CHAPTER 56: JACKSON TOWNSHIP GROUP [2]

Great, I thought, Here we go.

Rachel, to her credit, seemed to sense the shift in attention as well. I saw her stiffen slightly.

"Well, well," the man said, his voice taking on what he probably thought was a charming tone but which actually sounded more like a predator sizing up prey. "Looks like not everything from New York is worthless after all."

"Brad." The sharp warning came from Mike, who stepped forward with his baseball bat held a bit more prominently than before. "Why don’t you back off and let these people get settled before you start causing trouble?"

So his name was Brad, and apparently his behavior was a known issue even among his own group. That was both reassuring—it meant we weren’t walking into a community that endorsed this kind of conduct—and concerning, because it suggested they either couldn’t or wouldn’t do anything definitive about him.

Brad glanced at Mike with obvious irritation, but he didn’t immediately retreat. Instead, he took another drag from his cigarette and continued to stare at Rachel.

"I’m just being welcoming," Brad said with a grin that had nothing warm or welcoming about it. "These folks traveled a long way to get here. I’m sure they could use some... hospitality."

Several of the other survivors were now looking distinctly uncomfortable, and I could see at least a few of them shaking their heads in disapproval. Whatever social dynamics existed in this community, Brad was clearly pushing boundaries that even his fellow survivors found unacceptable.

Somehow he was annoying me so I decided to speak.

"We appreciate the welcome but we’re just visiting. We have our own place and we’re not looking for anything more than a chance to rest for a few minutes."

Brad glanced at me briefly before looking at Rachel.

"Is this kid speaking for all of you?"

"Yeah he is," Christopher scoffed.

Elena didn’t say anything but the look of disgust she was giving said a lot about her thoughts about this Bra whereas Rachel nodded her head.

Unfortunately, Brad didn’t seem to be the type to take hints, subtle or otherwise.

"Oh, come on now," he said, taking another step closer and lowering his voice to what he probably thought was a seductive tone. "No need to be so standoffish. We’re all friends here, and I bet you’ve been through a lot getting here from the big city. Why don’t you let me show you around, maybe find you somewhere more... private to rest?"

This guy...

But before any of us could act, another voice rang out.

"That’s enough, Brad."

The voice belonged to an older woman who emerged from the deeper recesses of the building. She had to be in her sixties, with silver hair and the kind of commanding presence that suggested she’d been in positions of authority long before the world ended. Despite her age, she moved with confidence and carried herself with the kind of dignity that made everyone in the room—including Brad—pay attention.

"These people are guests," she continued, "And even if they weren’t, your behavior is completely inappropriate and reflects poorly on all of us."

Brad’s expression soured, but he actually took a step back. Whoever this woman was, she clearly held enough influence in the group to make even the troublemakers think twice about crossing her.

"I was just—" Brad started to protest.

"You were just making everyone uncomfortable and potentially creating a hostile situation with people who helped save the lives of comrades," the woman interrupted firmly. "Now why don’t you go find something useful to do while I properly welcome our visitors?"

The dismissal was absolute, and Brad seemed to recognize it as such. With obvious reluctance and a final lingering look at Rachel that made me want to punch him, he slouched away toward the far end of the room, muttering under his breath.

The woman watched him go, then turned to us with an expression that was both apologetic and assessing. "I’m Margaret Chen," she said, extending her hand. "I serve as something like a coordinator for our little community here. Please accept my apologies for Brad’s behavior—it doesn’t represent how the rest of us feel about visitors or how we conduct ourselves."

"Thank you," I said, meaning it. "I’m Ryan, and this is Rachel, Christopher, and Elena. We appreciate the hospitality, and we understand that tensions are high for everyone right now."

Margaret nodded approvingly at my response. "Indeed they are. But that’s no excuse for discourtesy, especially toward people who’ve reportedly saved the lives of our friends." She glanced toward Martin, Clara, and Joel, who were watching the interaction with obvious relief that the confrontation had been defused. "Why don’t we get you folks something to drink and let you rest for a bit while Martin fills us in on what happened out there?"

"Yes. Thank you." I said.

Almost immediately, several community members approached us with makeshift cups and bottles filled with what appeared to be filtered water and some kind of herbal tea. Their faces bore the weathered look of survivors, but their eyes held genuine kindness—a rarity in these times.

"Here, you must be exhausted," said a middle-aged woman with graying hair pulled back in a practical ponytail. She handed me a warm cup that smelled faintly of mint. "We don’t have much, but what we have, we share."

