Chapter 197: A Warm Meal with Carmen and Shannon [1]

"Eat?"

Clara’s eyebrows lifted slightly as if she wasn’t sure she’d heard correctly.

"Yeah," I said, letting my head fall back against the chair and exhaling slowly. The backrest creaked in protest. "Shannon’s mother invited me to eat with them."

The room Molly had given us was still half-shadowed despite the daylight sneaking past the curtains. Dust motes drifted lazily through the thin beams of light that cut across the floor. Clara lay propped up on the hotel bed, her body angled slightly to favor her injured shoulder, bandages stark white against her skin. Her hair fanned messily over the pillow, and the lines of pain around her mouth were still there, but softer now that the painkillers had done some work.

"Why are you upset about that?" Clara asked, a small laugh edging into her voice. "Most people would be happy for a hot meal and some company."

"Because," I said, "I was kind of hoping to eat in peace without having to talk too much."

"How introverted are you, exactly?" Clara sighed, half amused, half exasperated.

"I don’t know myself," I replied quietly after a beat. "I just know I’m not good with strangers. Not in the normal way."

I could face down infected, stay calm under gunfire, make decisions that got people killed or saved, but sitting at a table with a family and making small talk? That felt like walking into a different kind of battlefield—one I’d never trained for.

I had some with my own mother but not enough now I thought about it. I really took these small moments with my mom for granted.

"I can see that," Clara said. "You do speak better with all of us, though. With our group, I mean. You’re different around us."

"Maybe."

"I mean it. You’re doing pretty well surrounded by pretty girls and Christopher," she added, lips curling into a faint smile.

I couldn’t help returning a small smile of my own at that.

"If only you knew the truth," I thought, the humor tightening into something more complicated in my chest.

In truth, I wasn’t just ’surrounded’ by women. I was involved with three of them—Rachel, Sydney and Cindy. Each bond messy and tangled in its own way. If Clara ever found out, what would she think? Would she look at me like some scumbag stringing them along? Or would she just be confused, trying to understand how any of it made sense in this broken world?

Probably both.

"Then what do you think of them?" Clara asked suddenly, curiosity sharpening her expression. "This community, I mean. The Boardwalk people."

"They’re good people," I said slowly, choosing the words with some care. "Rough around the edges like everyone else, but... good. The one leading them is named Marlon—ex-military, marine, I’m pretty sure. He runs things tightly. His people obey and respect him. There’s a lot more unity here than back in your community, that’s for sure."

Clara let out a short, bitter chuckle. "Maybe because he doesn’t have a Brad with him."

"Clearly," I said, unable to disagree.

Brad, with Kyle and Billy on either side like idiot satellites, had been a constant source of friction. Always questioning, always undermining, always more interested in their own pride than the community’s survival. Margaret had been lenient—too lenient, some would say. She’d tried to keep them inside the fold instead of casting them out. That was part of how she earned everyone’s trust: she was fair, patient, always trying to see the best in people.

Marlon didn’t seem like that.

Even if someone like Brad existed here, a loudmouth with a chip on his shoulder and more muscles than sense, Marlon would have put him in place quickly from what I had seen. Made it clear who was in charge, and that loyalty to the group wasn’t optional. There was steel in him that Margaret had, but rarely showed.

"Did they ask us to leave immediately?" Clara asked after a moment. "I mean, I’d understand if they did. We are strangers, and resources are tight."

"Pretty much," I said. "That’s the general idea. We’re not welcome to settle on the Boardwalk itself."

She nodded slowly, eyes thoughtful. "That’s fair."

"But," I added, "I’m not completely sure about Marlon’s real intentions. He seems more... curious about us than determined to push us out of the city. I think he’s still trying to figure out what kind of problem we are—or if we’re a problem at all."

"Regardless, we’re leaving, right?" Clara said. "To find another city? It’s going to be tough, but what other choice do we have?"

Her words hung in the air for a moment.

The old plan had been simple: survive the fall of Jackson Township, gather who we could, head somewhere else—another town, another city, anywhere that wasn’t already occupied and at war. The world was wide, yet it felt like everywhere we turned, someone already claimed the scraps still worth fighting for.

"About that," I said after a short silence, "Martin had another idea. He thinks we might be able to find another spot here in Atlantic City. Somewhere away from the conflict zones. A place we could clear for ourselves."

Clara blinked, taken aback. "Here?" she repeated. "In this city?"

