Chapter 187: Discussion With Maribel and Shannon

After the misunderstanding had been thoroughly dispelled—along with my dignity, my sense of safety, and any remaining optimism about Atlantic City being a welcoming place—the three of us started making our way back to rejoin both Rico’s group and my own group. The reunion couldn’t come soon enough.

Maribel knew the route to what she described as a "safe building"—apparently some kind of memorial structure that had been converted into a fortified fallback position. She navigated the darkened streets with the confidence of someone who’d traveled these paths dozens of times, her movements quick despite carrying Shannon piggyback-style.

But peaceful silence wasn’t in the cards for this journey. The space beside me erupted with noise as the two women launched into what was clearly a long-running argument that my presence had merely interrupted rather than prevented.

"How could you even leave the settlement on your own like this, Shannon?! "Do you have any idea what could have happened to you? What nearly did happen before that stranger found you?"

"I... I just wanted to help!" Shannon protested weakly. "Everyone else gets to go on supply runs and patrols, and I’m always left behind like I’m useless!"

"Help? You want me to actually believe that?" Maribel shot back, her tone skeptical and hard-edged. "Did you have another fight with your mother before you left? Is that what this is really about?"

"I... I did not!" Shannon retorted in a stutter.

"Shannon, you know your mother is constantly worried about you. She’s already lost so much—your father, your older brother, everything we had before the outbreak. You’re all she has left, and you keep acting stubborn and reckless like her feelings don’t matter," Maribel said, her voice softening slightly even as the reprimand continued.

"I’m not a child! Stop treating me like one!" Shannon replied with heat, her hands clenching into fists where they gripped Maribel’s shoulders. "I’m thirteen, not six! I can contribute just like everyone else if you’d just give me a chance!"

"You want us to treat you maturely? Then act maturely instead of sneaking out against direct orders and nearly getting yourself killed," Maribel countered. "Take example from Summer—she’s only three years older than you, but she knows how to follow protocols and think before acting. That’s what maturity actually looks like."

I glanced sideways at Shannon, catching her expression in profile. Her jaw was set stubbornly, her eyes shining with what might have been frustrated tears she was refusing to let fall. The fists on Maribel’s shoulders clenched tighter.

They’d been quarreling continuously for several minutes now, the back-and-forth creating a strange domestic soundtrack to our journey through infected-infested urban ruins.

From context clues I’d gathered from their heated exchange, Shannon apparently hadn’t come with Rico’s group when they’d left their main settlement. Instead, she’d left on her own—either sneaking out or simply walking away when no one was watching—and Maribel had noticed her absence and immediately set out alone to track her down and bring her back safely.

"If not for him—" Maribel started, then paused and glanced at me with an expectant look, clearly realizing she’d been arguing with and about me for the past several minutes without ever learning my actual name.

"Ryan," I said.

"If not for Ryan," Maribel continued with emphasis, turning her attention back to Shannon, "you would be dead right now. Actually dead. Torn apart by infected and turned into one of those things yourself. Do you understand that? Can you grasp how close you came to dying tonight?"

"I know! I know already..." Shannon replied, her voice losing some of its defensive heat and taking on a more subdued quality. She glanced at me then, her blue eyes meeting mine with genuine contrition visible in their depths. "Thank you for saving me... and I’m sorry for causing trouble."

"There’s nothing to apologize to me for," I said. "Just be more careful in the future, and listen to advice from the adults who care about you. They’re trying to protect you, not control you."

Shannon’s expression immediately shifted back toward upset at my last sentence, her lips pressing into a thin line of displeasure.

"I’m not a kid..." She muttered under her breath.

"But you’ll always be a child to your mother," I replied, unable to keep a certain wry sadness out of my voice as I looked away toward the darkened buildings around us. "No matter how old you get or how capable you become, parents never stop seeing their children as precious and vulnerable. Worrying about you is as natural for her as breathing."

Not all parents of course, my father was a good counterexample for that but cleary Shannon’s mother was falling in the first category.

The words came out heavier than I’d intended, weighted with personal grief I hadn’t fully processed. Maybe my expression had dimmed visibly, because I felt unable to hide the sadness about my own mother that surged up unexpectedly—memories of her face, her voice, the way she’d worried about me even over trivial things, all the conversations we’d never have now.

