The women finished the last bites of their breakfast — Harper scraping her fork across the plate like someone mining for hidden treasure, Ambrosia slower, savoring each bite as the caffeine finally started sinking into her bones. Harper flicked ash into an empty tin cup, then lit another cigarette from the dying ember of her last one. Ambrosia leaned forward to light hers off Harper's without missing a beat.
Leann made a face and waved her hand in front of her nose.
"Lord have mercy, y'all are gonna kill me before anything outside those walls ever does."
Harper exhaled a thick plume straight upward, grinning.
"That's the plan."
Ambrosia blew her smoke sideways. "Catch ya later, Leann. And hopefully not behind Bob's garage with Byron again."
Leann's blush exploded across her face like a flare. "I— that was one time! Y'all need Jesus."
"You can borrow ours when we find one," Harper said, standing with a wink.
Ambrosia snorted so hard her cigarette almost slipped from between her lips.
The two of them slipped back into the chaotic flow of the mess hall, weaving through bodies, trays, and clusters of half-awake survivors trying to swallow breakfast before freezing their asses off on morning assignments. A table of off-duty militia played noisy cards, their banter slicing through the din.
"Son of a bitch, you cheated me again!" a man barked.
"You're just bad. Get good," another shot back. "Now pay me two packs of smokes or I'm adding it to what you already owe me, Sinatra."
Harper didn't even look at them. She just leaned over the table, snatched a half-full mason jar of homemade liquor, and tossed down two magazines from her pocket in the same movement.
One of the men blinked.
"Hey— what the hell—"
"It's called paying rent," Harper said, already walking. "If you want your mason jar back, come find me outside the walls."
Before anyone could mount a protest, the girls were gone.
The instant they stepped out of the mess hall's heavy noise, the hallway felt almost too quiet. Their boots thudded in rhythm on old tile, the echo stretching ahead of them like a tunnel.
Harper popped the jar open and raised it like a toast.
"Morning medicine."
Ambrosia took it first. The smell hit her like a punch.
"Good lord… this smells like rubbing alcohol had a baby with gasoline."
"Yup," Harper said proudly. "Vintage."
Ambrosia drank. A full swallow. The burn scorched her throat and lit her chest enough to force a cough.
Harper laughed and snatched the jar. "See? Shit burns so good."
Ambrosia wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, eyes watering. "Burns like I swallowed a lit torch."
Harper took a long drag, then swished the liquor in her mouth like she was tasting wine.
"Don't complain. It'll keep us warm and make the day less shitty."
Ambrosia laughed, taking her cigarette back.
"God, how many people do we have now? Two hundred?"
Harper shrugged dramatically, walking backward for a few steps. "I stopped counting after two hundred. Hell, I bet Arden doesn't even know anymore."
Ambrosia scoffed.
"You and I both know he knows every damn name. And probably where they sleep, their favorite food, and exactly when they sneak seconds from the kitchen."
Harper smirked and passed the cigarette back. "Yeah, well, good for him. Hope he writes my biography when this is all over."
"Autobiography," Ambrosia corrected with a grin.
Harper blew smoke at her. "I don't read enough to know the difference."
They reached the end of the hall. The oak double doors loomed in front of them — tall, heavy things that still creaked from the damage done last spring. Harper pushed them open with her shoulder, and a blade of cold air immediately sliced inside like a warning.
Both women stepped out and pulled the doors shut behind them.
The world outside hit them hard.
Snow fell in steady diagonal sheets, whisper-soft and cold enough to sting any exposed skin. The courtyard stones were half-iced, half-slushed, the kind of mix that made every step a gamble. The wind wound between the old stone of the State House buildings in low, hollow moans — not unlike the distant, eerie hum of the infected when the world went quiet enough to hear them.
Harper pulled her coat tighter.
"Well… shit. It's colder than a grave out here."
Ambrosia lit another cigarette off her old one. "Makes me miss the mess hall already."
Harper passed her the jar again in a frozen hand.
"Give it a second. Once this hits, you'll forget the cold, your name, and maybe what species you are."
Ambrosia took a second swig, wincing as the burn tore down her throat.
"Yeah. That tracks."
The two stood there for a moment on the courtyard's edge, the cold wind swirling between them, their breath fogging into pale ghosts that drifted upward and vanished.
The State House loomed tall behind them.
The walls rose around them like an old fortress.
The world beyond those walls was white, quiet, and dangerous.
And somewhere out in that frozen world, Arden, Kael, and Reddin were walking toward the place where Don's hunting party had died.
Ambrosia watched the snow-laden treeline.
Harper nudged her. "Don't start worrying. They'll be fine."
Ambrosia dropped her half-smile.
"I know. I just… wish Don hadn't said the things he did."
Harper exhaled slowly, her breath curling like smoke.
"Yeah. Me too."
The wind cut through them again, sharp and hollow.
Snow kept falling.
And the girls headed down the steps into the courtyard to begin their day.
