Chapter 26
Twenty Six
Sloane
Morning crept in slowly, and a thin strip of pale orange light stretched along the horizon beyond the glass roof panels, turning the dark water in the tanks a faint blue-gray. The place carried the faint smell of saltwater mixed with last night’s garlic.
I padded down the hallway toward the cafeteria, still half asleep, hair pulled into a messy knot on top of my head.
Coffee—nothing else mattered—but as I stepped through the doorway, I stopped short.
Ethan sat at one of the cafeteria tables with a can of Coke in his hand; the kid nearly launched out of his chair.
“Jesus!” he blurted, the can slipping in his grip before he caught it.
I raised both hands. “Whoa—sorry. Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”
He blinked hard, cheeks flushing. “Well, you know—” He let out a shaky laugh. “Living dead walking around out there. Keeps you on edge.”
He rubbed the back of his neck and took another long sip as if the Coke might settle his nerves.
I moved to the coffeepot and started filling it, then put it on the stove. “Where’s your dad?”
“Upstairs somewhere,” Ethan said. “He went with Callan.”
I glanced over my shoulder. “Doing what?”
Ethan shrugged. “Something about the marina. Escape routes, I think.”
That sounded exactly like Callan, always three steps ahead, already solving a problem the rest of us hadn’t named yet.
“Good,” I said quietly. “That’s good.”
The coffeepot sputtered and hissed. I leaned against the counter and waited, letting the warmth of the brewing pot drift up toward my face.
The cafeteria sat quiet around us.
Ethan spoke again, his voice a little softer.
“My mom would’ve loved this place.”
I looked over at him.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “She had this whole thing about aquariums, could spend a whole afternoon in one.”
He spun the Coke can between his palms.
“My dad pretends he hates them, but he actually stands in front of the tank watching the fish.”
I laughed.
“Don’t tell him I said that.”
“Your secret’s safe.”
I poured my coffee and sat down across from him; the mug warmed my hands. For a moment, the world outside those walls didn’t exist.
“Do you have brothers or sisters?” he asked.
I shook my head. “Two half-sisters. But does that count?”
Ethan laughed—a short, honest sound that faded quicker than it should have. He looked down at the table, spinning the Coke can in slow circles.
After a moment, his voice dropped.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
He swallowed, as if he’d been rehearsing this and still couldn’t get the words to sit right.
“You think… we’re gonna die?”
The question hung between us.
He tried to shrug it off—casually, but the fear behind his eyes gave him away. Sixteen years old, broad shoulders and a deep voice, and a kid’s terror sitting right there beneath the surface, plain as day.
I leaned forward and set my mug down.
“No,” I said. Firm. No hesitation.
He looked up. “No?”
“No.”
I took a sip of coffee and held his gaze.
“You know why?”
He shook his head.
“Because your dad strikes me as someone stubborn as hell, and Callan’s even worse.”
The smallest smile cracked through.
“And me?” Ethan asked.
I pointed at the Coke in his hand.
“You’re drinking soda at six in the morning during the end; that alone tells me your survival instincts are excellent.”
He laughed—a real laugh this time, the tension draining from his shoulders; he sat up straighter and took another sip.
“You know…” he said slowly.
“What?”
He tapped the Coke can against the table. “If we’re planning on leaving eventually… shouldn’t we start moving food onto the boat?”
I blinked. “What do you mean?”
“Well—” he straightened up, warming to it. “If we have to leave fast, we won’t have time to pack, but if the non-perishable stuff is already loaded on the boat, no scrambling.”
I stared at him.
I set my coffee down and pointed at him.
“That’s a really good idea.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Really?”
“Really.”
I stood and grabbed my mug. “Come on.”
He hopped off the bench. “Where are we going?”
“To make you popular with the rest of the group.”
We walked into the storage hallway where Callan and I had organized supplies along the walls—stacked cans, boxes of dry goods, cases of water lined up in neat rows. I pointed to a stack of large plastic storage totes leaning against the back wall.
“See those?”
Ethan nodded.
“We fill them with this stuff,” I pointed to the stuff Callan and I had already organized. Canned goods, dry food, bottled water—anything that won’t spoil. Pack them tight, label them, stage them near the marina access.”
His grin spread slowly. “Then we move them to the boat?”
“Exactly.”
He grabbed one of the totes and hefted it experimentally, bouncing it in his hands. “This is kind of like prepping for a camping trip.”
I raised an eyebrow. “The worst camping trip in human history, perhaps.”
He laughed. “Fair.”
We started pulling cans—beans, soup, tuna, boxes of pasta. The rhythm came easily. Grab, stack, fill. Something about the simple work loosened the knot in my chest. Purpose. Direction. Even a small one.