Both Maribel and Shannon looked at me quietly after that, the argument between them temporarily forgotten in the face of whatever they’d seen in my expression. The silence stretched for several heartbeats, filled only with the sound of our footsteps and distant infected growls.

"You heard that, Shannon?" Maribel eventually said. "You need to grow up, and you need to grow up fast. There are infected everywhere, and worse—people like Callighan who’ll hurt you just for existing in territory he wants to claim. The world isn’t safe anymore, and childhood as we knew it doesn’t really exist. But that doesn’t mean you should throw yourself into danger to prove something."

"I won’t grow up properly if you keep me jailed at the beach settlement like a prisoner," Shannon said, returning to her earlier argument but with less heat now. "How am I supposed to learn survival skills if you never let me practice them?"

"We aren’t jailing you—you’re just not ready yet for independent operations," Maribel replied with clear exasperation. "You were literally throwing up just minutes ago after your first real encounter with infected where you had to fight for your life. And you twisted your ankle badly enough that you can’t even walk. This was your first solo venture outside the settlement, and look how it ended. Quite remarkable performance, I must say."

Shannon’s cheeks flushed red with embarrassment, visible even in the dim lighting.

"I... I just didn’t feel well! The spinning and jumping while being carried made me nauseous, that’s all!" She protested weakly.

"Then you definitely shouldn’t have gone out if you weren’t feeling well to begin with," Maribel said. "Being sick or impaired in any way makes you a liability in the field, not just to yourself but to anyone who might have to rescue you."

Shannon just sulked after that, clearly recognizing she’d lost this round of the debate but not quite ready to verbally concede defeat.

I found myself smiling slightly despite everything as I watched their interaction. These two were clearly not blood-related based on their different coloring and features, but they absolutely looked and acted like sisters, reminding a bit of the relation between Rachel and Rebecca.

Small moments like this—ordinary human connection, family bonds persisting despite catastrophic circumstances, people who cared enough about each other to argue—these things made me hope that the world still held hope, that humanity hadn’t been completely consumed by the viral apocalypse.

It must not be yes consumed.

"You mentioned you just arrived in Atlantic City recently, right?" Maribel asked me then, apparently deciding to shift the conversation toward less contentious topics. "Where did you come from, and what brought you here specifically?"

"Yeah, my group and I only reached the city tonight—this is literally our first few hours here," I confirmed. "We came from Jackson Township. The town was invaded by a massive horde of infected along with some Enhanced variants that we couldn’t effectively fight. We had no choice but to evacuate everyone and flee. We came to Atlantic City specifically hoping to settle somewhere near the ocean if possible—better access to resources, more defensible positions with water on one side, potential for fishing to supplement food supplies."

"Near the ocean—you mean the Boardwalk area specifically?" Maribel asked, her tone carrying new caution. "That’s going to be extremely difficult, unfortunately. That’s exactly where we’re settled right now..."

"As I expected..." I muttered.

When I’d first learned there were two distinct survivor communities operating in Atlantic City—Rico’s group and this mysterious Callighan’s group—I’d quickly guessed that the prime beachfront real estate had probably already been claimed by one or both of them. Ocean access was simply too valuable in post-apocalyptic survival scenarios to remain unclaimed.sav+1

"How many people are in your community?" I asked.

"Around two hundred survivors total at last count," Maribel answered, and I could hear both pride and sorrow in her voice. "When the infected first reached Atlantic City during the initial outbreak, everything turned into absolute chaos almost overnight. The city had been packed with tourists and locals, thousands of people concentrated in a relatively small area. When the infection hit, it spread like wildfire."

Her expression grew distant then.

"Some survivors immediately started fleeing—taking boats from the marina, stealing any watercraft they could find, trying to escape to somewhere they thought might be safer. We were pushed back by sheer infected numbers, driven toward the ocean with our backs literally against the water. We ended up taking refuge in the big hotels and casinos on the Boardwalk because those buildings were the most defensible—thick walls, limited entry points, enough supplies cached inside to last a while."

She shifted Shannon’s weight slightly before continuing. "But it was Marlon who really made the difference. He’d been some kind of military officer before the outbreak—National Guard, I think, or maybe regular Army. He took the leadership to organize everyone. Together, we managed to systematically clear the Boardwalk of infected, then slowly expanded our territory to include several streets behind the beachfront. It took us weeks, but we established a genuinely secure zone."