—————————————————————-
Cold morning light washed across the courtyard in a muted, pewter glow — the kind of winter brightness that softened edges but made every breath break in front of the mouth like a ghost escaping. The air tasted of frost, woodsmoke, and the faint mineral tang of last night's lingering embers. The pyre still burned steadily at the courtyard's center, stacked thick with ash-blackened logs and glowing orange at its heart like a living furnace. It popped occasionally, each crack a reminder of Arden's quiet vigil long after most had gone to sleep.
Harper and Ambrosia walked side by side, boots scraping through thin frost crusted over the brick. Harper's shoulders rose toward her ears as she brought the mason jar to her lips for another swallow of amber alcohol, wincing at the burn. Ambrosia, nursing her own jar, snorted a laugh at Harper's reaction before taking a long drink herself, the warmth spilling across her cheeks in a blush.
They stopped at the pyre first. Harper extended her hands toward it, palms raw from the bite of the morning. The heat licked her fingers, thawing the stiffness out of her knuckles. Ambrosia mirrored her, though she leaned in closer, letting her coat soak in the warmth until she finally sighed through the alcohol fog.
"So what does the fearless leader have us doing today?" Ambrosia asked with a half smile, voice slurred just enough to give her away.
Harper scoffed softly, breath blooming into the frigid air. "Probably something productive," she said, eyes sliding across the courtyard as she tipped the jar again. "Unfortunately."
The two stood like that for a beat, letting the pyre's glow draw color back into their faces. The fire made Harper's freckles shimmer faintly; Ambrosia's eyes sparkled like shards of amber glass.
Then Harper's gaze caught movement along the far wall — a guard strolling, cigarette pinched lazily between two fingers.
"Hey Durial!" Harper shouted, her voice carrying easily on the crisp air. "Get your ass over here!"
Ambrosia laughed beneath her breath. It echoed faintly across the courtyard where the cold swallowed softer sounds.
Durial stopped mid-step, cigarette dangling from his lip as he exhaled a ribbon of smoke. "What the hell do you two troublemakers want?" he muttered as he ambled toward them.
His boots thudded dully on the frost. He squinted through the morning haze as if preparing for a trap.
Harper didn't give him the luxury of a warning. The mason jar touched his chest before he even reached them. "Make sure you toss logs on the pyre throughout the day, k?"
Durial blinked. "Wait, what—?"
Too late. The jar was already in his hands and Harper and Ambrosia were halfway across the courtyard again, turning their backs before he'd even brought the jar to his lips.
Durial stared after them, baffled. "Damn it… she got me again," he grumbled, taking an involuntary sip.
Ambrosia threw her head back in laughter once they reached the center walkway near the garage. "So damn smooth, Harp. I swear. What next?"
Harper rubbed her hands together — either scheming or trying to warm her palms; with her, Ambrosia could never tell.
"Next," Harper said, slipping into a half-grumble, "we take Bob and Eli's list, pass it on to David and James later, blah blah."
Ambrosia's grin widened. "Is that your Arden impression?"
Harper's face snapped serious. She straightened her spine, puffed her chest, and started marching like an exaggerated soldier. "Yes sir!" she barked, voice pitched low and authoritative.
Ambrosia nearly tripped laughing. "Okay, okay, stop — you're gonna get us killed."
"You'll die first," Harper shot back casually.
"Accurate."
They reached the workshop door — a heavy sliding steel thing welded into old garage rails. Ambrosia knocked sharply against it, the cold metal stinging her knuckles.
She turned to Harper with a crooked smile. "Why do you think Arden calls this the workshop? It's just a garage."
Harper adjusted the strap of her backpack, shrugging. "Eli and Bob were like the first people in the State House. Well — besides Kael, if you can believe that."
Ambrosia raised a brow. "I'll believe that just like I believe Kael killed an ogre."
"Hey. You've seen the man."
"That's exactly why I don't believe it."
Ambrosia pulled the door open, and a blast of scorching air hit both women immediately, carrying the scent of burning wood, motor oil, cigarette smoke, and hot metal. They stepped inside the workshop.
A half-disassembled truck sat in the middle like a skeletal carcass — frame exposed, panels stripped, cables hanging like veins. The air shimmered around the wood stove to the right, the heat so fierce it had turned the corner of the workshop into a sauna. Sweat already beaded along Ambrosia's hairline, sliding in slow trails down her temples.
To the left, piles of organized chaos rose to hip height: bins of scavenged electronics, buckets of mismatched gun parts, tangled coils of wire, half-usable springs, cracked radio housings, engine components, rusted tools. The space looked like madness to anyone who didn't know Eli and Bob — but a kind of alchemical genius lurked beneath the mess.
Bob sat hunched over a table, working on a disassembled shotgun with the precision of a surgeon. A cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth, ash drifting dangerously close to the internal components. His coveralls were stained with grease, soot, and something suspiciously maroon. Beside him, a mug of cold coffee sat abandoned, the top forming a thin, filmy skin.
Across from him, Eli leaned over a battered laptop with a soldering iron, expression focused, wires and circuit boards spread around him like a shrine. His glasses reflected the tiny LEDs blinking along the board.
Harper cleared her throat loudly. Both men looked up — Bob with annoyed sluggishness, Eli with startled brightness.
