Keats' group had come together over the past five years.
At first it was just he and Hemingway. They met each other at a shelter that had held strong for eight years after the outbreak. The place was self-sustaining and well-guarded, but eventually, someone inside got infected, and the relative lack of security within the compound itself meant that it spread quickly. Neither Keats nor Hemingway had family, which is probably how they survived, as most people there got trapped after spending precious time rounding up loved ones.
They met Pike on the road a week later. She saved their lives by sharing her food with them, and they paid her back by ambushing the group of bandits that had been stalking her.
Pike was a good hunter, but the days on the road were hell. They'd meet occasional relief when they'd stumble across a camp, where they were welcomed because of Pike's skills, and when those camps collapsed (as they always did), they'd have a new member or two. Sometimes they were assets, sometimes they were burdens, and unfortunately, how valuable they were to the group rarely seemed to matter to fate. Just last week, for instance, they'd lost a nurse. The fighters usually survived, but survival needs more than fighters.
Keats relayed all of this to a man named Marco as they sat in a living room. He was short and thin and had an actor's broad, expressive face. He wore black slacks, a long sleeve dress shirt, neatly pressed, and a revolver in a holster.
"And your last camp," he said, "was overran?"
Keats nodded. "They had lookouts but underestimated how fast some of the hoards can be."
Marco laughed and nodded like a parent hearing a familiar comedy about someone else's child. "Oh yes, they're faster now! Less of them, so they're more nimble."
"I'm not sure if they're dying off or just spreading out," said Keats. "It's been 13 years and they're still out there. You'd figure they'd all rot, but they keep coming."
"We're doing what we can. We've currently got about one square mile of this neighborhood fenced off. Working on more. But eventually, we don't want the fences anymore. We want to take our planet back."
"Now that's a new one," said Keats. "The people you run into nowadays, they're day to day. Scavengers or predators. Nobody holding the big ideals anymore."
"We're different," said Marco, who spread his hands and smiled. "I'm different."
On the coffee table in front of them sat two tin cups full of homegrown tea. Marco picked one up and sipped it. "You ever wonder what drives them?" he said.
"Hunger, I guess."
"You think a severed head gets hungry? No, it's about more than that. It's hatred. They hate us."
Keats paused. "How do you know this?"
"I've witnessed it. And soon, you will too. But for now, it's suffice to say I'm convinced. And what can beat hatred?"
"Hell. More hatred?"
"Cynicism has kept you alive a long time," Marco said. "I don't blame you for relying on it. But you're wrong. It's love."