Then I saw him.
A man stood with his back to us near a fountain that clearly no longer functioned, its basin empty and dry, its decorative sculptures stained with mineral deposits and weather damage. He was positioned at what looked like an improvised workbench—a flat section of stone that had probably once been decorative edging, now repurposed as a preparation.
Even from behind, the man projected presence. Broad shoulders stretched the fabric of a faded work shirt, the kind of width that ca from decades of physical labor rather than gym workouts. Thick, powerful arms moved with precision as he worked, manipulating sothing on the stone surface in front of him. His hair was gray—not the dull gray of age but the silvered steel-gray that so people’s dark hair turned into, still thick and cut military-short.
He stood tall, probably six-two or six-three, his posture perfectly straight despite what must be at least fifty years of age. Everything about his bearing scread military background even before factoring in what Molly had told .
As we approached, the sound resolved into clarity: he was cleaning fish. A small pile of freshly caught specins lay on one side of his makeshift table, and he was systematically gutting and filleting them with true expertise, the knife in his hand moving with the confidence of soone who’d perford this task thousands of tis.
"Marlon," Molly called out as we ca within comfortable speaking distance. "I’ve brought him."
The man—Marlon—completed the cut he was making with unhurried precision before setting down his knife and turning to face us.
And for the first ti, I got a clear look at the leader of Atlantic City’s Boardwalk community.
His face looked like it had been carved out of weathered rock—hard planes, deep lines at the corners of his mouth and eyes, the kind of features that ca from years of squinting into harsh light and not enough sleep. A rough beard darkened his jaw and cheeks, only a couple of days old but already thick, threaded with silver that matched the steel-gray stubble cut close along his scalp.
Everything about him said forr military. Not the weekend-warrior kind, but the real thing.
He held my eyes for a mont, then let his gaze travel down to my boots and back up again, asuring, weighing. After that silent inventory, he picked up a towel from beside the dead fountain and began wiping the fish blood from his hands, slow and thorough.
"So you’re Ryan," he said as he worked, tone flat but not unfriendly.
"I am," I answered.
"Molly tells you saved little Shannon," he went on, still watching even as the towel moved between his fingers.
His eyes were hard and direct, that higher‑officer stare designed to strip away bravado and see what was underneath. It was clearly not dramatics or ego; it was habit. The way people got when they’d spent too much ti being responsible for lives and learning that mistakes cost blood.
I guessed he was just wary—like everyone else here had been—but concentrated into sothing sharper. If he was the person holding this fragile, two-hundred‑plus‑soul community together, it would have been strange if he weren’t cautious to the point of paranoia.
"She told you right," I said.
"Rico also tells you were planning to join Callighan," he added, and at that, whatever faint warmth there had been in his gaze vanished. His eyes went cold.
"I don’t recall saying I was going to join Callighan," I replied.
Marlon didn’t react imdiately. He just watched for a beat longer, then started walking toward .
His boots rang softly against the stone path, each step asured. Around us, people who had been working in the park—or pretending not to listen—began to glance over. Not openly circling, but angling their bodies just enough that they could see what was happening without dropping what they were doing.
When Marlon stopped, he was close. Close enough that I had to tilt my chin slightly up to et his eyes. He was taller than by a little and broader across the chest, the kind of solid, functional bulk that ca from a lifeti of actual work rather than weight training.
"You’re telling Rico lied to ?" He asked quietly.
"I didn’t lie, Marlon," Rico’s voice ca from behind .
I turned my head just enough to see him standing a few steps back on the path, arms crossed, jaw tight. He gave a sideways look that was half defensive, half accusatory, like he was daring to contradict him.
"Then?" Marlon asked, his attention sliding back to .
"I said I might consider joining him," I clarified. "That’s different."
"And why," Marlon asked, "did you say that at all?"
"My friend took a bullet," I said. "She was bleeding out. Your man refused to let her be treated inside your territory. I needed leverage. So I told him that if your people wouldn’t help, I’d have to go to the other community and see if Callighan would."
That landed. I could see it in the slight tightening at the corners of Marlon’s eyes, the way his jaw shifted. He glanced over my shoulder again—toward Rico, toward Molly—then back to , recalculating.
"And now?" he asked. "Do you still consider joining him? Our doctor treated your friend. She’s sleeping upstairs instead of dead on a street."
"We have no intention of joining anyone," I said, holding his gaze. "We’ve already got enough to deal with. We’re not interested in picking a side in soone else’s war."
"Soone else’s," he repeated mildly, though there was an edge under it. "You really think Callighan’s war stops at our barricades? That if he wins here, he won’t start looking outward for the next thing to conquer?"
I didn’t answer that directly. Not yet.
"You ca here looking for a place to settle down, didn’t you?" he went on. "A new ho for your people. Sowhere safer than wherever you were last."
"We did at first," I admitted. "But it looks like the best spot on the beach is already taken."
That earned the faintest ghost of a smile—gone as quickly as it appeared.
"The Boardwalk is ours," he said. "We bled for every ter of it. We cleared the infected building by building, hallway by hallway. Good people died to make this stretch of wood and concrete livable. I’m not giving that up, not for anyone. I don’t expect you to like it, but I expect you to understand it."
"I do," I said. "You clear a place, you hold it. That’s how it works now."
