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A warm, bergamot-scented breath ghosts over his lips. "Ya'aburnee."
"Ya'aburnee," he repeats, no more than a whisper, tasting the vowels. "What does it mean?"
"You bury me."
Georgia, January, 2029
.* REGULUS
"Okay, okay, another one. Would you rather…" The sentence peters out, which is no surprise given how it is the umpteenth hypothetical Would You Rather Regulus is subjected to hearing today. In the past hour, he has already endured nearly fifty of them, swiftly and wittily exchanged between the Weasley twin brothers, who, at some unspoken moment, seem to have entered a silent contest to make each one as ridiculous as their boundless creativity could muster.
Just a couple of days ago, Barty and Evan had returned from their short scavenger run from an overrun gas station with a small supply of rations and a couple of magazines that had survived a year's worth of constant plundering. The twins had quickly claimed one, a particularly teen-friendly choice their mother had approved of, which turned out to have a page dedicated to hypothetical situations. However, they grew bored of the more palatable ones rather quickly, deciding that some along the lines of "Would you rather smell from your eyes or see from your nose?" were far too mild for their taste and so they branched out to—
"Would you rather bite off and eat your left thumb or right-hand pointer finger?" Fred conjures up on the spot. He breaks off a branch from a shrub to toss it against George's head.
Regulus knows God has been absent for quite some time, especially given their circumstances, but now, as he's forced to survive in this godforsaken world and be subjected to the twins' antics, that divine absence feels like a thumb firmly pressing into a sore spot.
"My left thumb," George replies after ducking, idly swinging the walking stick as they walk through the densely packed cluster of bushes and trees. "I mean, how can I shoot a gun without my right pointer finger?"
"You're not allowed to own a gun," Regulus reminds them.
"Yet," Fred wisely adds. "Not allowed to have a gun yet. Besides, mom never said anything about shooting a gun."
"Loopholes." George nods. "And seeing how there are no laws anymore, we rely on a strict finders keepers principle. Mom also never said anything about finding a gun."
"That's why you two climbed over the walls? To look for a gun?" Regulus asks, feeling a little bepuzzled.
"I don't know, Regulus," Fred drawls as he picks up the pace to walk alongside him, the beginnings of an impish smile tugging onto the corners of his mouth, "why did you leave unannounced at midnight? George?"
"Not sure, Fred," George joins in, taking stride by Regulus' other side. "Looks fishy to me, if you ask."
Regulus picks up the pace, which forces both twins into a brief jog if they wish to keep up. "I am taking the both of you back is what I'm doing."
George shrugs his shoulders. "Yes, you can do that, but you can also pretend none of this happened. You don't tell on us and we don't tell anyone we found you so far out the factory instead of, what was it you were supposed to be doing?"
"Checking the traps." Fred supplies in the same know-it-all gusto that's so characteristically them, curling his first two fingers like rabbit ears for good measure.
At that, Regulus comes to a sudden stop and turns around to face them. "Are you two trying to blackmail me?"
Both twins exchange a sideways glance, unfazed despite the hint of authority in Regulus' voice that has become second nature to him lately. Few would dare blackmail Regulus of all people—certainly not any of the thirty souls taking refuge in the factory they've turned into somewhat of a safe haven. But, of course, as it seems, most of the Weasleys are exceptions to the rule.
"You want to see a trick?" Fred asks in lieu of an answer, causing Regulus' brows to bunch up into a frown.
"What—"
"Duck!" he yells.
And Regulus does, just in time for the whizzing walking stick—its point jagged, more a makeshift spear than anything else—to fly over his head and hit its mark a few paces behind him.
There's a sickening crunch, followed by the dull thud of something heavy collapsing onto the damp, leaf-strewn ground. When Regulus peeks over his shoulder, he sees an inferius sprawled over the damp earth, the thick pole of wood sticking from the side of its head. Like many of the inferi, its skin is shriveled and wrinkled, as if it had been submerged in water for far too long, drooping loosely from the rotting muscle. Must have been dead for months, Regulus thinks.
George whistles. "Sick shot, but that wasn't really a trick."
Fred retrieves his stick and wipes the bloody end off onto a tree's trunk, leaving chunks of skull bits and brain mince against the bark. "Next time I'll try a three-sixty or something even better. What do you think, chief?"
Regulus thinks he could use a few extra hours of sleep or, even better, a chance to catch up on his REM cycles. "The both of you should get moving. And stop calling me that."
"Aye aye, captain," the twins exclaim in unison.
They trudge on, carefully maneuvering through the narrow paths and ensuring their steps don't get tangled in any of the thick undergrowth. Regulus clears the way as the twins follow after him, quietly bickering in hushed tones in case any of the inferi closely linger by. Though he knows the twins are more than capable of protecting themselves, having seen them in action and how quick they are, skewering rotten inferi brains like it's an effortless chore, Regulus would rather escort them back to the factory with little fuss or any incidents lest he gets a firm reprimand of his own. After all, their mother, Molly, feels very strongly about her children leaving the premises without an adult accompanying them. Even then, she much prefers keeping her children inside, and after everything her family has done for Regulus, he can at least repay their kindness by respecting Molly's wishes and herding the twins back whenever they manage to escape undetected to meet their weekly quota of pubescent mischief.
