still steaming. She flashed them both a sleepy smile.
"Morn', Leann," Ambrosia said, accepting her plate.
"SMELLS SO GOOD," Harper declared, already scooping a forkful like she hadn't eaten in days.
"Mornin', girls. Y'all been busy or gettin' ready?"
Harper didn't even breathe as she annihilated a baked potato, leaving Leann and Ambrosia staring at her like she might bite next.
The girls exchanged soft laughter.
"Just getting started," Ambrosia said. "Odd jobs today. Easy day. I don't know how you work in here with your momma all day."
Leann wiped her hands on her apron and shrugged. "Beats being out in the cold. Or beyond the walls."
Cutlery clattered. Boots scraped. Chairs dragged. The mess hall lived and breathed around the girls, its chaos a strangely comforting hum. Harper barely paused to notice — she was too busy chasing crumbs with her finger and licking it clean.
Ambrosia rolled her eyes with affection and shoved Harper's shoulder lightly.
"Slow down before you choke."
"I am slowed down," Harper said through a mouthful of egg, cheeks puffed like a squirrel. "This is domestic elegance. I'm savoring it."
Leann arched a brow. "If that's savorin', I'd hate to see you actually hungry."
Ambrosia snorted into her coffee.
Harper pointed her fork like a dagger at both of them. "I am hungry. And these potatoes? Peak cuisine. I would stab a man for these."
"Girl," Leann said, "you'd stab a man for stale bread dipped in pond water."
"True," Harper agreed, not offended in the slightest.
The warmth between them spread out naturally — a small island of comfort in the middle of the morning cacophony. More dishes clattered at the serving window as kitchen staff called out orders. Plates slid. Someone dropped a ladle. A baby wailed in the far corner until someone soothed it. Powdered snow drifted off coats whenever someone stamped in from outdoors.
Ambrosia rubbed the sleep from her eyes with her thumb and the side of her hand. The fatigue knotted under her skin, but sharing warmth and food with these two made the tiredness feel… survivable.
Leann watched her with a soft tilt of the head. "Long night?"
Ambrosia didn't answer at first. Her gaze drifted to her coffee instead, as if it might say the words for her.
"Yeah," she finally murmured. "Long night."
Harper's expression softened. For all her noise and bravado, she knew when to go quiet.
Leann shifted the weight of her tray and pulled out the bench beside them. "Sit with y'all a second before I gotta go help Mama with the next batch?"
Harper patted the seat eagerly. "Always room for you. Now tell me—did Byron help you haul those flour bags again last night or were you two sneaking behind the greenhouse again?"
Leann choked on her own spit.
"Wh—no! We were—Ambrosia, tell her to shut up!"
Ambrosia, sipping her coffee with the most innocent expression she could muster, shrugged.
"Don't drag me into this."
Harper gave a wolfish grin. "Oh, I'm dragging everyone."
The three of them dissolved into soft laughter — the exhausted kind that still felt good enough to warm their bones.
"Mmm," Harper hummed smugly. "Love this. Coffee, potatoes, gossip. God's gifts."
Ambrosia shook her head, smiling despite herself.
"Blasphemy. You forgot cigarettes."
Harper raised her mug like a toast. "And may the Lord add unto us more."
Leann snorted so hard she almost tipped her plate. "Y'all are impossible."
Ambrosia felt something loosen in her chest. For a moment — just a moment — the night in the infirmary faded. Don's gasping breaths, his delirious muttering, the blood, the fear — all of it drifted back into the fog. It wasn't gone… but it gave her space to breathe.
Harper nudged her knee under the table. "Hey."
Ambrosia glanced at her.
"You okay?"
Ambrosia hesitated, then nodded slowly.
"Yeah. Just… processing."
Harper eyed her a second longer, making sure. Then she nodded too and went back to her food, as if silently promising she'd circle back later.
Leann, trying to lighten the mood again, bumped Ambrosia's shoulder. "Eat. Before Harper steals your plate."
Harper feigned offense. "I would never steal—"
Ambrosia: "You literally stole Kael's plate last week."
Harper: "In my defense, he took too long."
Leann bit her lip to keep from laughing. "Girl, you're gonna get murdered."