I accepted the drink gratefully, feeling the warmth spread through my hands. Around me, Christopher, Elena, and Rachel were similarly being attended to by other community members. The liquid was surprisingly refreshing—not just water, but something with a subtle sweetness that helped wash away the digesting smell that had lingered since our encounter with the Infected Dog.

We found ourselves guided to a makeshift seating area constructed from salvaged furniture and wooden crates arranged in a rough circle. Margaret positioned herself directly across from us, her weathered hands folded in her lap, while curious faces gathered behind her like an audience at an impromptu theater performance. Some leaned against walls, others crouched or sat on overturned buckets, all eager to hear our story.

Martin cleared his throat and began recounting our encounter. "We were making our usual run to the center shopping district," he explained, gesturing with calloused hands. "You know, the one near Maple Street where the pharmacy used to be. Joel insisted on coming along, said he knew where to find some medical supplies we desperately needed."

Margaret’s expression grew concerned, and several community members exchanged worried glances.

"Everything was going according to plan," Martin continued, his voice dropping slightly. "We’d managed to gather quite a bit—bandages, antiseptic, even some expired medication that might still be useful. But then..." He paused, running a hand through his graying hair. "We heard this sound. This low, guttural growling that seemed to echo off the empty storefronts."

The gathered crowd leaned in closer, some unconsciously.

Now he wasn’t counting some kind of story you know.

Joel, who had been quietly nursing his own drink, seemed to shrink further into himself.

"An Infected Dog," Martin said. "Bigger than any dog had a right to be, with patches of fur missing and... and those eyes. Those terrible, clouded eyes that looked right through you."

This isn’t a story telling!

I watched as several people in the crowd visibly shuddered. One woman crossed herself, and a bearded man muttered something under his breath that sounded like a prayer.

"We ran," Martin continued. "Dropped half our supplies and just ran. Joel, bless him, he kept up better than any of us expected, but we could hear that thing gaining on us. The sound of its claws on the asphalt, the way it panted... it wasn’t natural. It was when we met them and Ryan helped us," he said in the end smiling at me gratefully.

Margaret nodded slowly, her face grave. "I see... an Infected Dog. That must be quite frightening to even think about."

You bet that...

"Regardless," Margaret continued, her voice taking on a more formal, grateful tone, "we thank you profusely for helping Joel. He is an important member of our community."

She seemed sincere but Christopher, ever direct, wasn’t satisfied with pleasantries. He leaned forward slightly, his sharp eyes fixed on Margaret. "If he’s that important, why did you let such an old man be the one scavenging around? Seems like a pretty big risk for someone you can’t afford to lose."

I saw Margaret’s expression tighten slightly, and Joel’s shoulders sagged even further. The question was blunt but fair—in a world where every life mattered, sending someone vulnerable on dangerous missions seemed counterproductive.

Margaret sighed deeply. "Unfortunately, we didn’t choose it. Joel went on his own and insisted on going. You know how stubborn old men can be when they think they’re still capable of everything they used to do."

Joel was sulking now, staring into his cup as if it might offer some escape from the embarrassment. His weathered hands trembled slightly—whether from age, exhaustion, or shame, I couldn’t tell.

"How old are you, old man?" I asked.

Before Joel could answer, a clear, crisp voice cut through the conversation.

"Grandfather."

The single word carried such authority and coldness that every conversation in the area immediately died. It was as if someone had thrown a switch, plunging the entire gathering into an uncomfortable silence. Even the sound of distant activity seemed to fade as everyone turned toward the source of the voice.

Everyone fell silent and turned their attention toward the girl who had appeared seemingly from nowhere. She stood in the entrance to our makeshift gathering area, backlit by the lanterns, creating an almost ethereal silhouette.

There was silence in our group as well, but for entirely different reasons.

This girl...

She appeared to be around my age, maybe a year or two younger. But there was something about her presence that made her different.

Her hair was the most striking feature—long, cascading waves of white that seemed to catch and reflect every bit of available light. It was tied back with white ribbons that looked almost ceremonial in their pristine condition, a stark contrast to the practical, worn clothing everyone else wore. The hair wasn’t the white of old age, but something pure and otherworldly, like fresh powder snow.

Her skin was equally remarkable—so pale it was almost translucent, with a porcelain quality that made her look like she might shatter if touched too roughly. I had never seen anyone with skin quite like this in my entire life. It wasn’t the pallor of sickness or malnutrition that we’d grown accustomed to seeing in other survivors, but something far more profound and inherent.