The Weasleys welcomed Regulus and the few remaining survivors from the monastery with open arms—no questions or hesitation, just the willingness to help fellow humans struggling to stay alive after society's thorough collapse. Together, they managed to survive for three months before they were forced to abandon the Weasley's farmhouse. Overrun by a massive horde, it crumbled like a house of cards, leaving them no choice but to seek refuge in something sturdier, better protected, and less vulnerable to destruction with better chances of survival.
The industrial factory had long since fallen into disrepair when they came across it by the end of a two-week venture through Georgia, with nothing but the clothes on their skin, depleting rations, and the loud rattling of three quickly emptying gas tanks. It had likely hosted various communities before theirs, as evidenced by the scatter of left-over junk—tattered blankets and empty rucksacks arranged in makeshift circles across the expansive open plan. Perched on a high hill beyond the forest's edge, the factory was far isolated from other known settlements—some friendly, but mostly hostile. At the very least, it offered a decent vantage point, allowing the rotating watch shift to spot both inferi and humans from an elevated perspective. They had put up chain link fences around the perimeter and constructed a small sniper cabin on the roof, providing an eagle's eye view to monitor the surroundings.
The first few weeks were a blur of adjustment and survival—acclimating to the new surroundings, fortifying their fragile sanctuary, and sending out small groups to scour for supplies. They scouted the woods for any sign of game, tried to gauge if the land was fertile enough to sustain crops, and did everything they could to turn this unfamiliar place into something that might hold, even if just for a while. Their efforts, however, quickly drew the attention of larger, more established settlements—groups that had not only stockpiled resources but also amassed weapons. What began as veiled intimidation soon escalated into full-blown threats, the latter now being one of Regulus' biggest concerns.
As he walks across the courtyard, the twins slug after him, still roped in their game of Would You Rather, entirely oblivious to the small figure exiting the cabin on the roof. From this distance, Regulus can only faintly make out it's Dorcas, and although he can't see her face, he can tell she's displeased.
However, she can't be as displeased as Molly who comes barging out of the doors, face flushed with anger and almost the color of her fiery hair, the soles of her boots grinding against the grit and stone as she stomps their way over to them.
"You know," George murmurs behind Regulus as his mother's raving grows in volume. "A captain always goes down with his ship—"
"And where have you two been?!" Molly demands with a boisterous shout that has both her sons shut up. She still sounds relatively quiet compared to how loud she truly can be. Considering how sensitive the hearing from the inferi are, she has learned to temper her voice a little when outside.
"Just taking a leisurely walk with Regulus here, mom," Fred answers casually. "So much beauty to see, you know."
"Yes," George agrees as he sagely nods. "You know, all those trees."
Molly's frown furrows only deeper before her ire is directed to Regulus, undoubtedly expecting a proper explanation from an adult rather than from her two fourteen-year-old (and indifferent to the horrors) sons.
"I caught them outside the gates and brought them back," Regulus truthfully answers, wisely omitting the part why he was outside the gates in the first place. "They either made a hole or found one in the fences. Someone should look for it so they don't try to leave again."
He looks at the twins to confirm either of his suspicions, but all he receives are two lop-sided grins that are equally determined not to reveal any of their secrets. They could have climbed over the fences for all he knows.
Molly shakes her head and jerks her chin over her shoulder. "Inside, the two of you. Before I change my mind and send you to dig out weeds until noon."
Fred and George scurry off to the factory and when Regulus tries to follow suit, Molly's arm stretches out in front of him, blocking his path. Although her features softened considerably, the frown she gives him is still motherly stern.
"They're unharmed," he notes in an attempt to assuage her. For all his impassivity and languor, Regulus would never allow anything to harm any of them. "You know how teenagers can be, Molly. They will push boundaries and rebel regardless of the state of the world."
Molly lowers her arm with a haughty huff. "Lecturing me on parenthood? I've been a mother long enough to figure that out, believe it or not. And trust me, in due time you will find out yourself. If you stop wasting time and start investing it in what matters, that is."
He frowns, almost reeling back. "Excuse me?"
Molly purses her lips and shakes her head before nodding inside, "You'll learn. Go on, don't miss out on breakfast."
Dismissing her remarks, Regulus brushes past her towards the factory, not particularly in the mood for an argument when he's functioning on a sparse two hours of sleep. Once inside, his eyes drift to the corner that has been repurposed into a makeshift dining area. What was once an empty space now serves as a modest breakfast nook during the mornings, with overturned barrels and crates operating as chairs and food served in whatever container they could scavenge for service ware.
A fire burns in a steel brazier, crackling where the flames lick onto the large cast iron pot that hangs above it. A blonde-haired man named Peter, one of the newer survivors who joined their group about a month ago, stirs the colorless, likely bland goop. He had turned up in front of the factory with nowhere else to go, him and four others, all weather-worn with holes in their clothes, lips bruised from the cold, and a gauntness that pointed out they hadn't been properly fed for over a week. Molly had taken them in when Regulus and the others had been out for a run, the Patron Saint of the resilient, and had shot anyone who voiced their disagreement a withering glare. Even Barty, who had insisted they didn't need any more mouths to feed, knew better than to challenge Molly—the one who had sheltered them when they were on the brink of death.
