Chapter 34
Thirty Four
Callan
By late afternoon, the sun had begun its slow descent toward the horizon, turning the ocean a deep, shimmering blue. The Mariner rolled gently beneath our feet as Jeff handed out the food: tuna and crackers, a bag of chips, and a granola bar.
And instant coffee that tasted slightly of dirt.
I leaned back against the railing with the warm cup in my hands while Jeff spread a weathered nautical chart across the top of a cooler. The paper fluttered in the wind until he pinned it down with a knife and a wrench.
I stepped over beside him, bracing a hand on the deck to keep my balance as the boat rolled. My ankle still throbbed—manageable if I didn’t do anything stupid.
Jeff tapped the map with a thick finger.
“Right here. Finn’s Island.”
The last time we spoke on the phone he’d been telling me about a new rainwater filtration system he’d installed, and I’d made some joke about him turning into a hermit. He hadn’t laughed.
Jeff glanced up at the horizon, then glanced back down at the map.
“If the wind holds and we keep this speed, we should arrive before sunset.”
Behind us, Sloane let out a slow breath.
“Which means,” Jeff added with a tired grin, “none of us has to sleep on this damn boat another night.”
Ethan pumped a fist in the air.
“Thank God.”
I chuckled softly.
“Don’t let the boat hear you say that. She might get offended.”
Jeff snorted.
“She’ll survive.”
* * *
The sky turned orange as the sun dropped lower, the air cooling as evening crept in across the water. I leaned against the rail beside Sloane, watching the horizon. Neither of us spoke much. The closer we got, the less there seemed to be to say.
Eventually, the island appeared.
At first, it was just a dark smudge in the distance. But as we drew closer, details emerged piece by piece.
Tall pine trees lining the shoreline.
A strip of rocky beach.
And finally, the small wooden dock stretching out into the water.
I went quiet without meaning to.
My stomach had started to form a slow, uneasy knot the moment the treeline took shape. Everything I’d told the others about this place—the compound, the solar panels, the supplies—all of it built on memories years old.
“You okay?” Sloane asked beside me.
I nodded once, still staring ahead.
“Yeah.”
Jeff throttled the engine down, and the Mariner slowed, drifting the last hundred yards toward the dock in near silence. Just the lap of water against the hull and the low idle of the motor.
That’s when I noticed it.
I leaned forward, squinting.
“There’s a boat.”
“What?” Ethan called from the wheel.
I pointed.
“Tied to the dock.”
Everyone turned.
Sure enough. A sailboat. Small but solid, its mast swaying gently in the breeze as it rocked beside the weathered pilings.
My brow furrowed.
“That isn’t Finn’s.”
Jeff glanced at me.
“You sure?”
I nodded slowly.
“Finn hates sailboats.”
Ethan raised an eyebrow.
“Why?”
“Says they’re for people who enjoy doing extra work for no reason.”
Ethan laughed.
“Fair point.” But I didn’t smile.
“It’s been a few years since I’ve visited,” I said slowly. “Maybe he picked up something new.”
Even as I said it, the words rang empty in my own mouth.
The Mariner drifted closer until only a few yards separated us from the dock.
The island sat still.
No lights in any of the structures through the trees. No movement along the shore, quiet except for the wind pushing through the pines and the soft creak of the sailboat’s rigging.
I turned back toward the others.
“We go carefully; something feels off. I’m just not sure what.”
Jeff nodded immediately.
“Agreed.”
He stepped to the storage crate near the wheelhouse and opened it, pulling out the pistol. The metal caught the fading sunlight as he checked the chamber with practiced hands.
“I’ll go first,” he said. “If there’s trouble, I’ve got the gun.”
I didn’t argue.
Ethan grabbed one of the long gaff hooks from the deck.
Sloane picked up another, gripping the handle tightly.
I took the last one and tested my weight on my ankle.
“You sure you’re good?” Sloane asked quietly.
I gave her a crooked smile.
“Good enough.”
The Mariner bumped gently against the dock. Ethan tossed the rope over one of the wooden posts and secured it with quick, practiced hands. The dock groaned under the added weight, old wood flexing beneath the hull.
For a moment, the four of us just stood there.
Listening.
Nothing.
Waves tapping against the pilings. The distant cry of seabirds somewhere overhead. Wind moving through the pines in long, slow cries.
No voices. No engines. No sign that anyone knew we’d arrived.
Jeff stepped forward first, gun held low but ready. He climbed onto the dock slowly, boots careful on the weathered planks, eyes sweeping the shoreline in both directions before he motioned us forward.
