Chapter 2: New Neighbors
781words
After hours of driving, we spot a roadblock of wire fences and abandoned cars. Behind it stands a tall metal gate with an armed guard in the watchtower. This is "Safe Harbor."
The car stops. Brenda kills the engine and takes a deep breath before turning to me. "Lily, remember, don't speak unless necessary. Just follow my lead," she says.
I want to tell her I can't speak at all, but I can only open my mouth and produce a faint "huh" sound.
She helps me out of the car. The moment my feet touch the ground, I'm hit by a powerful smell—a thick mixture of living people, food aromas, and engine exhaust. The scent envelops me like an invisible net, and my body instantly tenses.
The gate scrapes open harshly. A tall man approaches wearing a dark blue sheriff's uniform with worn epaulets. His weathered face bears a sharp, assessing gaze that moves from Brenda to me.
His eyes linger on my face. He notices my bruised, purplish skin and hollow eyes. His hand unconsciously moves to the holster at his waist.
"I'm Sheriff Miller, in charge here," he says, his voice deep and steady. "Where are you from?"
"Hello, Sheriff Miller," Mom interjects before I can make a sound. She steps forward, subtly positioning herself between us. "We're from a farm down south. I'm Brenda, and this is my daughter Lily."
Miller's gaze shifts past Brenda's shoulder to me. "Your daughter, is she… alright?" he asks, carefully choosing his words.
"Oh, she's recovering from a nasty cold," Brenda explains without missing a beat, her tone casual. "She's a bit shy. You know how teenage girls can be."
She's rehearsed this story countless times during our journey.
Miller says nothing, just studies me. I can feel his doubt piercing me like needles. My body begins to tremble uncontrollably. The scent of living flesh is overwhelming, calling to me.
Suddenly, another man rushes through the gate. His hurried steps carry an air of fury. In his hand gleams a knife, catching the midday sun.
"Miller, you can't let this thing in!" he shouts, pointing the knife at me.
I recognize this man. Hank, the former butcher from our town. His wife and children died in the initial outbreak. I heard he watched them being bitten.
Hank's eyes are bloodshot with hatred—not for me, Lily, but for everything this undead body represents.
"Hank, put the knife down," Miller commands, but Hank doesn't budge.
"Are you blind? Look at her! She's not even human!" Hank's agitation sends spittle flying. "We need survivors, not walking corpses!"
A crowd gathers, keeping their distance, pointing and whispering. Their eyes reflect fear, curiosity, and disgust—just like Hank's. Their gazes weigh on me like physical pressure. My throat produces gurgling sounds. My fingers curl involuntarily.
I want to lunge at Hank. His scent is the strongest—anger making his blood pump faster. The smell is like a prime steak, tempting me beyond reason.
"She's just sick!" Brenda's voice rises above the murmurs. She plants herself firmly before me like a protective lioness. "She is my daughter! She needs a doctor, not a knife!"
Miller frowns. He looks from the agitated Hank to the resolute Brenda, then back to me. I'm using every ounce of strength to restrain my instincts. My teeth grind audibly.
"Hank, I said put the knife down." Miller's voice turns icy. "She is Brenda's daughter, not a 'thing.' Until we confirm she's dangerous, we can't turn anyone away. Those are the rules of Safe Harbor."
Hank glares at me viciously, facial muscles twitching. Eventually, he reluctantly sheathes his knife but remains standing like a hostile sentinel.
"Come with me, Bren-da," Miller says, deliberately emphasizing her name—both a promise and a warning.
Brenda sighs with relief. She takes my hand—her palm slick with sweat—and follows Miller.
We pass through the gate into the survivor community. It's like a small town, with temporary homes made from trailers and shipping containers. The air smells of firewood and dust.
Many people watch us. Their stares make me uncomfortable.
Just then, something in the corner catches my eye.
A little boy, about ten years old, wearing an oversized T-shirt, sits alone on a pile of old tires. Unlike the others, he isn't whispering or showing fear or disgust.
He just sits there quietly.
His eyes are big and bright.
And he's staring at me with pure, unfiltered curiosity.