Fortunately, the newcomers could all contribute in their own way and with their own limited skill set. Violet was a home gardener before everything and knows how to maintain the small plot of land around the factory. Sofie and Samantha had worked in a family-owned textile shop and spent most of their time knitting blankets or thick sweaters so the rest of them could stave off the cold at night. Thomas mostly took on security gigs for work and knows his way around a gun, making him a valuable asset when it comes to securing the factory or joining scavenging runs. Odessa primarily worked at a daycare center and possesses the rare type of kindness Peter does—the one untarnished by the severity of their world, wholly sincere and unconditional, a reminder that goodness still exists even when Regulus doubts it more every passing day.
Peter smiles when he serves Regulus a bowl, a circular styrofoam thing they found and thoroughly cleaned before use, and greets him before murmuring a soft apology about the quality of the food. His hair is sleep-mussed, cheeks pink from the cold, though Regulus doesn't remember when they are not.
The chair scrapes against the floor when he pulls it back to sit down with the rest of the Weasley family. Most tell him good morning in sleepy voices, blearily rubbing their puffy eyes as they stir through the watery slop.
"Percy?" he asks after a brief look around.
"Praying," Charlie yawns.
Of course. Percy was a seminarian before the outbreak and remains deeply devoted to his spiritual formation and theological studies, his faith only strengthening under duress. He prays hourly, daily, reciting passages from the bible with the weathered pages, committing every word to his memory in the event the holy book doesn't survive another storm that tears through their poor insulation and leaves most of their possessions thoroughly soaked.
Regulus makes a mental note of the roof that still needs fixing.
"You know," Barty's voice cuts through the air, shattering any hope of a quiet, peaceful morning. He flops down beside Regulus and adds with a smirk, "If you close your eyes and pretend it's grits, it's almost bearable."
"I miss bacon," Ron mourns with a glob of food sticking to the corner of his mouth.
"And orange juice," Ginny adds with her bottom lip puckered out.
"Pros of being served life, kiddos," Barty says as he takes a bite, unfazed by the texture or taste. "You learn how to eat about anything. I must admit that this tastes better than what I got back in prison."
"Or prison food just ruined your tastebuds," Regulus points out as he takes a sip of the lukewarm water. One of the advantages of their location was that there was a creek nearby that supplied them with fresh water.
Barty snorts. "Look who's talking, mister walk of shame."
"Shut up."
"What is a walk of shame?" Ron asks around a mouthful of soggy grains. Next to him, Ginny mirrors his look of confusion. Or maybe it's disgust, Regulus can't quite tell.
"Nothing that's meant for your ears," Bill interferes, though not before casting Barty a scathing look. Barty shrugs, indifferent to any of Bill's gripes, then promptly props his dirt-caked boots on the small table in the center before scraping the sides of his bowl for any food residue.
The tension between them had simmered ever since Barty showed up at the farmhouse that day, almost having come to a dangerous boil after Arthur died during the horde attack and Bill quietly assumed his position as the 'man of the household' following his father's death. Bill considered Barty too loose, too careless, not far serious enough in the life-threatening conditions they found themselves in, too unpredictable, and prone to needless violence that could potentially endanger the bunch of them. What baffled Bill most, however, was how Regulus of all people could place his trust in someone like Barty.
The sound of footsteps echoing down the concrete stairs quickly dissolves most of the idle morning chatter, announcing Dorcas's arrival at breakfast. But it's not just the noise that captures their attention—it's the fierce scowl she wears, aimed squarely at Regulus, who has become all too familiar with her icy glares lately, finding himself constantly at the receiving end of it.
"Didn't find what you were looking for then?" She asks, the sniper rifle hanging off her shoulder.
"No weapons during mealtime!" Molly shouts from the doors.
Dorcas complies and puts her rifle away, all the while Barty's gaze flits between them, confusion settling in his brows.
"It's morning, can the fighting wait?" Charlie murmurs.
"I feel like the fighting helps me ignore the taste of this," George mumbles as he forces down another spoonful. Next to him, Fred nods. "Closest to reality TV we will get in a very long while."
Dorcas shakes her head and grabs a bowl off the table with a little more force than necessary before stalking off to the yard. Barty blinks, head turning to follow Dorcas before he looks back at Regulus. "What was that?"
"Nothing."
"Are we doing a run today?" Bill asks. Regulus is grateful for the diversion.
"Yup," Barty confirms around the spoon in his mouth. "Me, Marlene, Lily, and Commanderlus here. Seriously, what was that with you and Cas?"
"Is it a good idea that Regulus comes along?" Bill carefully asks. "I mean, it's been seven days, what if Wilkes comes and starts demanding for him again?"
Regulus's brow twitches at the mention of Wilkes. The last time he showed up, it was with two SUVs and a dozen men, each armed with rifles loaded to the brim. "Just here to greet a new neighbor," Wilkes had claimed. But Regulus knew better. The only reason Wilkes left was because he could see they were barely fending for themselves and owned nothing that could be stolen.