"He'd never," Harper replied proudly. "He loves me." Then she leaned over her food and whispered to Ambrosia, "Even though he pretends not to when he's in 'serious guard mode.'"
Ambrosia barked a quiet laugh. "God help him."
Leann wiped her hands on her apron again, humming softly as she surveyed the mess hall. "Still haven't seen them come in yet."
Harper shoveled another bite into her mouth. "Probably out in the snow again. Arden's probably lecturing them on not freezing to death."
Ambrosia stirred her coffee idly. "He does that."
"He does," Leann giggled. "He really does."
Harper swallowed loudly. "Well if Kael doesn't show up soon, I'm eating his breakfast too. And you can add it to his ration count, Leann."
Leann opened her mouth to retort—
—and then Harper froze mid-bite.
Her eyes widened with sudden mischief, delight, and something smug enough to power a generator.
"Ohhhh look who finally decided to show their faces."
Leann turned. Ambrosia followed her gaze.
The mess hall door swung open with a rush of winter air.
Arden stepped in first. Shoulders dusted white. Scarf still unwound. His boots thudded with the kind of tired weight that only early morning meetings and too many responsibilities could carve into a man's posture.
Kael followed, rubbing his gloved hands together, shaking off cold. He muttered something under his breath about the damn wind.
And Reddin, tall and quiet as always, shut the door behind them with his usual gentleness — as if even the door might bruise if he handled it too roughly.
Harper elbowed Ambrosia so hard she nearly spilled her coffee.
"Look alive, Rosia. Your man is here."
Ambrosia choked on absolutely nothing.
Leann snorted into her sleeve. "Oh Lord."
Harper grinned like a fox. "Showtime."
And the three men made their way into the mess hall — unaware, at least for this brief and golden moment, that three women were watching them with a mixture of affection, amusement, and exasperation.
———————————————————-
The noise of the mess hall shifted in a subtle way when the men came into view — not because people feared them, but because the room simply registered them the way a forest registers movement from something larger than deer. Boots on old tile. Cold air still clinging to their coats. Voices softening around them without realizing.
Harper spotted them first.
"There they are," she muttered, straightening in a way she probably didn't even notice. Kael looked like he always did in the mornings — hood down, hair tousled, smile half-sly, half-sleepy, the walk of a man whose confidence carried him even when he looked like he'd just rolled out of a cot. Reddin's gait was quieter, shoulders angled inward, steps measured as though he were trying not to disturb the chaos around him. And Arden… Arden walked with purpose, jaw tight, eyes scanning the hall in that habitual pattern of his, taking in exits, doorways, window lines — all while still somehow giving a nod or a soft "mornin'" mixed with small talk to everyone he passed.
Ambrosia didn't need to turn; she could feel the shift in the room as three sets of boots cut through the breakfast chatter. Arden led, shoulders squared and focused, already reviewing something in a folded notebook as he walked. Kael trailed half a step behind him, grin forming the instant he spotted Harper. Reddin — quiet, sharp-eyed, trying not to stare at Ambrosia and failing — hovered just to Kael's right.
Leann froze mid-sentence as the trio approached. Harper smirked.
"Don't stare," Harper whispered to Leann.
"You're staring too," Leann whispered back.
"That's different. I'm entitled."
Ambrosia snorted into her coffee.
Kael got there first, leaning one forearm casually on Harper's shoulder.
"Morning, gorgeous," he drawled. "Save me anything or do I get the scraps of your feeding frenzy?"
Harper elbowed him without looking up. "Sit down before I eat your plate too."
Arden gave a faint snort, then nodded to Ambrosia and Leann. "Morning. Everyone eating alright? Mess hall looks good today."
Leann brightened. "Thank you, sir. Mom started the rabbit early."
Reddin lingered a step back until Ambrosia glanced up at him. Her smile was warm, inviting.
"Mornin', Reddin."
He almost said it twice. "Morning. Smells… good."
He gestured vaguely toward her plate, then immediately realized how that sounded and shifted his weight. Ambrosia hid a smile behind a bite of bread.
Kael slid into the seat beside Harper, trying to steal a piece of her rabbit. She slapped his hand away without looking.
"Touch my food and you're losing a finger."
"Romantic," he muttered, rubbing his knuckles.
Harper swatted him with a half-smile. "Eat your food before Leann takes the plate back."
