Chapter 7 Mayson
seven
Mayson
Devin arrives, three months after Ruby came back to stay. He's got two others with him, both looking worn down in the way people get when they've been traveling too long in winter conditions.
"Lost another group last week," he says over coffee. No preamble, no small talk. That's one thing I appreciate about Devin. "Whiteout came up fast. They missed the turnoff to Old Pines, kept walking the wrong direction until the cold got them."
Ruby's hand finds mine under the table. "How many?"
"Three." Devin's jaw works. "We found them five miles past where they should have turned. If they'd just known where they were..."
I see where this is going before he says it. The silence stretches while I war with myself—the part that still wants to hide warring with the part that knows hiding isn't living.
"Your place is the last high ground before the valley," Devin continues, setting down his mug. "Perfect line of sight. If we could set up some kind of signal system, something visible even in bad weather..."
"You want me to advertise my location to every traveler in the region."
"I want to stop digging graves for people who die fifty yards from safety."
Ruby squeezes my hand. Not pushing, just... present. Steady.
"What did you have in mind?" I ask.
Devin's shoulders drop half an inch, and he lets out a breath he'd been holding. "Light beacon. Maybe a radio relay. Nothing fancy, just something to let people know they're close. That there's shelter if they need it."
My first instinct is still no. Two years of solitude, of safety through isolation, don't disappear just because a woman made me remember how to live.
But then I look at Ruby, who chose this place, who sees what I built as worth staying for, and I think about those three people who froze because they couldn't find the settlement that was right fucking there.
"How big a beacon?" I ask.
We spend the afternoon sketching plans. Not me reluctantly going along—actually collaborating, using what I know about the land and materials to make Devin's idea work. Ruby organizes it, naturally, pulling out paper and making lists like the world didn't end.
"Tower needs to be at least twenty feet," I say, marking the proposed location on Ruby's rough map. "Higher if we want visibility in heavy snow."
"And the zombies?" Ruby asks quietly. "A light like that, rotating all night—it's going to attract them."
There it is. The problem I've been turning over since Devin first suggested this. A bright beacon is a dinner bell for the undead.
"It will," I admit. "We'll get more of them wandering through. Maybe a lot more."
"So we beef up the defenses," Devin says. "Early warning system, better perimeter alarms. Maybe some barriers to funnel them away from the cabin."
"That's a lot of work. A lot of risk." I look at Ruby. "This is your home too now. You get a say in whether we paint a target on it."
She's quiet for a moment, chewing her lip the way she does when she's thinking. "How many people travel through this area in winter?"
"Maybe a dozen groups," Devin says. "More if things go bad somewhere and people have to relocate."
"And how many get lost? Die from exposure because they miss the settlement?"
"Too many."
Ruby meets my eyes. "Then we do it. We make this place as safe as we can, but we do it. Because saving people is worth the extra zombies."
"You're sure?"
"I'm sure. Are you?"
I think about those three frozen bodies. About the man and child we haven't saved yet. About Ruby's words—that living means more than just surviving.
"Yeah," I say. "I'm sure. But we do it smart. Motion sensors on the approaches, bells and alarms, clear kill zones. The light brings them in, but we make sure they don't get close enough to matter."
"I can help source materials for that too," Devin offers. "Might take an extra week, but better to do it right."
"Agreed."
"Can you build that?" Devin asks.
I give him a look. "I built this entire cabin and workshop. A tower's just tall carpentry."
Ruby snorts into her coffee. "Tall carpentry. Listen to you."
"What?"
"You built a two-story workshop with a functional water wheel and you call a twenty-foot beacon tower 'tall carpentry.'"
"It is tall carpentry."
"He's very humble," Ruby says to Devin, deadpan. "It's his most attractive quality."
The corner of my mouth twitches.
"We'll need materials," I continue. "Strong timber for the frame, sheet metal for the beacon housing, solar panels if you can source them."
"Old Pines can contribute," Devin says. "We've been stockpiling salvage. And I can get volunteers to help with construction."
That stops me. "Volunteers."
"People want to help, Mayson. You've been supplying lumber to the settlements for years. Let them return the favor."
The thought of multiple people here, tramping through my sanctuary, bringing noise and chaos and mess—my chest tightens like a vise. But Ruby's thumb strokes across my knuckles, and I remember her words from months ago. About really living instead of just surviving.
"Okay," I say. "But we do it right. Proper foundation, structural integrity. I'm not putting my name on sloppy work."
"Wouldn't expect anything less."
Thankfully, the first signs of spring begin to show just as help comes from Old Pines. Six volunteers who actually listen when I explain what needs doing. Ruby coordinates supplies and schedules while I oversee the build, making sure every joint is solid, every angle true.
It's strange, having people here. But also... not terrible. They respect the space, pull their weight, and a few even have useful skills. One guy worked construction before the outbreak and knows welding. Another has electrical experience and handles the solar panel installation.