"That man is coming again?" Ron pipes up in a startled voice.
"The scary one?" Ginny asks, eyes now wide.
"No," Regulus replies. "There are no scary men coming today."
"Not today, at least. Even then, there would be nothing for them to find here," Charlie murmurs as his empty bowl clatters onto the table. He's a smart kid, had just been enrolled in college for veterinary medicine. Perceptive, too. "Only got a couple of cans of Chef Boyardee left and after that, we're fresh out. We need more food, resources, and just about everything."
"We don't need resources," Barty counters. "As I've said many times before, we need guns, weapons."
"And where do you plan to find those?" Regulus asks him, rising to the bait. "Tell me. Any stores you know about we can reach with just a few gallons of gas? What about the ammunition or the people that can shoot them?"
Barty sucks his teeth. "Fuck, you are cranky when you don't sleep."
"I would be able to sleep if you don't make me do five things at once," Regulus grits out.
Charlie clears his throat, glancing uneasily at his younger siblings, who have gone pale and stopped eating, caught in a conversation far too grim for their ears. Regulus sighs, aware that discussing their worsening situation will only upset the children more. He's still trying to preserve some semblance of normalcy in their lives, even if it feels like a losing battle most of the time.
Bill must feel the same because he breathes in through his nose, jaw clenched, and asks, "Right, when are you leaving?"
"After we finish eating."
Barty arches a brow. "So soon?"
"Sorry, do you have any other places to be?"
Barty's chair slams against the ground as he abruptly drops it from where he had been precariously teetering on its back legs. "Alright, I don't know what four-foot stick you shoved up your ass last night—"
"Breakfast is done!" Bill exclaims, standing up to usher his two youngest siblings away from the table, though not before shooting Regulus a final look.
Shelter came at a cost—the price being the attention of other settlements—and the strain of maintaining it meant less sleep, worsened by recurring nightmares and the weight of responsibility that left him with little to do that could ease the burden. That stress chafed away at him now, wearing his patience thin and leaving him far more susceptible to sudden outbursts of anger and bitterness.
"Front yard," is all Regulus ungraciously barks out, leaving his uneaten bowl cold and untouched on the table. If he spends any other second around Barty, a fight will imminently break out. "Don't be late."
With that, he gets up and leaves to prepare for their trip, rounding up the stairs to his bedroom where Minerva suddenly obstructs his path. Great.
"Regulus."
"Minerva."
She watches him closely, her eyes narrowing before flicking to the door at the end of the hall, just a few steps from his. "It's been two days."
"I know," he replies.
"Are you heading out for a run?"
"Yes."
Regulus moves to walk past her, but she calls after him, "The least you could do is see her before you go."
His hand pauses on the door handle. "That won't help either of us, and you know it."
Before the door shuts behind him, Minerva's voice reaches him, "Neither will trying to estrange yourself."
.*
After breakfast, it's a flurry of movement inside the factory with Regulus assigning everyone's posts for the day and reminding them of the tasks needing completion. Once the schedule was clear, he set out with Barty, Lily, and Marlene, driving the old, paint-scratched Honda Accord down the gravelly road toward the town located far from the factory and situated just outside the woods. The place appears largely deserted with how derelict the buildings are—broken shop windows, scattered shards of glass, old blood smears, and piled bodies of inferi around every bend and corner. With nearly all stores having been robbed of their goods, they only siphoned some gas from the abandoned cars before continuing the journey to the edges of the town they had yet to explore.
As they arrive, the car's engine sputters to silence and comes to a halt at an intersection. With their weapons at the ready, all four of them cautiously clamber out of the vehicle, not moving until Barty signs the area is clear and safe for them to move. They walk through the streets in hushed whispers, shoulders bent and heads hanging low before splitting into pairs: Marlene with Regulus and Lily with Barty. How the latter manage to work together, Regulus still hasn't quite figured yet.
The door of the shop falls open with a quiet squeak when Marlene enters. She thuds against the wall once, twice, drawing out any potential inferi as Regulus' eyes skim through the room and the outside where the streets luckily remain empty safe for the few cars and litter of trash. When there's no sign of any unwanted visitors, they walk in, allowing the door to quietly fall shut behind them.
The shelves are conspicuously bare, so Regulus begins rifling through the drawers behind the counter, searching for cans, packets, or anything that might be food. They can't afford to return empty-handed; not when he knows that would mean some of them would go to bed hungry. The traps in the forests yielded nothing until now and with the crops only having been freshly planted, there is no saying when they will be fed again.
"There's nothing here," Marlene groans after returning from the back. "I can't believe our luck's been this shit. You found anything?"
Slamming a drawer shut, Regulus shakes his head.
With her hands on her hips, she gazes thoughtfully out the window. "If every store here is empty, we might have better luck at the housing blocks down the road. Some of those places might still have food in their pantries."
"Let's hope none of it is spoiled." Rounding the corner, Regulus moves towards the door, but comes to a still and frowns when Marlene keeps standing, her gaze almost studying.
"What?"
She shifts on her heels. "May I be direct with you?"
The question takes him by surprise. "When are you not?"