Leann laughed, cheeks still pink. "Don't tempt me. Supply numbers are tight this week."
Kael held a hand protectively over his plate. "You'll pry this bread from my cold dead hands."
"You almost were cold and dead last week," Harper shot back.
"Yeah," Kael said, leaning back. "But I got better. Mostly because of you. And also because Reddin keeps forcing tea down my throat."
Reddin was midway into taking a seat near Ambrosia. He paused, blinked, then flushed. "It's just— ginger helps breathing. And immune response. That's— medically sound."
Ambrosia smiled at him; soft, appreciative, a little teasing. "It is. I like that you remember things like that."
Reddin looked down at his plate immediately.
Arden watched the exchange with that faint, knowing smirk he pretended wasn't a smirk. He sat heavily, rolling his shoulders. His coat was still dusted with faint snow. He'd been outside recently — early patrol, no doubt.
"How's Don?" Arden asked Ambrosia, though he already knew the basics. His voice lowered when he said the name.
Ambrosia's posture shifted. "Still breathing. Fever's high. Richard's doing what he can. We… won't know until later today."
Reddin's jaw flexed. Kael's smile thinned. Even Harper quieted. Leann folded her hands in front of her apron.
It was Arden who broke the silence, practical as always. "We're heading out to the site as soon as we finish eating. We won't be back until late."
"Today?" Harper asked, brows raised.
"Today," Arden confirmed. "Weather's holding for now. And whatever happened out there— we need answers."
Kael groaned dramatically. "So we're going on a field trip to the middle of a bloodbath, in the snow, probably freezing our asses off—"
"Balls," Harper corrected with a grin.
"Yes, freezing our balls off," Kael said, raising a finger. "Thank you, yes. That. Perfect."
Reddin took a small bite of bread, pretending not to smile at Kael's theatrics. He kept sneaking little glances at Ambrosia — the kind he thought people didn't notice — then looking away just as quickly.
Ambrosia leaned slightly toward him. "You doing okay?" she asked quietly.
Reddin nodded, stared at his plate. "Just thinking."
"You always say that."
"Because it's always true," he murmured, awkward and earnest in equal measure.
Ambrosia's lip curved. "Well… be careful today. All three of you."
Reddin's eyes flicked up, almost shyly. "You too. Don't overwork yourself."
"I don't overwork myself."
Harper snorted hard enough for Leann to hit her shoulder.
Arden hid a smile behind his coffee mug.
Kael leaned sideways toward Harper. "You want me to bring you something back? Souvenirs from the murder site?"
Harper rolled her eyes. "Yeah, bring me a pinecone so I can hit you with it when you get back."
"Noted," Kael said, then nudged her again. "I'll bring you two."
Leann covered a laugh.
Arden set down his cup and spread a small map from his coat pocket onto the table, smoothing its creases. "We'll keep to the riverbed on the approach. Less exposed. Reddin, keep eyes sharp for any prints. Kael—"
"Don't antagonize anything that wants to kill me. Yes, Captain Dad."
Arden sighed. Deeply.
Ambrosia leaned toward Harper, whispering behind her hand, "He's gonna get thrown into a snowbank."
Harper whispered back, "I'd pay to see it."
Reddin tried — and failed — not to laugh into his cup of water.
Arden ignored all three of them like a seasoned professional.
He tapped the map. "We'll check the kill site first. Then whatever trail we can pick up. We need to know if this was an animal or—"
"Or not," Kael finished, more soberly now.
Leann bit her lip. "Just… come back safe, okay? People are nervous."
Arden nodded to her. "We always do."
Reddin didn't echo the line. He only nodded once — the smallest, quietest acknowledgment — and Ambrosia felt something tighten low in her ribs when she saw the solemn flicker behind his eyes.
Harper noticed too.
Kael finished his food in three huge bites, wiped his face with his sleeve, stretched like a cat, and said, "Alright boys. Let's go freeze in the woods and hopefully not die."
Arden stood, rolling his coat back onto his shoulders. "Five minutes," he said to the men. "Gear up."
Reddin rose last, giving a final small look toward Ambrosia — a soft, uncertain, lingering thing — before he followed the others out through the bustling, noisy hall.
The door shut behind them.
Their absence dropped into the table like a change in weather.