Requiem of the Dead

A biting wind scoured the courtyard as iron-gray clouds loomed overhead, hinting at an early and unforgiving winter. The wooden walls of the shelter creaked under each gust, a reminder that they hadn't been built to endure deep cold. Despite this, a steady hum of activity vibrated through every corner of the compound—people layering additional planks on walls, hauling scrap metal to reinforce windows, and rolling out tarps to cover gaps in the roof. It was a frantic push to keep out the freezing air and any undead that might wander too close when the snow set in.

Leila stood at a makeshift desk near the north wall of the main building, her breath pluming in the chilly air. Pages of scrawled notes were weighted down by a rusted lantern, flickering weakly against the encroaching gloom of late afternoon. Every so often, she'd tug a glove off to flip through sheets more carefully, only to jam her hand back into its warmth.

She frowned at the numbers. Their stockpile of canned goods was smaller than she'd hoped, dried vegetables and grains had dwindled to a few sacks, and the orchard's recent harvest—while helpful—was nearly gone. The orchard itself, nestled beyond the southern fence, now lay in a skeletal hush. Its rows of apple and pear trees, once heavy with fruit in the autumn, had turned bleak and dormant. The orchard's yield had been dried and stored in earlier weeks, but with the threat of a prolonged winter, those supplies didn't seem nearly enough.

A swirl of fine snow swept past her ankles, making her shiver. We can't possibly keep everyone fed if the snow traps us, she thought. Large-scale scavenging missions in winter meant braving ice-crusted roads, half-frozen undead that might move slower but still lethal if you were caught unawares.

Nearby, Mark tramped through the courtyard mud—which was fast turning to permafrost—his boots leaving crisp prints. Stocky and broad-shouldered, he wore a threadbare coat stuffed with patches of cloth. He exhaled sharply, sending a swirl of vapor into the air. "Leila," he called, voice cutting through the whistling wind, "we're setting up the last of the boards on the west side, but we're short on nails. Darren's checking if we can scavenge more from the old storage crates."

Leila forced a smile she didn't feel. "Let's hope we have enough left. If that west wall isn't secure, the snow might weaken it more. And we can't afford any breach, not from raiders or walkers."

Mark nodded, casting a glance at her desk. "Any better news on the rations?"

She inhaled deeply, scanning the scrawled columns. "Not really. We're short on everything—canned goods, jerky, medical supplies, even blankets. If the wind picks up worse, we'll have to keep more fires going at night. That means we'll burn through firewood faster."

A grim line settled on Mark's face. "Well, we can send a small team to gather more from the forest's edge, but the ground's already hardening. If it snows heavily, those trees further out might be unreachable soon."

Her gaze flicked to a patch of dark clouds clumping on the horizon. "We'll do short runs, two or three people at most," she said, recalling the plan she'd been forming. "In and out quickly, so they're not exposed to potential undead. I'd rather take multiple small trips than risk a big load and lose the group to ice or a walker ambush."

Mark leaned forward, glancing at the ration logs. "We'll manage somehow. But we need volunteers." He peered about the courtyard, where a handful of survivors were struggling to stretch a large tarp over a sagging roof corner. "Most folks are busy prepping the compound. Might not be keen on venturing out."

Leila stifled a sigh. She'd sensed the same reluctance—fear was a constant companion here, but it intensified whenever nature turned hostile. "All right, we'll do a quick headcount of who's able-bodied and not assigned to essential tasks. Then get a rotation going. I can't ask the same people to go out each time, not in this cold."

"Understood." Mark closed his notebook. "I'll coordinate with Darren and see who's free." He hesitated, eyes drifting over the battered supply logs. "Wish we had an easier time of it, but… this is life now."

She offered a small, wry smile. "Yeah. Thanks, Mark. Let me know when you have a plan for that wood run."

Mark offered a curt nod and walked off, barking instructions to a few people near the gate. 