Although she always regards him with respect, there are moments Marlene is caught up in the make-believe reality of her own world—one where inferi don't exist and where humor is so easily found, love is so easily dispensed, like her training sessions with Regulus are entirely voluntary and not something necessitated by the now cruel world. She will chase the kids with a plastic knife, drag them into a game of tag, and continuously challenge all Weasley sons to a game of arm wrestling. Though Marlene wins every single time against the brothers, she always admits defeat whenever it is little Ginny who volunteers to be her opponent.
Marlene snorts. "You know what, fair. Just that I don't want, dunno, for you to lose your shit right here and now."
"Marlene." Regulus heaves a sigh.
Rolling her eyes, she dismissively waves a hand in the air. "Fine, geez, you grump. Just wondering what you might've done to piss off Dorcas."
Regulus despises how nosy she can be, especially with everything Dorcas-related. They have been together ever since the monastery and Marlene doesn't miss any opportunity to rub their romance into their faces every odd day. "What makes you think I pissed off Dorcas?"
Marlene lifts a brow at that. "With the massive stink eye she was giving you? Come on, Reg, might not be miss Ivy League like Lils but I'm not dumb."
"It's none of your business."
"Kinda is if she didn't give me a kiss before leaving."
"You'll live." He hoists the strap of the backpack higher onto his shoulder and exits the store, but Marlene is hot on his heels.
"C'mon, Regulus. What, did you break curfew again?"
He doesn't respond.
"Fuck me, really? You are the one who fucking implemented that rule."
"Again, it's none of your fucking business."
"Uneasy is the head that wears the crown and all, sure, whatever, but that's reckless even for y—"
Regulus spins around, his hand gripping the dagger at his hip with a white-knuckled grip. Almost bumping into him, Marlene backtracks, hands quickly raising in defense as she tries not to trip over her feet. Her brows crease in panic at first, then confusion, and then—
"Stop meeting up with that lunatic," she whispers, tone unusually soft for someone so crass-spoken as her. "We will find him, I promise. But—fuck, just, not with his help. Definitely not at night."
"Final warning," he so almost hisses. "Mind your business. That's an order."
Marlene's lips purse into a tight line before she nods, more begrudging than anything else.
Barty and Lily are standing in front of the store across the street as Regulus and Marlene approach. Lily's face is pinched in contemplation, eyes skimming the map on the hood of the car while Barty nonchalantly twirls his barbed bat like a baton, surveying the area with a look of disinterest.
"Nothing?" Marlene asks them.
Lily shakes her head just as Barty's gum bubble pops. "All we found is dust. Barty wants to go to the houses down the block and see if they've got anything."
"Yeah, also what I was thinking," Marlene nods.
"The only problem is that the entire street is clogged with cars, meaning we will have to leave ours here…" Lily trails off.
"Yeah, I heard this area's got tons of carjacking problems and we've got a real shit insurance that doesn't cover theft," Barty teases, which earns him an eye roll.
"It will be tricky if something happens and we can't make a swift getaway to one of the main roads because the car is all the way here," Lily explains.
"I'm hearing a but."
"But," Lily starts, folding up the map to store it away. "We have no other choice. I don't feel like driving further away and besides, we really need to find some food and a lot of people left their houses in a panic so we should be able to find some cans of beans at least."
"Only been about a year, right?" Barty interrupts. "Dry pasta and rice don't spoil that fast so we should look for them too."
"It's not only food." Regulus thinks about all that they can carry without being encumbered. "Simple household items like bowls, towels, rags are also necessary. If you can't bring a lot with you, note it down so we can come in two cars next time."
"Don't forget the special requests," Lily mumbles as she flips through her small notepad. "We need alcohol for disinfection. Most houses should have a simple first aid kit which Evan's requested."
"Food and medicine," Regulus agrees. "That settles it."
Marlene dreamily sighs. "Fuck, imagine if there's some jerky waiting around for us. I haven't had meat in ages."
"Only been three weeks," Lily states flatly.
"Three weeks too lo—" Marlene's words are abruptly sliced off, her amused expression contorting into one of what he assumes is anger. In a swift, practiced motion, she draws her gun from its holster and aims it squarely at Regulus. He watches, bepuzzled, and can't help but think that this might be a bit of an overreaction after their argument.
"Doing groceries then?"
His heart sinks, settling like a weight in his stomach, and his fingers grow cold like all the blood in his body has suddenly drained away. At the sound of the voice, Regulus comes to a realization that Marlene isn't pointing the gun at him, no, but behind him.
He whirls around, his revolver in hand and finger on the trigger, aimed right at—
"Seems the shops are low on stock," Effie quips when she comes to a still before them, expression unreadable despite the slight bemused tilt to her words.
Regulus remains silent, his weapon still raised despite Effie's signal for her men to lower theirs. His eye twitches as he takes in the sight of their automatic rifles—clearly military-grade, on par with the rest of their high-quality gear. They're dressed in black spec-ops uniforms, padded in all the critical areas yet still light enough to allow for mobility. Most notable are the black masks they always wear, fully concealing their identities, even as Effie walks around without one.
"What are you doing here?"
"What are any of us doing out here?" Effie asks him. "We all need to eat. I guess I got here earlier than you did. What do they say? Early bird gets the worm."