"A lot of people died during that initial clearing operation, though," Shannon added quietly, her earlier defensiveness replaced by somber reflection. "Almost half the survivors we’d started with didn’t make it through those first few weeks. My father and brother..."

She didn’t finish the sentence, but she didn’t need to.

"We all lost people to this virus," I said. "Family, friends, entire communities. The only thing we can do now is honor their memory by working together to build something better for the future. Cooperation and community are what give humanity a chance at surviving this."

"Unfortunately, not everyone thinks that way," Maribel replied quickly, her expression darkening with anger. She was clearly referring to Callighan.

"But you could stay with us if you want!" Shannon suddenly interjected with unexpected enthusiasm, her mood shifting from gloomy to almost excited. "We have the beach and the Boardwalk, but there’s room for more people, right? We could share the space! Right, Maribel? It would work, wouldn’t it?"

"Shannon, it’s not that simple—" Maribel started to object.

"No, I mean..." I interrupted, appreciating Shannon’s generous offer but immediately recognizing the complications it would create.

Sharing settlement space with another established community—essentially living as neighbors with a group we’d just met—was that actually a viable idea? Could it work logistically and politically?

It wasn’t like my group consisted of just a handful of people who could easily integrate into an existing community structure. We had over sixty survivors in our convoy, including children, elderly, injured, and various people with different skills, needs, and personalities. Absorbing that many new people into a settlement of two hundred would represent a thirty percent population increase almost overnight.

I mean, they were already supporting over two hundred people in their settlement. That wasn’t a small population by any standard in the post-apocalyptic world where every mouth to feed represented a constant drain on finite resources.

They probably lived somewhat precariously even now, sustaining themselves through fishing in the Atlantic waters and systematic scavenging throughout the surrounding urban ruins. But even with those resource acquisition plans working at maximum efficiency, it wouldn’t be anywhere near enough to comfortably support that many people long-term. Most survivor communities this size existed in a state of carefully managed scarcity, always one bad week away from genuine food insecurity.

Now imagine our group arriving as sixty additional people—a thirty percent population increase delivered essentially overnight. Their reaction would clearly not be welcoming or positive, no matter how kind and cooperative their community leadership might be under normal circumstances.

They would think first and foremost about how many additional mouths they’d suddenly need to feed, how many more beds and living spaces would need allocation, how their carefully balanced resource distribution systems would need complete recalculation to accommodate the influx. And then would come all the secondary complications—potential personality conflicts between established residents and newcomers, security concerns about unknown people entering their territory.

But beyond those concerns, I was particularly apprehensive about the interpersonal conflicts that would almost certainly emerge from trying to merge two distinct survivor communities.

The last three days of travel since Jackson Township fell had made one thing abundantly clear to me: Margaret’s community was literally fragmenting into two hostile factions like some kind of mini civil war playing out in slow motion. The tensions between different groups within our own survivor convoy were already creating daily friction and threatening the fragile cohesion we’d managed to maintain during evacuation.

Adding in the complication that Maribel’s community was already facing an existential threat from this Callighan warlord and his aggressive territorial expansion? That seemed like a recipe for absolute disaster. We’d be importing our internal conflicts into their community while simultaneously becoming entangled in their external war.

Damn it. The more I actually thought this through with clarity rather than desperate optimism, the worse the idea of settling here became...

By choosing to stay in Atlantic City and establish ourselves near Maribel’s community on the Boardwalk, the chances of getting involuntarily involved with Callighan and dragged into their territorial conflict would be extremely high—probably approaching certainty. And we’d already lost so much in Jackson Township. Could I really justify exposing our people to another war zone when we had the option to simply move elsewhere and avoid that particular nightmare ?

As expected, maybe we should just keep searching. Move further up or down the coast, find some other settlement location that didn’t come pre-packaged with an hostile group.

But...

I clenched my fists unconsciously.

What I genuinely wanted was to help Margaret’s community find stability and safety after everything they’d endured. I wanted to establish a secure home base for my own small core group of people. And then, once everyone was settled and safe, I wanted to find a ship along with a willing crew, if such things were even possible anymore, and attempt the genuinely insane plan of crossing the Atlantic Ocean to reach Europe and search for Elena.