A subtle shift in the air drew her attention behind her. There stood Kai, silent as usual, his posture relaxed against the building's siding. A dusting of snow clung to his dark hair. He was watchful, arms folded over a sturdy jacket, and though he wasn't speaking, the concern in his eyes was unmistakable. Over the past months, he had become her quiet anchor, always hanging back to observe, stepping in only when necessary. Sometimes she found it comforting; other times, it rattled her that she appreciated his presence so much—fearful that relying on someone could lead to betrayal, just like Jace and Ellie had done.

She forced her attention back to the ledger, though a part of her itched to meet his gaze and draw some unspoken reassurance from it. "Winters in this region… you've heard the stories?" she asked at last, voice subdued.

Kai tilted his head, stepping closer so he didn't have to shout above the wind. "Some. Harsh storms, freezing temperatures, roads turning to ice. Zombies half-frozen but still dangerous."

She nodded grimly. "We can't risk letting that catch us unprepared. We barely survived the last raid. If a blizzard hits, we'll be stuck inside with limited supplies. And if anyone out there tries to come after us—"

Kai's quiet expression carried a steadiness that almost made her chest tighten with relief. "We'll manage," he said simply, each word carefully chosen. His presence exuded calm, like an unspoken promise: You're not alone in this.

Leila swallowed, tension coiling behind her ribs. She wanted to believe that. "All right. Well, keep an ear out. Mark's finalizing the volunteer roster. If you—uh, if you're not assigned to something else, we might need your help ensuring no one gets lost out there in the cold."

Kai's gaze flickered with the faintest hint of warmth. "Of course," he said, tone respectful. Then he hesitated, as if weighing whether to speak more. Ultimately, he seemed to decide it wasn't the moment for personal conversation. He offered a small dip of his head and melted back into the courtyard hustle, leaving her with the lingering awareness that, if she ever needed him to step in, he would.

She exhaled slowly. I can't let myself rely too much on anyone. The old memory of betrayal—Jace cheating on her with Ellie in college, then orchestrating her doom in that first apocalypse timeline—flashed. Her chest tightened. She had no illusions about how easily trust could be shattered.

Yet, as she flipped through the last supply sheet, she allowed a flicker of gratitude for Kai's tacit support. The courtyard around her bustled with people hammering, patching, and distributing tattered blankets. Fiona, the group's makeshift medic, was kneeling by a supply crate on the opposite side, rummaging for antibiotic ointment. Tamsin, once an outspoken skeptic of Leila's leadership, now supervised younger survivors, teaching them how to properly seal cracks with tar and old rugs. Even Darren, who rarely stopped moving, trotted by with a coil of rope draped over his shoulder, nodding to her as he passed.

Straightening her shoulders, she collected the log sheets and stuffed them into a binder for safekeeping. She could fret all day over the numbers, but it wouldn't change them. Action was necessary—small salvage runs, methodical rationing, nightly watch rotations. They'd press on, inch by inch, in hopes that when real snow hit, they wouldn't be caught with empty bellies and no fuel.

"Leila," Mark's voice called again, closer this time. He was back, a scrap of paper in hand. "Got the volunteer list. We can start tomorrow at first light, do a short haul of firewood."

She nodded, bracing herself for the cold as she stepped away from the desk. "I'll announce it at the evening meeting. Let's make sure Fiona sets aside any warm gear she can spare. I don't want frostbite casualties."

"Roger that." Mark turned to bark instructions at a small cluster of men and women bundling rope and tarps. They scurried into action, forming a plan to tackle the forest edges at sunrise.

Leila turned one final look toward Kai, who stood near a half-reinforced wall, exchanging words with Darren. A mild swirl of snow dusted his shoulders. Their eyes met briefly—he gave her the faintest smile, an almost invisible reassurance in the swirl of worry. She managed a tighter one in return, permitting herself a second of comfort in his silent faith.

Then she exhaled, lifting her collar against the wind. The community was pushing through, brace by brace, log by log, and she had no intention of letting winter or fear break them. They'd endured betrayal, hordes, raiders, infiltration. A season of ice and frost? They would survive it—together, albeit each still wrapped in their own secrets and unspoken tensions. The final challenge might be bridging those emotional gaps, but for now, gathering warmth and staving off hunger took priority.

**Winter was coming—**and they would be ready. Or at least as ready as one could ever be in a world where the dead still walked.