"Yeah," I said. "Marlon’s people have cleared the Boardwalk and several blocks inland from it, sure. But not the entire city. There are still whole neighborhoods left to rot. If we can find an area near the water that’s not under anyone’s control yet, clear it of infected and fortify it... it might work. Staying close to the sea would be better for us in the long run—food, water, mobility."

She processed that in silence for a few seconds.

"Do you have any specific place in mind?" Clara asked eventually.

"I don’t know yet," I admitted. "But I was thinking of checking the State Marina first."

"The State Marina?" she echoed.

"Yeah," I said. "It’s not far from here. If we’re lucky, there might still be boats there. Real boats, not just little fishing things. Maybe the Boardwalk people haven’t taken all of them. Boats are resources. For food, travel, scouting. And if we had a few, we could move faster along the coast or even further offshore when necessary."

I didn’t add the rest.

I didn’t mention that part of my motivation was finding something big enough, sturdy enough, to eventually cross the Atlantic. That I was already mentally cataloging what kind of ship we’d need to reach Europe. That when I thought about the marina, I didn’t just see fishing runs and local travel—I saw the first step toward another continent.

If I could bring Mark a ship with a functioning hull, even if its systems were dead, I trusted he could work miracles with whatever he scavenged—batteries, solar rigs, wiring, converters. He’d built from scratch the municipal office’s electrical grid from scraps and stubbornness. Give him a ship, time, and a junkyard of components, and he’d find a way to make it sailable again.

"I don’t know..." Clara said slowly. "It could be dangerous. If we stumble across that Callighan’s people on the way there, or if they’ve taken the marina..."

"I know," I said. "That’s why I’d go alone."

She sighed, the kind of long, tired exhale that sounded older than she was. "Alone. Again. You know Rachel and the others are going to hate that. They’re barely tolerating it as it is."

"I don’t want to drag them into unnecessary danger," I said. "For scouting and recon, it’s easier and safer if it’s just me. You know I’m capable of getting out alive from most situations. I move faster on my own. Less noise. Fewer variables."

"I know," she said. "You are capable. That’s not the point."

She shifted a little, wincing as her shoulder protested the movement. Her eyes fixed on me with a seriousness that cut through the haze of medication.

"Is it really worth the risk?" Clara asked quietly. "You taking those chances alone?"

I looked away, my gaze drifting toward the window.

Was it worth the risk?

The rational part of me catalogued the dangers: human factions, infected, Starakian interest. The path to the marina might be clear, or it might be a killing ground.

But the other part of me—the part that carried Jasmine’s last tears, Jason’s death, the knowledge of what Wanda really was, and the memory of Elena somewhere across the ocean—already knew the answer.

If I wanted even the smallest chance of seeing Elena again, of standing on European soil and taking the fight closer to the Starakians responsible for this chaos, there was no path that didn’t involve risk. Big risk. The kind of risk you couldn’t fully justify on paper but felt in your bones.

"I... don’t know how to do this any other way," I said finally, still not meeting her eyes.

Silence settled between us for a moment.

At that moment, a knock sounded against the door.

"Ryan," came a familiar voice. "Carmen’s called you for eating. I’m here to walk you to their place."

Molly.

I stood up slowly from the chair.

"Go," Cara said. "Eat. Try not to look like you’re walking to your execution."

"I’ll bring you back something," I said. "Real food, not just ration bars."

"I’ll hold you to that," she replied.

I moved to the door and opened it.

Molly stood in the hallway.

"Ready?" Molly asked.

"I am," I said, pulling the door shut behind me with a soft click.

The latch caught with a faint metallic snap, and I took a moment to make sure it was secure. Clara was resting inside, vulnerable with that shoulder wound, and the last thing she needed was someone wandering in uninvited while I was gone.

Molly was already moving ahead down the hallway.

"You didn’t have to come pick me up personally," I said, falling into step behind her. "I could have found my way, asking others."

She glanced back over her shoulder, one eyebrow raised in dry amusement. "Believe me, boy, I don’t have any burning desire to babysit a stranger either. But would you have preferred I send Rico or Jake to escort you instead?"

"No, it’s fine," I said quickly. "This works."

"Thought so," Molly said, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

I’d had more than my fair share of dealing with annoying, hostile people recently. The idea of enduring another round of thinly veiled threats or pointed questions while trying to reach a simple dinner invitation made exhaustion pull harder at my shoulders.