For whatever reason, Regulus suspects they are the worm.
"Pulling up right before we did," Barty spits out. "Not a coincidence at all."
"Too smart for your own good as I see," Effie notes. "Some things are better left unquestioned, Barty. Didn't prison teach you that curiosity is a dangerous thing?"
There's the click of his gun's safety turning off but Regulus raises his fist, signalling for him to hold. "Why did you follow us?"
Effie scrutinizes him for a moment, her gaze shifting from his face to his clothes and then to the battered car they arrived in. Regulus knows he doesn't look his best, hasn't for a while, and in all likelihood looks worse than the last time they met. "It's been some time since we saw each other," she explains, "and I didn't want to make a scene by showing up at your doorstep. Besides, you're not exactly the easiest person to get a hold of."
"For good reason," Regulus points out.
"Oh, I don't doubt it. And Marlene, put that away before someone gets hurt," Effie offhandedly remarks, her gaze never shifting from Regulus. Behind him, he hears a sharp tsk, followed by the clatter of a dagger hitting the stone pavement.
They're clearly outnumbered. Even if the four of them fire their rounds, there's no predicting how the remaining six of Effie's men might react, how they will retaliate, not to mention the few Regulus suspects are hiding out of sight. Effie must know this too, especially with how she stands before him with a bolstered confidence like she could kill him on the spot if she so much as lifts a finger.
Not could—but can.
Regulus needs to play this smart. Until now, none of their interactions have ended in anything serious, and he would like to keep it that way. "What do you want?"
"I'm sure I've made that clear a long time ago."
Regulus frowns and Effie breathes deeply like her patience is waning. As if she isn't the one pushing it. "It's a dangerous world this one, especially when you have to worry about the infected and humans, never knowing which one is worse."
"Waxing poetry, are we?" Barty sneers.
"Not quite." Effie steps forward even as her hands remain in her pockets, the barrel of Regulus' revolver inches away from her forehead. "You and I, Regulus. Working together. We both have something the other needs, so why shouldn't we?"
Lies, Regulus thinks, but he can't say so without making him and the others look weaker. He has absolutely nothing that Effie doesn't already have.
"I said no the first two times, what makes you think I'll say yes now?"
"Third time's a charm, is it not? Besides, a birdie also told me you visited the Monger last night."
From his peripheral view, Regulus can see Barty's jaw tick at the name and knows a lecture awaits him once they're back at the factory. "Telling me you got spies following me isn't exactly doing you favors in convincing me to work with you."
"Maybe not, but the idea of me owning a radio might. A good one, at that. There are many stations I am connected to, Regulus. If you're looking for something… Someone…" The sentence trails off. Regulus bites his tongue.
"I might just be able to find it," Effie concludes. "Why else would you be visiting the Monger? I can guarantee I would be of much better help."
There are many things Regulus is looking for, indeed. Food. Supplies. Weapons. A shovel. A rake. Rope. Fucking formula—
He had resisted the idea of accepting her help for a long time, but the difficulty of his situation had eventually worn him down. In fact, his nightly trips into the forest had been to seek out the Monger—a wandering trader who appeared every two weeks, offering not only hard-to-find items but also valuable information he amassed from visiting other sanctuaries. But, he was a dangerous man, not to be trusted, and Regulus promised he wouldn't seek him out ever again.
But if Effie can find him formula—"What's the catch?"
"There is no catch," Effie seemingly assures him, though he doesn't feel placated in the least.
"That's where you're wrong," Regulus corrects her. "There's always a catch."
"Maybe I'm an advocate for the underdog."
"In this world? I doubt it."
Effie does the thing where she falls quiet for a stretch of time, those brief few-second intervals where Regulus assumes she either regrets investing her time in convincing him or mentally berates herself for underestimating his obstinacy as well as wit, or maybe a combination of both.
"Let's put it this way," Effie starts, ever the persistent one. Regulus hasn't met many people who have matched her levels of tenacity, doesn't even think it possible. "You need guns among other things and I…" She gestures to herself at first before pointing at him, them, "I need people who can use them. Marlene McKinnon, isn't it? You were a national champion in mixed martial arts if I'm not mistaken, certainly not a face one easily forgets. There's also Dorcas, who is rather skilled with long-range rifles."
Who was also a military aviator for a brief time, Regulus thinks, a piece of crucial information not reserved for the likes of Effie.
"You don't want to work with us, you want us to work for you." Barty shuffles forwards, now shoulder-to-shoulder with Regulus. "Let me pop a bullet through her head and get this over with, Reg."
"Shit, can't say I disagree," Marlene hisses.
Effie remains wholly unfazed by their threats. Regulus wonders whether she knows that Barty only has two bullets left in the chamber. Or that Marlene is still slightly recovering from her dislocated shoulder. "Oh, it's not only fighters I'm interested in. I would say you are very well-equipped in skills but less so in resources. I heard you also have a pediatrician and a surgeon among you."
