02;

The morning sun crept slowly over the edge of the quarry, lighting up the water below in long gold stripes. The trees that framed the camp shuttered slightly in the early wind, their sparse leaves rattling like paper. Marceline stood near the waterline, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, eyes narrowed as she traced the ripples on the surface. She wasn't sure if she was cold or just tense — her body had been locked in a quiet coil ever since she'd joined this camp a few days ago.

She hadn't asked to belong here. But belonging, it seemed, was all they had left.

Behind her, the camp stirred. The familiar clatter of Dave's old RV door swinging open creaked through the clearing. Amy's soft laughter drifted over from where she and Andrea were bent over a makeshift washing line, snapping clothes dry and chatting softly. T-Dog crouched by the fire pit, poking at yesterday's ashes, coaxing new flames from a pile of dry kindling. Morales hauled buckets of water up from the quarry's edge, jaw tight with focus, while Carol gently shushed Sophia, who had woken crying from a nightmare.

Marceline turned her head slightly, her dark eyes skimming across them all. It was strange to watch people act normal — laugh, squabble, tease — when the world around them had shattered like a dropped mirror.

Her fingers flexed at her sides. She still wasn't used to the weight of the pistol strapped to her hip. She could almost feel her mother's voice in her ear: "Keep it close, Marce. Don't trust anyone but yourself."
She swallowed hard, shoving the memory down.

"Hey," Dale's warm, slightly raspy voice called, pulling her out of her head. She turned, blinking, to see the older man approaching. His sun-beaten face crinkled into a small smile as he lifted a hand in greeting."You mind helping me check the generator later?" he asked, gesturing back towards the RV.
"Things been sputtering again."

Marceline gave a small, quick nod. "Sure." She liked Dale — or at least, she didn't mind him. He didn't pry, didn't push her to talk, didn't treat her like a fragile kid, even though she was probably one of the youngest adults in camp. He just let her exist in a quiet way, and she appreciated that more than she can put into words.

As she made her way back up the slope toward the campfire, Marceline caught sight of Shane pacing along the edge of the camp, his rifle slung casually over one shoulder. His voice carried on the breeze as he called out orders, checking the perimeter. "We need another look at the south fence," he muttered to T-Dog, who gave a silent nod in return. Marceline tensed slightly as Shane's sharp eyes flicked over her. She never quite trusted Shane — his easy confidence, the way he carried himself like he was always one step away from snapping.

She dropped her gaze and kept walking.

The air smelled like damp earth and woodsmoke as she reached the fire. T-Dog shot her a small glance as she crouched down to help, handing her a stick to stir the coals. She took it wordlessly, poking at the ash, watching the embers glow to life.

"You're quiet," T-Dog said after a long moment, his voice low, almost a rumble.

Marceling shrugged. "Always am."

He gave a faint huff of amusement. "Ain't nothing wrong with that." He straightened, wiping his hands on his jeans. "We could use more eyes like yours."

Marceline tilted her head slightly, surprised. She wasn't used to compliments — or at least, not ones that felt like they came without strings attached.

Before she could reply, a sudden burst of laughter from the lake caught her attention. She turned to see Carl splashing along the shore, Sophia chasing after him with a stick, both kids shrieking with laughter. Carol stood watch a little ways back, her thin arms folded nervously over her chest. Lori, further up the hill, called out a warning, "Don't go too far, Carl!" her voice tinged with a mother's voice of worry.

Marceline's chest tightened faintly. Watching the children — their laughter, their small, fragile joy — was sometimes the hardest part. How long until the world swallowed, that too?

By midday, the camp had settled into its usual rhythm. Andrea and Amy were stringing up the last of the laundry, chatting softly about their old lives — college, Amy's plans to travel, Andrea's law firm. Carol and Lori worked together over a small pot of stew bubbling at the fire. Shane patrolled the perimeter, shooting Marceline the occasional unreadable look, while Dale hunched over the generator, muttering under his breath.

Marceline sat perched on a rock near the treeline, her knees pulled up to her chest. She watched it all, feeling strangely detached, as if watching from underwater. She didn't speak much — didn't know how to break into their easy rhythms of conversation, didn't know how to explain why she kept herself at a distance.

She hadn't told them about her mother. About the shot she'd had to take. About the way the memory still clawed at her when she tried to sleep.

Instead, she listened.

She heard Andrea gently teasing Amy about a boy she'd liked back home. She heard T-Dog and Morales debating how much fuel they had left. She heard Dale grumbling about needing parts, needing tools, needing something they didn't have. She heard Shane barking out plans, keeping order.

And she waited.

Late afternoon brought a ripple of change.

Marceline was just coming back up the slope with an armful of firewood when she saw Dale waving from the top of the RV. His face was pale, his eyes wide. "Shane!" he called sharply. "You'd better hear this!"

The camp fell still. Shane jogged over, gun slung across his back, his brow furrowed.

Dale turned up the radio, static crackling through the speaker.

"-Camp, do you read me? This is Glenn. Repeat: this is Glenn."

Amy let out a gasp, her hands flying to her mouth. Andrea grabbed her arm. Carol clutched Sophia closer.

Shane snatched the radio mic from Dale's hand. "Glenn?" barked. "Is that you?"

There was a pause — a long, shaky breath — and then Glenn's voice came crackling through, faint but unmistakeable: "Shane! Yeah, it's me. We're okay. We're alive."

Marceline froze where she stood, the firewood pressing into her arms. Her heart slammed hard in her chest. Glenn — the kid they'd thought was gone — was alive?

"We've got people with us," Glenn continued. "We made it out of the city. We're on the highway now, heading your way."

Shane's voice softened slightly, the hard edge slipping just a little. "You bring anyone back?"

"Yeah," Glenn said, his voice shaky but alive with something like hope. "Found a guy — Rick. Says he's got family at the camp."

Marceline felt the air leave her lungs.

Rick.

That night, the camp hummed with restless energy.

People moved quickly, gathering extra blankets, clearing spots by the fire, preparing for the returning group. Marceline helped quietly, her hands working on autopilot. She didn't know who Rick was — just that his name had sent a ripple of something through the group, something like a spark.

She sat by the fire later, knees drawn to her chest, watching the flames flicker in the dark.

For the first time in a long time, she allowed herself to hope — just a little.

Maybe, just maybe, this was the start of something better.

•

AUTHOR'S NOTE !

thank you for reading.
rick and marceline will finally meet next chapter. don't forget to like & comment.

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