CHAPTER 144: CAMP

They were still staring at Lemon.

Steve. Fiona. Tonya. All of them. Their eyes hadn’t moved—not since he spoke.

A strange hush had fallen over the room, heavy and expectant, as though the air itself was holding its breath.

Steve took a slow, deliberate step forward. His voice was calm, but there was something gentle in it—something that sounded almost like mercy.

"Lemon," he said, "can you tell us what happened?"

But Lemon didn’t answer.

His eyes were shut. His breathing soft. Asleep.

The silence lingered for a few heartbeats too long—until someone stirred beside him.

His mother.

She moved, barely, and that tiny shift seemed to break something loose in him. Lemon inhaled sharply and pulled away from Tonya’s warm hold with trembling hands.

"I’m sorry," he whispered, his voice cracking like dry leaves in autumn. "I’m sorry."

The girl who had come with him stepped forward, her presence quiet, but grounding. She reached for his hand, curling her arms gently around it like she was holding something fragile—something that could disappear if she gripped too tight.

"It’s okay, Lemon," she murmured, her voice as soft as dusk. "We can tell them now."

Lemon blinked. Once. Twice. Then turned to Steve, eyes glossy and red-rimmed, like he’d been holding back a storm that finally couldn’t be kept inside.

"It just... happened out of nowhere," he began, his words shaky and small. "We were heading out, passing by the bank, and then..."

He swallowed hard, his voice barely holding together.

"We ran into one of them. One of those... I don’t know what to call them. Goblins? Demons? I—I don’t even know anymore."

The girl beside him tightened her grip, offering what comfort she could.

"There were too many," she said, her voice trembling now too. "We tried to run. We really did. But we got separated..."

Lemon’s shoulders slumped. "And in the middle of it all... I lost her."

He closed his eyes for a moment, as if just saying it took something from him.

"I think she died," he said softly.

Across the room, Fiona stepped forward, slowly. Her eyes were locked on Lemon, but her voice wasn’t accusing. Just curious. Quiet.

"Did you see her die?"

Tonya reached out to stop Fiona, but she didn’t pull back.

Lemon didn’t answer at first. He stared at the floor like it might give him the words he didn’t want to say.

"No," he said finally, shaking his head. "No, not exactly."

"The goblins," he said, "they were chasing her. I—I ran the other way. I didn’t mean to. I just... I panicked."

He wiped at his eyes. "When I came back... she was gone. So was he. Both of them."

He looked up again, and for a moment, he looked years older. Tired. Worn thin by grief and guilt.

"All I found were bloodstains on the ground," he said quietly. "Just that. No bodies. No sound. Just... red. So I assumed..."

His voice cracked again, and he didn’t finish the sentence.

He didn’t have to.

The silence that followed said everything he couldn’t.

"But... you never found her body," Steve said softly, his voice almost lost to the breeze.

His eyes lingered on Lemon, searching for something—hope, maybe. A thread to hold onto. But after a moment, they drifted, almost hesitantly, toward Sarah.

She stepped closer, her expression unreadable. "What do you think?" she murmured.

Steve ran a hand through his hair, sighing quietly. "I don’t know," he admitted. "But we started this whole thing with nothing but a lock and a hook. And somehow... it brought us this far."

He looked back at Lemon, then down at the ground.

"I’m not ready to let go of either," he added, more to himself than anyone else. "There’s still a chance she’s out there. Isn’t there?"

For a moment, no one spoke. Fiona stared at the dirt like she was trying to piece together a map from broken thoughts. The air felt thick, like a storm waiting to happen.

"But even if she’s alive," Sarah said quietly, "we don’t know where she is. We lost the trail. No footprints. No signs. Just... nothing."

"It’s going to be a lot harder to find her now," Steve admitted, the hope in his voice dimming.

Fiona groaned, frustrated. "God... this is so damn stressful."

Lemon’s voice came next, so soft it was barely there.

"I’m sorry," he whispered. "I should have protected her. I—I should’ve done more."

Steve turned to him slowly. "It’s not your fault," he said gently. "If you—"

He paused.

His eyes flicked toward the woman standing beside Lemon—the one who had been silent most of the time. She stood poised, calm, her eyes sharp even in the dim light. She was striking—elegant in a way that didn’t seem born of vanity, but survival. A presence.