"How’s she doing?" Molly asked after a moment, breaking the quiet. "Your friend. Clara."

"She’s doing better than she could be," I said honestly. "But it’s going to be hard for her to move around much. She’s only managing right now thanks to painkillers and whatever else Shawn gave her. The bullet did real damage."

Clara had tried to sound strong when I’d left the room, forcing brightness into her voice, but I’d seen the way her face went tight when she shifted position, and how she held herself to avoid jostling that shoulder. You didn’t take a bullet one day and bounce back the next, no matter how good the medical care. Her body needed time to knit torn muscle and tissue back together, time we might not have depending on how things developed here.

"She took a bullet yesterday," I added quietly. "There’s no way she’s going to recover quickly from that."

Molly nodded, her expression sobering slightly. She’d probably seen enough injuries herself to know exactly what I meant.

"Will your people come to pick you both up?" She asked as we reached the ground floor and headed toward a side exit.

"Maybe," I said. "I don’t know for sure. If not, we’ll head back on foot once Clara’s strong enough to walk the distance."

It was a long walk back to where we’d left the others—several miles at least, through streets we’d only passed through once in the dark. Clara could probably manage it with rest breaks and support, but it wouldn’t be pleasant or fast.

"We can lend you a car if you need it," Molly offered. "Save her the walk. We’ve got a few running vehicles we use for supply runs."

"I’d appreciate that," I said, grateful. "Thank you."

After that, she led me away from the main Boardwalk, down a side street that had been cleared of debris and infected but still showed the scars of collapse—broken windows patched with boards, cars pushed to the sides, dark stains on pavement that could have been anything but probably weren’t anything good.

After a few minutes of walking, the character of the area began to shift. The commercial buildings gave way to smaller structures—residential housing, modest by Atlantic City standards. Single-family homes and small apartment buildings, most showing signs of careful clearing and basic maintenance. Some had curtains visible in windows, laundry hanging on improvised lines, small vegetable plots carved out of former lawns.

"I thought you all lived in the hotel?" I asked.

"Most people sleep there, yeah," Molly said. "But some families prefer their own space when they can get it. Carmen’s one of them—she’s got a small house nearby that she and Shannon live in most of the time."

She glanced at me with a knowing look. "It would be a complete disaster if we tried to cram two hundred-plus people into one hotel permanently, don’t you think? People need space, privacy. Families need rooms where kids can be loud without bothering everyone. You pack everyone too close for too long and tempers snap, fights break out, community tears itself apart from the inside."

"Definitely," I agreed.

Too much proximity bred resentment, conflict, the kind of petty feuds that could escalate into serious violence when people were already stressed to breaking.

Molly chuckled softly, as if reading my thoughts. "We learned that the hard way in the first month. Had three serious fights break out in one week when everyone was living on top of each other. Marlon made it a priority after that—clear residential blocks, let people spread out a bit. Made a huge difference."

We walked a few more minutes in comfortable silence, passing a handful of other people along the way. A man repairing a fence. Two women carrying buckets of water. Even a small group of children playing some kind of game with stones.

All of them glanced at me curiously but none stopped us.

Finally, we reached a small two-story house set slightly back from the street. It had pale blue siding that had faded and weathered but was still intact, a small porch with a railing that looked recently repaired, and curtains visible in the windows. Flower boxes sat empty beneath the front windows—probably once filled with bright blooms in the old world, now just bare dirt and dead stems.

Someone had swept the porch and cleared the small front yard of debris. A pair of boots sat beside the door, muddy but neatly placed.

This was Carmen’s house it seems. Shannon’s house.

"Well, I’m leaving you here," Molly said, stopping at the foot of the porch steps and gesturing toward the door.

Before I could respond she was already turning away, heading back the way we’d come with a casual wave over her shoulder.

"Enjoy your meal, Ryan," she called back. "Try to relax for once. They won’t bite."

And then she was gone, disappearing around the corner of a neighboring building, leaving me standing alone in front of the door.

I stood there for a moment, suddenly very aware of how I must look: worn out jacket, exhausted face, a stranger about to intrude on a family’s private space because I’d saved their daughter and they felt obligated to feed me.

Part of me wanted to turn around and walk away. Go back to Clara, eat ration bars in silence, avoid this.

But I’d already agreed.

So I climbed the three steps to the porch, raised my hand, and knocked twice on the door.