The rest of us followed.
My boots hit the dock with a dull thud. I steadied myself beside Sloane, keeping the weight off my bad ankle as much as I could without making it obvious.
Jeff turned toward the narrow path that led from the dock into the trees. Dense pines closed in on both sides; the trail disappearing into shadow after the first twenty yards. He lifted the gun slightly, thumb resting beside the safety.
“Alright,” he said quietly.
His eyes moved once more across the silent shoreline, the empty sailboat, the still trees.
“Let’s find out who else made it to the end of the world.”
We had just cleared the treeline when the compound came into view.
Even after a few years, it still looked the same. Finn had built something incredible out here.
The main cabin sat in the center of the clearing—a big timber structure with a wide wraparound porch and a stone chimney rising up the side. The wood had weathered into that deep silver-gray that only comes from standing through a lot of winters.
Around it were four smaller cabins spaced in a rough circle. Guest cabins, Finn had called them the first time he walked me through the property. Places for family, he’d said.
To the right stood the barn, red paint faded and peeling. It had held chickens, ducks, a stubborn goat, and two cows. Finn insisted he’d learn to milk. He never did, but he kept them anyway, because Finn never quit anything he started—even the things he probably should have.
I knew what sat underneath that barn, though.
Most people didn’t.
Concrete walls. Steel door. Storage rooms packed floor to ceiling with supplies. Finn had shown it to me late one night over whiskey, grinning like a man who’d cracked a code nobody else even knew existed.
Turns out he might have.
Beyond the barn, partially built into the ground, the greenhouses stretched in neat rows. From where we stood, only the glass tops showed, angled toward the sun, catching the last light of the day.
Finn had always been obsessive about growing his own food, about self-sufficiency, about preparing for the thing nobody believed would actually come.
Back then, I thought he’d lost his mind; now I stood here praying he’d lost it thoroughly enough.
We stepped slowly into the clearing. Jeff’s gun raised slightly. All of us scanned the buildings, the porch, and the dark windows of every cabin.
Everything looked normal.
Pop.
A gunshot cracked through the air.
The sound ripped across the clearing, and every bird in every tree went silent at once.
We all dropped instantly.
I hit the dirt hard, my ankle screaming as I rolled behind a low stump. Sloane dropped down beside me. Jeff crouched near the path with his gun raised toward the cabins, body angled in front of Ethan.
My heart raced.
For half a second, I thought we’d walked into an ambush, but a voice thundered across the clearing.
“DON’T MOVE!”
Rough, sharp with command. The kind of voice trained to carry across open ground and make people listen.
“Stay the fuck where you are!”
I knew that voice.
I’d grown up with that voice. Heard it yelling at me across backyard football games and bar parking lots, and at family dinners.
I pushed up from the dirt.
“Lock!” I shouted.
Jeff hissed beside me. “What the hell are you doing—”
“It’s me!” I called louder, my voice breaking across the clearing. “Callan!”
Silence.
A figure stepped out from the shadow of the main cabin’s porch. Rifle raised and aimed directly at us.
Tall. Broad shoulders. Dark beard streaked with gray. Built like someone who’d spent years hauling lumber and running drills and preparing for exactly this moment.
Lockilian. My older brother.
He squinted across the clearing, the rifle still up, clearly not trusting what his own eyes told him.
“Callan?”
Relief hit me so hard my knees almost gave out.
“Yeah,” I called back, slowly standing with my hands raised. “It’s me.”
Behind me, I heard Sloane and the others rising too. Carefully. Quietly.
Lock lowered the rifle a few inches but didn’t drop it. His eyes moved across the group behind me—cataloging, assessing, running threat calculations the way his training had wired him to do before anything else.
“You got about three seconds to explain why you’re walking into Finn’s compound with strangers,” he said.
His voice remained hard.
I let out a long breath and spread my hands.
“Long story,” I said.
I glanced back at Sloane, Jeff, and Ethan. Three people who’d been strangers two weeks ago. Who’d become something else entirely since then.
Lock stared at me for another long second, and the rifle lowered the rest of the way, the barrel pointing at the ground.
“Well, shit,” he said.
He walked forward. Slow at first. Then faster.
“Who knew it would take the walking dead to get us both on Finn’s island together,” he said.
A grin spread across my face despite everything. Despite the exhaustion and the fear and the miles of dark water behind us and the world that would never go back to what it had been.
“Missed you too, brother.”
“You never told me you had two brothers.”