"Then I suppose," Marlon said, voice going almost conversational, "you’ll be leaving Atlantic City soon. Finding sowhere else to plant your flag."
"I wonder," I replied, letting the ambiguity hang.
Because after talking with Martin, leaving no longer felt like the only option.
Before, the equation had seed simple: Boardwalk taken, inner city contested by a warlord, too dangerous, we move on. But Martin had pointed out sothing important—that Atlantic City was more than just the Boardwalk and Callighan’s turf. There were other neighborhoods, residential blocks, side streets, smaller comrcial zones. Dead zones neither faction was using, because they were too busy fighting over the crown jewel.
If we cleared one of those forgotten pockets ourselves—killed the infected, fortified the periter, made it livable—then by the unspoken law of this new world, we’d earn the right to claim it. We wouldn’t be leeching off Rico’s hard work or trying to muscle into his territory. We’d be creating sothing separate.
Marlon’s eyes narrowed at my vague answer. It wasn’t the casual narrowing of soone mildly annoyed; it was the focused tightening of a man trying to decide if what he’d just heard was evasion, disrespect, or simple caution.
"How exactly am I supposed to take that answer, boy?" He asked, voice quiet but edged.
"Take it however you want," I said, keeping my tone level. "We’re from a different community. We don’t owe each other full disclosure about our long‑term plans. There’s no reason to share more than what’s necessary."
For a mont, his expression stayed hard. Then the corner of his mouth curled up just slightly, like he’d heard sothing he respected even if he didn’t like it.
"You’ve got so backbone," he said. "Tell —are you the leader of your people?"
He turned and started walking, clearly expecting to follow. I did, matching his pace while Molly drifted a step behind us, silent.
"No," I said. "I’m not the leader."
"Then it was a collective decision for your group to co here and attempt to settle," he said.
"Yeah," I replied briefly.
Not entirely true, of course. So of Margaret’s people had hated the idea from the start, muttering about moving inland instead, or trying to push toward a different state. But the majority had supported coming to Atlantic City—the promise of the sea, the fishing, the defensible coastline. In the end, that majority had carried the vote. That was how it worked now.
"Where are you from, boy?" Marlon asked after a few steps.
"We ca from Jackson Township," I answered out of habit.
"Not your convoy," he said. "You. Where were you before all this?"
"New York," I replied.
He scoffed softly. "Thought so. I saw it in your eyes."
I wasn’t sure what that was supposed to an—city hardness, maybe—but I didn’t bite at the bait. Instead, I shifted the focus.
"I heard you pushed a lot of your people to clear Brighton Park because it was your favorite spot before the outbreak," I said. "You sent whole teams in there at the start, right? I hope no one died for sentint."
The words ca out sharper than I’d planned—closer to a provocation than a neutral observation. Behind us, I heard Molly wince slightly, the sound small but clear in the quiet park. Even I knew I’d stepped on a raw nerve there.
Marlon stopped walking.
He turned and stepped back into my path, planting himself directly in front of again. Up close, the air between us felt charged, like the mont before a storm breaks.
"Did your father never teach you how to speak to your seniors?" He asked, looking down at with a stare that would have made most people flinch.
"My father taught everything there is to know about pain," I replied pausing a bit. "Respect wasn’t really on the curriculum."
For a heartbeat, we just stood there, locked in a silent contest. Then he looked away first—not in defeat, but as a man who had decided this particular exchange had gone as far as it needed to.
He turned back toward the Boardwalk and resud walking. I fell into step beside him again as we exited Brighton Park and rejoined the broader coastal path, the sound of waves growing louder ahead.
"Everyone handles this pandemic their own way," Marlon said after a while, his voice more reflective than confrontational. "So manage well. Others don’t. Even among the ones who do, there are big differences between those who’ve thrown away their morals and those who kept sothing intact. Which side would you say you’re on, boy?"
I lowered my gaze for a mont, thinking before answering.
"I think sotis you really don’t have a choice except to kill," I said. "If you’re attacked, if soone is actively trying to hurt your people, you defend yourself. That hasn’t changed from the old world—call it legitimate self‑defense."
I lifted my head again and t his eyes.
"But killing soone because they might pose a danger soday? Because they could beco a problem? That’s not the sa thing as stopping soone who’s actually threatening your people. One is necessity. The other is fear dressed up as logic."
He watched as I spoke, his expression unreadable.
"You speak well," Marlon said finally. "So I’m guessing you’ve seen your fair share of things before you ended up here. It’s been almost three months since this all began, after all. Nobody’s innocent anymore, not really."
We reached the Boardwalk again, the wooden planks under our boots creaking softly as we stepped onto them. Ahead, the beach opened out in a sweep of pale sand, the noon sun painting the water in bright shards of light. I could already see movent down near the tide line—figures walking, clusters gathered, people going about the business of surviving another day.
"Hey!"
The call ca from our right.
I turned and saw Shannon waving at energetically, her face lighting up in a broad smile when our eyes t. She was walking carefully with the help of a stick, her injured ankle still bound, her steps cautious.
She wasn’t alone.
Beside her walked a woman in her late twenties, maybe early thirties, with the sa flaxen hair and clear blue eyes as Shannon. The resemblance was imdiate and striking—the sa jawline, the sa tilt to the smile, the sa way they held their shoulders when they moved.
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