She knows a lot. Much more than she lets on, Regulus is certain. Not only that, but she is probing, trying to find what makes them tick, and the mention of a surgeon almost has Barty's crafted mask of calm splinter. "How the fuck do you know—"
"And," Effie interrupts. Regulus can discern the faint, barely-there tug of self-satisfaction on her mouth's corner, the wink of a side-eye she spares Barty. "I need a man who can lead them. You've proven yourself quite capable in your leadership skills, Regulus."
Regulus isn't quite sure about that. The decision to make him the head among them had been unanimous, reached after they endured the horrors of the farmhouse and the heavy losses that came with it. He had to make choices back then, the very ones that somehow convinced the majority that he should call the shots from thereon.
"Your trial of neighborly friendliness is ending soon," Effie warns. "In no time most will come nosing around. It's a ruthless world, as you may know, they won't care much for the children. Wilkes most definitely doesn't."
"Wilkes?" Lily asks, stealing the words right out of Regulus' mouth, "How much do you know about him?"
"Plenty. As I said before, I have a lot to offer."
One of the masked men steps in front of her, setting down bags at Regulus' feet before moving back to his position behind Effie. Through the small gap, Regulus can see tins of food, packs of dried goods, and bottles of water. "A token of my goodwill. All you have to know is that I take good care of my allies."
Using her heel, Marlene drags the bags behind her. There's a jar of apple sauce rolling out of the bag that Regulus doesn't miss, his eyes on it with laser focus before he turns back to Effie. "What about your enemies?"
Effie's lips curl into a sly smile, her eyes gleaming with a mendacious glint. "Consider my offer, but don't take too long. I've heard from another little bird that Wilkes plans to visit you soon, and he'll be bringing company. It would be unfortunate if you were left without any allies of your own."
"Is that a threat?"
"Oh, no," Euphemia answers with a subtle shake of her head. "No, no, no. Not on my part, at least. I don't make threats, only promises, and I can promise that my proposition is too good to refuse."
It is. All things considered, it really is. If Regulus had been alone or just with his friends, he could have managed without the conditional aid that might leave him in debt. But given the current circumstances, he has no choice but to rely on any aid he can get, especially when the lives of others are involved. Lives that are now his responsibility.
Barty had urged him that night in the farmhouse. Sought him in the dead of the night, bag crossed over his shoulder and shuffling quietly over the wooden floors so as to not alert anyone. "Leave with me," he had pleaded, the grip on Regulus' wrist impossibly tight, like he would haul him over the threshold if necessary. "You, me, Dorcas, like it was before everything, just the three of us and—"
"Reg," Barty urges Regulus now, drawing him from his reverie, though sounding far less desperate this time around in the present.
"Don't worry about it, Barty. Regulus here was a criminal profiler before it all went down, was he not? He knows who to trust and who not to trust."
Regulus regrets revealing so much during their first encounter when Effie had discovered, no, ambushed them in the forest when they first came across the factory and essentially interrogated him. He had been compelled to answer her questions out of fear that otherwise, she might attack. He vividly remembers their first interaction, how Ginny had hidden behind him and clutched onto his arm, nails digging so deep they broke the skin. His name is Regulus. Regulus Potter. He's in his late twenties. What he did do before all of this? With how many they are? "We are just here to look for food and not for trouble—"
She had left him alone then, if only briefly, before reappearing to propose an alliance and vanishing again when he declined. She continued to ask, and he kept refusing, all the while wondering why she persisted. Why she kept asking—
The puzzle fits into place. "You've got business with Wilkes," Regulus whispers.
All air of aplomb vanishes at his conjecture, though Effie keeps her chin high. "Maybe," she starts. "Though, none that concerns you."
Next to him, Barty lets out a derisive laugh, unmistakably caught up. Despite his impulsive tendencies and a penchant for solving problems with force rather than his considerable intellect, Barty remains a sharp and perceptive individual. His time in prison and his survival instincts haven't dulled his ability to read people and uncover their true intentions as effectively as Regulus does. "It does if you're planning to use us as bait. So much for your goodwill, lady."
Effie nearly glowers, clearly irritated by Barty's provocation. When she turns to Regulus for a definitive answer, he responds with a subtle, mocking shrug of his lips. "Criminal profiler, remember? I know a thing or two about hidden motives."
Effie scoffs and shakes her head, a hint of disbelief mingling with her reluctant nod to their presuppositions. "Let's say Wilkes is just one piece of the picture. A direct confrontation won't benefit either of us. It's in our best interest to take him on together. I have the better hand when it comes to fighting him, so he would undoubtedly go on the defensive and try and force you into his command. But, if we draw him out first, and trust me when I say he'll be arriving before your door sooner than later, you will need me."
Regulus recognizes bluffs. He recognizes this isn't one. The gun in his hand lowers just by a fraction. "How would you know?"
"That's the thing," Euphemia whispers like the words are only for him to hear. "I know quite a lot."
.* EUPHEMIA
The sharp click of her boots echoes through the underground facility, ricocheting off the metal floors and up to the thick concrete ceiling that shelters them hundreds of feet below the surface. "I want at least ten of you on perimeter surveillance rotating every six hours," Euphemia strictly announces into the empty air. "Two on an overwatch hillside, no soul goes in or out the factory without notice, understood?"
"Roger." Qamar's robotic voice resounds through the radio in her hand.
"The child, has anyone caught sight of it?"