As Ethan arranged cans neatly inside the tote, he glanced sideways at me.
“You know,” he said, “if my dad asks whose idea this was, I’m definitely taking credit.”
I chuckled. “Oh, absolutely.”
He grinned—wide and unguarded; it belonged to a kid who still believed tomorrow might turn out okay.
“Cool.”
* * *
By the time Callan and Jeff came back through the service corridor, Ethan and I had reorganized half the apocalypse.
Ethan sat on the floor, wrestling the lid onto an overstuffed tote when the door swung open behind us.
Callan stopped in the doorway.
“What the hell is all this?”
Jeff leaned around him, eyebrows climbing.
Ethan looked up, beaming. “Oh, hey Dad.”
I crossed my arms and tipped my head toward the kid. “His idea.”
Callan looked between us, then at the tower of supplies on the cart. “Should I be worried?”
Ethan stood and brushed his hands off on his jeans. “We figured if we had to leave fast, there wouldn’t be time to pack food. So we load the non-perishables onto the boat now. Have it ready to go.”
Jeff blinked, then nodded slowly.
“Well… that’s actually smart as hell.”
Callan walked over to the cart and lifted one of the totes, checking the contents. He set it back down and looked at me.
Callan studied the kid for a beat. “Not bad.”
Ethan tried hard not to grin. He mostly failed.
Jeff clapped his son on the shoulder. “Looks like you’re the quartermaster now.”
“Cool,” Ethan said, like he’d been waiting his whole life for someone to give him a title.
Callan set his hands on the dolly handle. “Alright. Let’s move it.”
The rest of the afternoon turned into a long, grinding supply run.
We loaded the first batch of totes and rolled them down the service corridor toward the quarantine pool. The aquarium echoed with the rumble of cart wheels and the occasional clank of cans shifting inside the containers—a strange, industrial sound bouncing off walls designed for observation.
Jeff chuckled softly as we walked. “Never thought I’d be raiding an aquarium pantry during possibly the end of the world.”
Callan pushed the dolly beside him. “Could be worse.”
“How?”
“We could be the food.”
Jeff snorted. “Fair point.”
When we reached the quarantine pool, the boat rocked gently on the other side of the release gate.
It was built solid, a working vessel with a working engine, and right now that made it the most valuable thing we had.
Jeff and Ethan hauled totes onto the deck while Callan and I passed them up and over the gate.
“Stack toward the bow,” Jeff called down. “Keep the weight balanced.”
Ethan dragged a tote across the deck with a grunt. “How much food do we even need?”
Callan shrugged. “Depends how long we’re running. Plus, food is going to be useful when we get to Finn’s.”
“Three hundred miles,” Jeff said. “Better to have too much than not enough.”
We made trip after trip. Back through the aquarium, down the corridors, back out to the boat. Each run a little slower than the last, the work had a rhythm to it—grab, carry, stack, return—and the rhythm kept the silence from getting too loud.
By the final trip, the sun had shifted to late afternoon, the sky outside turning that hazy gold that made everything look soft and almost normal if you didn’t think too hard about what lived beyond the fences.
Ethan wiped sweat from his forehead as he shoved the last tote onto the deck. “Man,” he groaned, stretching his back. “I’m gonna sleep like a rock tonight.”
Jeff laughed. “You’ll sleep like the dead.”
Ethan grimaced. “Bad choice of words, Dad.”
We secured the final tote, and they climbed back over the gate onto the pool floor. Callan already had his hands on the empty dolly, pushing it toward the corridor.
“Let’s head back in.”
Jeff nodded, scanning the treeline beyond the marina. “Yeah, I don’t like being out here longer than we have to.”
We started walking toward the service door that led back inside the aquarium.
Halfway there, Ethan slowed.
“Uh…”
Something in his voice made every nerve in my body tense at once.
I turned. “What?”
He pointed toward the tall chain-link fence surrounding the outdoor pool and marina slip.
At first, I didn’t see it.
Then one of them moved, a figure staggered out from behind a tree, colliding with the fence. Arms slack, its head lolling, that horrible, boneless gait that looked off in so many ways.
Then another appeared behind it, followed by another.
My stomach dropped, and I felt bile rise in my throat.
They gathered along the fence line. About ten at first—shuffling, bumping into each other, fingers finding the chain link and curling through the metal diamonds.
Then I noticed more shapes farther out along the marina walkway, emerging from between buildings, rounding corners, seemingly drawn by us.
Slow, shambling, but converging.
Jeff swore under his breath. “Those weren’t here earlier.”