Beautiful. Fierce. Not the kind of person you’d expect to see next to someone like Lemon. Not because he didn’t deserve her—but because the contrast was unexpected, like moonlight beside a flickering lantern.

Steve’s curiosity got the better of him.

"Who... who is she?"

The woman blinked at him. For a second, she seemed almost surprised by the question. Then she smiled.

"Oh—me?" she said, her voice smooth and self-assured. "My name is June. It’s nice to meet you."

There was a grace to the way she spoke. Like she’d been through fire and come out tempered, not shattered.

She glanced toward the open field and her smile faded. "But I’d like to point out we’re still in the open. It would be best if we returned to the trees... before they come back."

Steve’s head turned sharply. "They?"

Before he could ask further, Lemon nodded quickly, already moving closer to her.

"She’s right," he said, and though his voice still carried a tremor, there was trust in it. "You’re always thinking ahead, June."

He turned back to the others. "We should get back to the camp."

Steve raised a brow. "Camp?"

Lemon hesitated, then nodded again. "Yes. Not far from here. After the attack... a few of us made it out. Those who survived... we found each other. Started a refugee camp. It’s not much, but it’s something."

A stunned silence followed.

Then, Fiona let out a soft, almost disbelieving laugh. It was a shaky, frightened kind of relief—the kind that bubbles up after days of dread.

"A camp," she repeated, as though the word was a gift. "There are still that many survivors?"

She looked at Steve, and for the first time in what felt like hours, something like hope touched her face.

And it spread.

To Steve. To Sarah. Even to Tonya, who’d been gripping her own arms like a lifeline.

They all smiled—small, uncertain, but real.

Because even if Maggie wasn’t at that camp...

Even if the chances were slim...

There were people. Survivors. A place to rest, to regroup. A light in the storm.

And maybe—just maybe—something they could still fight for.

"So," Steve turned to Lemon, his voice softer now, touched with something like hope, "can you take us to the camp?"

Lemon didn’t pause. There was no dramatic sigh, no flair for attention—just a quiet sincerity in his tone as he nodded.

"Of course," he said. "Every survivor is welcome."

With that, they moved. Together, they pushed through the thick underbrush of the forest, the branches swaying above them like old whispers. Steve had slung his rifle across his back, and Lemon—stronger than he looked—carried the deer Steve had killed over his shoulders, the carcass hanging limply across his neck.

They walked. And walked.

Time passed in breaths, in crunches of fallen leaves beneath their boots, in the distant cries of unseen birds. The deeper they went, the quieter the world seemed to become—until the only sounds were their footsteps and the occasional grunt as they navigated tangled roots or climbed low hills.

Eventually, after what felt like an hour or more, the trees began to thin. The slope evened out. And just beyond a final curtain of foliage, the woods opened up.

A clearing.

It wasn’t large—just a humble pocket of land nestled in the embrace of the forest—but it was enough. Makeshift tents had been set up in scattered groups, sewn together from tarps, blankets, and whatever scraps people had managed to salvage. Campfires crackled in stone rings, their smoke rising lazily into the sky. Pots boiled. Water was being purified. The faint scent of something cooking—root vegetables, maybe—drifted through the air.

But it wasn’t the tents that caught Steve’s attention. Nor the fires. Nor the sound of someone softly humming nearby.

It was the people.

Dozens of them—men, women, children—gathered together in little clusters. Some sat close, sharing whispered words. Others lay down with blankets draped over thin shoulders, eyes distant. Faces were gaunt, hollowed out by fear and hunger, and yet... there was something in their eyes.

A flicker.

A spark.

Hope.

Steve’s breath caught in his throat. He sank to his knees without thinking, laughter spilling from him—not loud or wild, but quiet and disbelieving. The kind of laugh someone lets out when the weight on their chest finally lifts.

He bowed his head, fingers interlocked, eyes stinging. "Thank God," he muttered under his breath.

The others joined him, standing just behind, eyes wide as they took it in.

It wasn’t much. The survivors were weary, fragile, and the camp was barely holding together.

But they were alive.

They had made it...although barely.

Steve exhaled shakily. The town wasn’t completely gone after all.

Not yet.