Yeah, it sounded exactly like the synopsis of some ridiculous Hollywood action movie—the kind of implausible quest narrative that would make audiences roll their eyes at the sheer improbability. But I was already thinking about it with complete seriousness, running calculations about ship requirements, crew sizes, navigation challenges, and Atlantic crossing risks.

Elena was out there somewhere. I couldn’t just abandon the search, couldn’t just accept that I’d never see her again without at least trying.

"We’re over sixty people ourselves," I said finally. "Our presence here would only cause significant problems for your community—resource strain, political complications, increased exposure to that Callighan’s attention. It’s better for everyone if we try settling somewhere else along the coast."

"What? That won’t cause any problems at all!" Shannon protested immediately. "We have tons of fish! The ocean is full of them, and Marlon is an amazing fisherman who brings in huge catches regularly! And Maribel too—she’s really good at it! Plus we’ve planted gardens in protected areas behind the hotels where we’re growing vegetables and herbs, and we’ve got supply caches from scavenging operations, so we actually have plenty to eat every day and—"

"Shannon." Maribel cut her off sternly.

I glanced at Shannon, appreciating her enthusiasm and desire to help despite barely knowing me.

"I’m truly thankful for the offer," I said. "But it’s also because we specifically don’t want to involve ourselves with Callighan and his conflict. Our presence here would inevitably draw his attention and might escalate tensions. That would bring additional problems for both your community and ours—problems nobody needs when we’re all just trying to survive."

"I’m sorry our situation makes things so complicated," Maribel said, her expression shifting into something genuinely apologetic and regretful. "Under different circumstances, if Callighan wasn’t actively hunting independent survivor groups, I think Marlon would be very interested in discussing cooperation or alliance with your people."

"You don’t have anything to apologize for," I replied. "Your community fought hard to clear the infected from the Boardwalk and establish a secure settlement there. You earned that territory through blood and sacrifice. It rightfully belongs to you, and you shouldn’t feel guilty about protecting what you’ve built."

"B...But wait—it’s not like there aren’t other viable locations around the area!" Shannon spoke again, clearly unwilling to let this drop. "The Boardwalk is really, really long—over five miles of beachfront! It’s not like we’re occupying every single inch of it. There’s definitely room for another community to settle somewhere along the beach without causing territorial overlap or—"

"Shannon, why are you insisting so stubbornly about this?" Maribel frowned, turning slightly to look back at the girl on her back with genuine confusion. "This isn’t your decision to make, and you’re putting both Ryan and our community leadership in an awkward position."

Shannon fell silent at that, her lips pressing together in a thin line.

She looked at me, and when she felt my gray eyes meeting hers directly, she quickly averted her face. Even through the darkness and limited lighting, I could see her cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

"I... I mean, he saved my life tonight," Shannon said quietly. "He risked himself to protect me when he didn’t have to, when he didn’t even know me. I just wanted to help him in return somehow, to repay that kindness..."

"I only did what anyone decent would do in that situation," I replied. "Helping people in danger is just basic humanity, not some extraordinary favor that requires repayment. You don’t owe me anything for it..."

"See? Ryan understands what’s best for his group and is making responsible leadership decisions," Maribel said to Shannon with finality. "Stop insisting already. You need to respect their choice."

"You’re being kind of mean about this, Maribel," Shannon said with renewed heat, her embarrassment apparently transforming into defensive indignation. "You literally kicked him in his private parts hard enough that he could barely walk afterward! You should be the one feeling apologetic and trying to find ways to help him and his group as compensation for that injury!"

"T-That’s—!" Maribel’s entire face flushed deep red her tan skin darkening visibly even in low light of our torchlights.

When she felt my gaze on her, she quickly looked away, unable to maintain eye contact. "I... I already said I was sorry," she muttered meekly. "Multiple times. What more am I supposed to do?"

"At worst, he might have permanently lost his ability to reproduce from that kind of trauma!" Shannon pressed. "And you think just muttering ’sorry’ a few times is adequate compensation for potentially destroying his reproductive future?"

Now she was purposefully provoking Maribel.

"Shannon!" Maribel’s voice climbed toward genuine distress.

"Alright, alright—we’ve arrived at our destination, it seems," I quickly interrupted their banter before Shannon could elaborate further on the specific medical implications of groin trauma. "Let’s focus on the immediate situation rather than dwelling on... past incidents."

I raised my gaze ahead toward the structure Maribel had been guiding us toward.

The Atlantic City Memorial building.