Harper slung off her backpack and pulled out the two laptops she'd scavenged earlier, placing them gently beside Eli.
His eyes went wide. "Oh my god. You came through. How?"
She only smirked. "Got my ways."
Eli opened one of the laptops immediately, reverent as if handling a relic from a bygone world. His fingers hovered above the keys, already assessing, dreaming, planning.
Then he composed himself, squared his shoulders, and tried to match Bob's gravelly tone. "Alright. What's the list?"
Bob snorted. "Kid, you ain't got the voice for that."
"Let me pretend," Eli muttered.
Harper grinned, pulling a folded sheet of paper from her back pocket. "You two got requests. Arden wants them logged and passed along."
Bob pushed his cigarette to the other side of his mouth. "Lemme guess. Another parts run."
"Among other things," Harper said, unfolding the paper.
Ambrosia leaned back against a counter littered with tools, wiping sweat from her brow as the workshop heat clung to her skin. She took another flaming swallow from her jar.
"All right," Harper said, reading aloud, "Bob and Eli's official 'please don't die while finding this crap' list."
Bob grumbled. "We didn't label it that."
"You didn't need to." Harper smirked. Ambrosia nodded in agreement.
Harper lifted the paper. "First: alternator for a pre-2000 Chevy."
Bob gestured at the half-assembled truck. "You can thank that son of a bitch for that."
"It runs?" Ambrosia asked, skeptical.
"With prayers and profanity," Eli answered.
Harper continued. "Second: more soldering wire."
Eli immediately perked up. "Yes. And if you find silver-bearing solder? I will kiss whoever brings it home."
Harper raised a brow. "Noted. I'll send Kael."
Eli went visibly pale. "Actually, send literally anyone else."
Ambrosia cackled.
Bob exhaled smoke through his nose. "What else?"
Harper squinted at the paper. "Couple batteries, any condition. Radio housings. More clean rags. Engine belts. And — oh." She tilted the paper. "Eli, did you really write 'a decent cup of coffee, please god'?"
Eli, unashamed, nodded solemnly.
Ambrosia crossed her arms, teasing. "What's wrong with Bob's coffee?"
Bob looked offended. "Ain't nothin' wrong with my coffee."
"It tastes like burnt sins," Ambrosia said.
Eli pointed at her with the soldering iron. "Exactly."
Harper lowered the paper. "All right. I'll let Arden know. He'll make sure this gets on the next list."
Bob grunted. "Good. Because I swear if I gotta keep making parts out of scrap and recycled curses, I'm gonna start charging admission."
Harper laughed under her breath. The workshop felt strangely comforting — too hot, too loud, too cluttered — but undeniably alive. The air crackled with a sense of purpose. Of people doing whatever they could to keep the world from collapsing another inch.
Eli turned the laptop she brought toward himself, fingers tapping lightly over the casing as if coaxing a heartbeat out of the dead machine. "Seriously, Harp," he murmured, "you don't know how much this helps."
"Sure I do," she said softly. "You guys keep us all breathing."
Bob didn't look up, but the corner of his mouth twitched. For Bob, that was practically an outpouring of gratitude.
Ambrosia had drifted toward the wood stove by then, standing just close enough to feel like her bones might melt. Sweat darkened the collar of her jacket. "It's like hell in here," she muttered.
"Good insulation," Bob grunted.
"It's 70 percent rust and 30 percent smoke," Harper countered.
"Still insulates."
Eli's laugh was small but genuine.
Harper set the list down on the table, leaning her hip against it. Ambrosia pushed stray curls out of her face, cheeks flushed from the heat and alcohol mix.
Outside the workshop door, faint ambient noises drifted in: distant hammering from the construction crews, the metallic clatter of someone loading magazines at the wall, and—beneath it all—the somber, rhythmic breathing of the winter wind moving through the courtyard.
Then a far-off groan. One of the infected. Distant enough not to matter, but close enough to remind them.
Harper took a slow breath, eyes steady.
Ambrosia swallowed. "Harp?"
"Yeah?"
"You ever think about… I dunno. How Arden does it? Leading people? Keeping everything glued together without… without losing himself?"
Harper's expression softened. "Every damn day."
"And you think he's okay?"
Harper didn't answer immediately. She glanced toward the workshop door, where the pyre's glow flickered faintly through the crack. "I think he's trying. And that's more than most people in this world can say."
Ambrosia nodded slowly.
Eli pretended to be too absorbed in the laptop to listen. Bob just kept cleaning the shotgun, but his jaw tightened slightly — enough to betray that he heard every word.
Harper pushed away from the table and slung her pack over her shoulder. "All right. We got our part. You two keep the place from exploding."
"No promises," Eli murmured.
"Zero," Bob added.
Harper smirked. "I expected nothing less."
Ambrosia pulled the workshop door open again. Cold air surged inside like a wave, steaming off their skin. The pyre crackled across the courtyard, brighter now that the sun had risen higher.
As the two women stepped outside, Harper glanced once more at the burning logs — the heartbeat of the State House — then nudged Ambrosia gently with her shoulder.
"Come on," she said. "We've still got the rest of the day to ruin."
Ambrosia grinned. "Lead the way."