"No, ma'am. Quite well-hidden. Confident to say it isn't brought outside under any circumstance."
Euphemia breathes in deeply and rubs the side of her head in a vain attempt to ward off the beginning of a headache. "I see. Qamar, where is Ayl?"
"He is in the training area, ma'am."
She halts abruptly, mere inches from triggering the sliding doors to the conference room. "Come again?"
At the lack of immediate response, Euphemia's brows knit together into a frown. "Qamar, say that again."
"He's in the training area," Qamar repeats, sounding quieter this time. "I advised against it, but he insisted he..."
"He insisted he...?" Euphemia begins, though any need for an explanation vanishes as the doors to the practice range slide open, Qamar's response drowned out by a loud, pained groan from someone being slammed onto the training mat. From the sound alone, she can tell it's Gharab wheezing on the ground, his arm twisted in an unnatural angle and pinned behind his back by none other than her affectionately detested right-hand-man—
"Ayl," Euphemia chides. His tactical mask is off, the only thing concealing his face being the balaclava worn underneath.
At the sound of her voice, Ayl immediately lets go of his sparring partner who in return sharply hisses. At the sight of Euphemia, he swiftly crawls into position, a string of expletives undoubtedly resting on the tip of his tongue if the pained grunts are anything to go by.
"Your form is sloppy, Gharab." Euphemia seizes him with a look of reprimand. "You can't let yourself be tossed around like that by a man who just recently recovered from the flu."
'I'm sorry, ma'am.' Gharab gestures before folding his hands behind his back again, awaiting further instruction.
Other than mandatory masks, the rest of the militia is prohibited from using their voice to speak. Instead, they're limited to only their own, special sign language among themselves when operating in missions. Of course, only Euphemia and Qamar, who uses a voice-altering transmitter, are exempt from this rule.
"You may leave," Euphemia orders him. When Gharab leaves, she glowers at Ayl. "What are you doing?"
"Sparring," he answers, voice muffled through the thick fabric hiding his face.
"Sparring," she deadpans. "You were sparring."
Ayl rises to his feet with relative ease. "Not much to do when you keep me here for house arrest. So, yeah, sparring."
Many men would be flailed for subordinate behavior. Shackled to the floor and forced to receive the full fifteen hundred volts of a taser in consecutive order. Euphemia has had men punished for less. Has had them killed for less.
"When I am gone you are the acting commander, and best believe that the acting commander doesn't have time for sparring sessions."
Unfazed by her admonishment, Ayl strips off his compression shirt and tosses it aside, grabbing a towel to wipe down his sweat-soaked skin. Burn scars, wrinkles of pink-brown, mottle half of his chest and the entirety of his right arm. "I set out a clear schedule, oversaw novice training, and discussed the details of the recon for Athens with Qamar. I did plenty today."
The pain simmering behind Euphemia's temples now blooms into a full headache. "You know what I mean. Your duties do not end just by being checkmarked off the list."
"No, maybe I don't. So why don't you tell me?" He discards the towel and strides over to her, stopping just short a couple of steps away but still towering above her all the same. "We're in Georgia of all places and have been here for quite some time. Not to mention, we have a man posted in pretty much every settlement there is. So what, tell me, is still keeping us here when we should be heading up north like we agreed on?"
His voice raises louder with each word, teetering on the edge of shouting, the frustration and exhaustion evident in his tone. It's been a year since Effie first found him, eight months since he finally joined their ranks after emerging from a coma and regaining full functions of his body parts. Just a couple of weeks ago, he'd been confined to his room again due to an illness, which, unsurprisingly, stirred up anxiety as memories of his initial awakening resurfaced, the long time he had been bedbound and consumed his food in the form of fluids through a small tube.
Still, Effie isn't one to dole out pity easily and never hesitates to remind someone of their place, regardless of their mounting concerns, not even if it is his. "Careful," she warns him, soft-spoken but frigid all the same. "You're overstepping."
"You're the one who made me your second-in-command," Ayl resists. "I have a right to know what it is you're plotting."
"Know your place." Her voice is clipped—reserved but imbued with authority all the same. It makes Ayl wince. "You will take orders like any man here unless you are so eager to suffer the consequences. You will be given information when it is necessary, but not simply because you feel as if it is owed. Am I clear?"
He reels back at that, and although she can't see his expression behind the mask, Ayl's eyes darken further.
Euphemia narrows her gaze and takes a step forward, an open challenge for him to defy her if he so much as dares. "Am I clear, Ayl?"
His hands, initially by his sides, curl into fists before they fold behind his back, gaze detaching from his to focus on the doors behind her. "Yes, ma'am."
"Good." She turns on her heel, aiming for the sliding doors again. "Now, get dressed. You're expected in the conference room in twenty minutes to confirm who you will bring with you to Athens. And put on your mask, not even you are exempt from this rule."
"It's hard to breathe in it," Ayl laments with a murmur. "I don't see the point of us having to wear it inside the bunkers. The place is impenetrable from the outside."
"The mask stays on," Euphemia sharply reminds him. Always. Every minute. Every hour. Regardless of who it is he is with. Death. Live. Survival. The mask stays on—
"No matter what."