We build the defenses first. Motion sensors along the three main approaches, trip-wire alarms that'll wake the dead, and a series of barriers designed to funnel zombies away from the cabin and toward clear kill zones.
It's not perfect, but it's better than just lighting a beacon and hoping for the best.
Ruby thrives on it. She's in her element organizing people, solving problems, making sure everyone's fed and housed. Watching her work, I see what she must have been like in her old life—competent, confident, making the impossible seem easy.
"You're staring again," she says, catching me watching her explain the supply rotation to someone.
"You're good at this."
"I had a life before the apocalypse, you know." But she's smiling. "Ran marketing campaigns, managed teams, coordinated events. This is just... smaller scale."
"Lucky me you're using those skills here instead of somewhere else."
"Luck has nothing to do with it. I chose here. I choose you."
Every time she says something like that, my chest does this stupid tight thing that I'm pretty sure means I'm stupidly in love with her.
The tower goes up in five days. Twenty-two feet of sturdy timber frame with a rotating beacon at the top—solar powered, bright enough to cut through snow, with a backup battery for extended storms. We mount weatherproof signs at ground level pointing to Old Pines, include a small lean-to shelter for travelers who need to wait out bad weather.
Ruby adds a radio relay, extending our broadcast range and linking into the regional network. "So people can call for help if they need it," she explains. "Or just know they're not alone."
On the sixth day, we test the system.
The sun's setting when Devin flips the switch. The beacon blazes to life, cutting a bright swath through the gathering dusk, rotating slowly to mark the location from every direction. It's visible for miles, a deliberate announcement that someone's here, that help exists.
Ruby's already on the radio, checking in with the network. "Mountain Station, this is... uh, Clarke's Beacon. Do you copy?"
A woman's voice comes through clear and warm. "Copy, Clarke's Beacon. This is Goldfinch at Mountain Station. We see your light from here—looks good. Really good."
"Thanks, Goldfinch. Just testing the system."
"Well, it works. But you're going to need a better callsign than 'The Beacon' if you want to be part of the network." There's a smile in her voice. "Something people can remember. Something that means something."
Ruby looks at me, eyebrow raised in question. I think about what this tower represents—not just a navigation point, but a promise. That even in the dark, even in the worst storms, there's light. There's help.
"Hope Tower," I say. "Call it Hope Tower."
"Hope Tower," Ruby repeats into the radio. "How's that?"
"Perfect," Goldfinch responds. "Welcome to the network, Hope Tower. Glad to have you."
After Ruby signs off, she turns to me. "Hope Tower. I like it."
"Seemed appropriate."
"It is." She leans against me, and we watch the beacon rotate. "We built something good here."
I built this cabin to hide. Now I've built a lighthouse to be found.
The volunteers leave the next morning, effusive in their thanks, promising to spread word about what we've built. After they're gone, the cabin feels quiet again, but not empty. Just... ours.
Ruby and I fall back into our rhythm of working the land, maintaining the property, existing in the comfortable silence we've developed. But now there's the beacon, rotating steadily through the nights, and the radio crackling with check-ins from settlements.
Four days after we light the beacon, someone uses it.
I'm outside chopping firewood when I hear the shout. A man, exhausted, half-frozen, stumbling into the clearing. He's carrying a child wrapped in every layer of clothing they could manage, and his eyes are desperate.
"The light," he gasps. "We saw the light. Please, my daughter—"
Ruby's already moving, taking the child, assessing. "Inside. Both of you. Now."
We get them warm, fed, treated for exposure. The girl—maybe seven—recovers quickly once she's warm. Her father tells us between sips of hot soup that they've been walking for two days, got turned around in a storm, thought they were going to die.
"Then we saw the beacon," he says. "Like a miracle. Just kept walking toward the light."
After they've rested, we give them supplies and clear directions to Old Pines. We watch them leave, following the path we've marked, heading toward safety.
"We did that," Ruby says softly. "We saved them."
"The beacon saved them."
"You built the beacon."
"We built the beacon."
She looks at me, and something in her face makes my chest tight—the way her eyes shine, the slight curve of her smile, the way she's looking at me like I just gave her something precious.
"You're not hiding anymore."
"No," I agree. "I'm not."
That night, lying in bed with Ruby curled against me, I can see the beacon's light sweeping past our window. Steady, regular, reliable. Once upon a time, the thought of advertising my location would have sent me into panic. Now it just feels right.
I built this place as a fortress. Ruby helped me turn it into a home. And now we've made it a beacon—not just for lost travelers, but for something bigger. Proof that even after everything, people still build things. Still help each other. Still choose hope over fear.
"Thank you," I say into the darkness.
"For what?"
"For making me remember that surviving isn't enough. That living matters more."
She shifts, propping herself up to look at me. "You did that yourself. I just gave you a reason."
"Best reason I ever had."
She kisses me, slow and deep, and outside the beacon keeps turning, keeps shining, keeps bringing people home.
I built it with my hands, but Ruby built it with her heart.
And for the first time in years, I'm not afraid of being found.