Chapter 11
The intruders didn't come back. But the encounter changed us.
I stopped sleeping through the night. Every creak of the house, every rustle of wind made me bolt upright. I started sleeping in the surveillance room, one eye on the monitors.
Mom noticed. Of course she did.
On day twenty-five, she sat down next to me with two cups of chamomile tea and her gentle-but-immovable Mom face.
"Olivia. When's the last time you slept more than two hours straight?"
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You have dark circles that could pass for bruises, and you flinched when the quail sneezed this morning."
I almost laughed. "Quail sneeze?"
"Apparently. The point is—you can't protect us if you collapse. We take shifts. Four hours on, four hours off. Non-negotiable."
She was right. She was always right about the things that mattered.
We set up a proper watch schedule. Mom took the early shift—midnight to 4 AM—and I took 4 to 8 AM. During the day, we moved freely but kept the monitors visible at all times.
The routine helped. So did the small daily victories.
The pepper plants produced their first fruit—tiny, bright green, absurdly spicy. Mom diced one into scrambled eggs and we both ended up gulping water, eyes streaming, laughing until we couldn't breathe.
The quail were laying five eggs a day now. Mom pickled a batch in vinegar and spices. They were bizarrely delicious.
On day twenty-eight, I noticed something on the traffic cam feed.
A military checkpoint had been established on the main road, about two miles from our position. Soldiers were checking vehicles, distributing supplies, and setting up a communications relay.
This was huge. It meant the government's response was expanding outward. Order was slowly being restored.
I told Mom. She cried—happy tears, for once.
"Should we go to them?" she asked.
"Not yet. Let them come to us. We're safer here than in any checkpoint or shelter."
But I did venture out for the first time.
Armed with the crossbow, bear spray, and a walkie-talkie, I walked the quarter-mile to our nearest neighbor's property—an elderly couple, the Nguyens, who'd lived there for decades.
Their house had taken serious damage. The roof was partially gone, covered with tarps. But smoke curled from a makeshift chimney, and when I knocked, Mr. Nguyen opened the door with a baseball bat.
"Olivia? Good Lord, you're alive?"
"We're alive, Mr. Nguyen. Mom and I have been in the farmhouse. Are you and Mrs. Nguyen okay?"
"Surviving. Barely." His voice was rough. "Running low on water. Purification tablets ran out three days ago."
I handed him a water filter and a box of tablets from my bag. "These should last two weeks. And here—" I pulled out a bag of rice and four cans of vegetables. "It's not much, but—"
He grabbed my arm with surprising strength, eyes watering. "You're a good kid. Your grandpa would be proud."
"Just being neighborly. If you need anything, two knocks on our gate, pause, then three more. That's how we'll know it's you."
Walking back home, I felt something I hadn't felt since being reborn—a fragile, flickering sense of normalcy. Like maybe the world could be rebuilt. Like maybe not everyone was a looter or a monster.
Mom was waiting at the gate, crossbow ready, eyes scanning the road until I was safely inside. She locked the gate behind me with the heavy chain and exhaled.
"How are they?"
"Hanging on. I gave them supplies."
Mom nodded. "Good. Your grandpa always said, 'Feed your neighbors and your neighbors feed you.' It's how communities survive."
That evening, she made rice porridge with pickled quail eggs and canned chicken. Simple. Warming. The kind of meal that made you believe everything might be okay.
After dinner, I checked the shelter feeds one last time.
Megan was gone from the convention center. Her cot was empty, her name crossed off the sign-in board.
Derek was nowhere to be seen on any camera.
Both of them had vanished into the chaos.
Mom glanced at the empty screens. "Think they made it?"
"Honestly? I don't care anymore."
And I meant it. For the first time, I truly meant it.
They were ghosts from a life that no longer existed. I had a garden to tend, walls to defend, and a mother who'd walk through hell and back for me.
Everything else was just noise.
---
I stopped sleeping through the night. Every creak of the house, every rustle of wind made me bolt upright. I started sleeping in the surveillance room, one eye on the monitors.
Mom noticed. Of course she did.
On day twenty-five, she sat down next to me with two cups of chamomile tea and her gentle-but-immovable Mom face.
"Olivia. When's the last time you slept more than two hours straight?"
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You have dark circles that could pass for bruises, and you flinched when the quail sneezed this morning."
I almost laughed. "Quail sneeze?"
"Apparently. The point is—you can't protect us if you collapse. We take shifts. Four hours on, four hours off. Non-negotiable."
She was right. She was always right about the things that mattered.
We set up a proper watch schedule. Mom took the early shift—midnight to 4 AM—and I took 4 to 8 AM. During the day, we moved freely but kept the monitors visible at all times.
The routine helped. So did the small daily victories.
The pepper plants produced their first fruit—tiny, bright green, absurdly spicy. Mom diced one into scrambled eggs and we both ended up gulping water, eyes streaming, laughing until we couldn't breathe.
The quail were laying five eggs a day now. Mom pickled a batch in vinegar and spices. They were bizarrely delicious.
On day twenty-eight, I noticed something on the traffic cam feed.
A military checkpoint had been established on the main road, about two miles from our position. Soldiers were checking vehicles, distributing supplies, and setting up a communications relay.
This was huge. It meant the government's response was expanding outward. Order was slowly being restored.
I told Mom. She cried—happy tears, for once.
"Should we go to them?" she asked.
"Not yet. Let them come to us. We're safer here than in any checkpoint or shelter."
But I did venture out for the first time.
Armed with the crossbow, bear spray, and a walkie-talkie, I walked the quarter-mile to our nearest neighbor's property—an elderly couple, the Nguyens, who'd lived there for decades.
Their house had taken serious damage. The roof was partially gone, covered with tarps. But smoke curled from a makeshift chimney, and when I knocked, Mr. Nguyen opened the door with a baseball bat.
"Olivia? Good Lord, you're alive?"
"We're alive, Mr. Nguyen. Mom and I have been in the farmhouse. Are you and Mrs. Nguyen okay?"
"Surviving. Barely." His voice was rough. "Running low on water. Purification tablets ran out three days ago."
I handed him a water filter and a box of tablets from my bag. "These should last two weeks. And here—" I pulled out a bag of rice and four cans of vegetables. "It's not much, but—"
He grabbed my arm with surprising strength, eyes watering. "You're a good kid. Your grandpa would be proud."
"Just being neighborly. If you need anything, two knocks on our gate, pause, then three more. That's how we'll know it's you."
Walking back home, I felt something I hadn't felt since being reborn—a fragile, flickering sense of normalcy. Like maybe the world could be rebuilt. Like maybe not everyone was a looter or a monster.
Mom was waiting at the gate, crossbow ready, eyes scanning the road until I was safely inside. She locked the gate behind me with the heavy chain and exhaled.
"How are they?"
"Hanging on. I gave them supplies."
Mom nodded. "Good. Your grandpa always said, 'Feed your neighbors and your neighbors feed you.' It's how communities survive."
That evening, she made rice porridge with pickled quail eggs and canned chicken. Simple. Warming. The kind of meal that made you believe everything might be okay.
After dinner, I checked the shelter feeds one last time.
Megan was gone from the convention center. Her cot was empty, her name crossed off the sign-in board.
Derek was nowhere to be seen on any camera.
Both of them had vanished into the chaos.
Mom glanced at the empty screens. "Think they made it?"
"Honestly? I don't care anymore."
And I meant it. For the first time, I truly meant it.
They were ghosts from a life that no longer existed. I had a garden to tend, walls to defend, and a mother who'd walk through hell and back for me.
Everything else was just noise.
---