And then there were her eyes.

Her eyes were a striking reddish-pink hue that seemed to glow in the lantern light, like garnets held up to flame. They were beautiful in an unsettling way, compelling yet somehow dangerous.

She was dressed completely inappropriately for their post-apocalyptic environment—a flowing white gown that looked like it belonged in a different century, paired with long white arm gloves that extended past her elbows, completely concealing her arms. The outfit was impractical, delicate, and utterly out of place among the sturdy, patched clothing worn by everyone else.

Let’s be honest—she didn’t look human at all. At least, not like any human I’d ever encountered on Earth.

White hair, red eyes, that otherworldly presence—she looked like something that had stepped out of a fairy tale or fantasy novel.

But as my brain caught up with my initial shock, I began to understand what I was seeing. I had encountered people like her before, at least on television and in medical documentaries.

Albinism.

And from what I could observe, she seemed to be severely affected by it. Her complete lack of pigmentation, the striking red eyes, the extreme photosensitivity that would explain the concealing clothing—it all fit the profile of someone with complete albinism.

She looked like a character from some kind of dark fantasy, a ethereal being who had wandered into our gritty reality by mistake.

But what truly puzzled me was the reaction of everyone around us. Instead of the protective, caring response you might expect for someone with such a visible condition, I noticed expressions of wariness, even fear, on some faces. People had actually taken small steps backward when she appeared, and the tension in the air was palpable.

"Wanda..." Joel whispered as he glanced up at who I now understood to be his granddaughter with an expression of barely concealed nervousness.

Looking at them side by side, they couldn’t have appeared more different.

I noticed Joel had begun sweating despite the cool air, beads of perspiration forming on his forehead as his granddaughter approached.

"You left for what purpose, grandfather?" Wanda asked. Each word was precisely enunciated, delivered with the kind of controlled fury that was somehow more terrifying than shouting. Her sandals made soft tapping sounds against the concrete floor as she moved with slow steps until she stopped directly in front of Joel, who seemed to shrink even further into his seat.

"My sweetheart, I... I just wanted—" Joel began, his voice cracking with nervousness.

"For what purpose, grandfather?" Wanda interrupted, her tone growing even colder. "I do hope you haven’t lost your hearing already along with your common sense?"

Joel flinched as if he’d been physically struck.

Get a hold of yourself gramps?

"Now, now, don’t bully your grandfather, Wanda," Margaret interjected, stepping forward with the air of someone trying to defuse a dangerous situation. "Your grandfather just wanted to help everyone. You know how he is about feeling useful."

But Wanda’s attention turned to Margaret with a disinterested gaze.

"He wouldn’t be of any help and would only serve as a burden to others, yet you allowed him outside?" Wanda’s voice had dropped, but somehow it carried perfectly across the now-silent gathering. "How... interesting."

Margaret opened her mouth as if to respond, then seemed to think better of it and fell silent.

Wanda turned back to her grandfather, and I could see Joel actually trembling now.

"You put the entire group in danger simply to prove you could be useful, grandfather. For what reason? Your own pride?" Each word was delivered like a surgical incision, precise and devastating.

"Wanda..." Joel raised his gaze hesitantly, but the moment he met those frigid red eyes, his courage failed him completely, and he looked back down at his hands.

What in the hell were we witnessing exactly?

The dynamic was unlike anything I’d ever seen. This girl—who couldn’t have been much older than me—was utterly dominating not just her grandfather, but the entire assembled group. The harshness with which she spoke to Joel was shocking, especially given their supposed family relationship.

"It’s... it’s fine, Wanda," Clara interjected with an awkward smile, clearly trying to lighten the oppressive mood. "We came back fine in the end. No harm done, right?"

Wanda’s head turned toward Clara and I watched the woman’s smile falter and die under that stare.

"Only because these people saved you," Wanda replied. "Without their intervention, you might currently be serving as a meal for those monsters. All because of one old man’s stubborn pride."

Clara gulped audibly, and I noticed she took a small step backward.

An uncomfortable silence settled over the gathering like a heavy blanket. Even the community members who had been so welcoming moments before now seemed frozen, as if afraid to speak.

Finally, Wanda’s attention turned to our group. Those striking red eyes swept over the four of us, as if she were cataloging every detail.

For a moment that felt like an eternity, we simply stared at each other.

Then, as suddenly as she had appeared, Wanda turned and began walking away.