- Always be hospitable.

  - Until they give you a reason not to.

  - Remember: Jesus washed the feet of strangers. Doesn’t mean you can’t keep a knife in your back pocket while doing it.

  ---

  We were putting the finishing touches on The Fortress—our new digs. Still smelled faintly of dust, blood, and old bandit sweat, but hey, it had walls and an indoor toilet that didn’t require a flashlight and a bat. Progress.

  We were in the middle of arguing over whether we should make the food storage a “pantry” or a “rations hub” (Jules insisted that words matter) when there was a knock.

  Like, an actual knock. Three polite taps on the front gate.

  Naturally, we froze like cats hearing the can opener at 3AM.

  “I swear to God,” Jules muttered, already reaching for her pistol, “if this is some Unity Group honey trap—”

  “Who knocks?” I asked, squinting toward the gate. “It’s the apocalypse. You either barge in or scream for help.”

  “Maybe it’s a Jehovah’s Witness,” Alex said, pulling on her gloves. “Come to talk about our Lord and Savior while the world burns.”

  Gail didn’t say anything. He just started walking toward the gate, and we followed.

  Behind the metal bars stood a young guy—twenties maybe. Shaggy dark hair, backpack that had clearly been through hell, and a tired, sunburnt face that was somehow still smiling.

  “Hi,” he called, giving a little wave. “My name’s Harun. I’m not infected. Or armed. Or, uh, crazy. I was wondering if you could spare some water, or shelter. I don’t mind chores.”

  Goddamn it. He was polite. That made this way harder.

  This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

  We let him in. But not all the way. We ushered him into what we called the "Reception Room," which is a generous name for Gail’s makeshift interrogation chamber—concrete walls, steel chair, and a bolted table with an eyelet for zip ties.

  To Harun’s credit, he didn’t even flinch.

  “This room feels very… secure,” he said as he sat, blinking at the one-way mirror (that was actually a window from the supply room). “Like a dentist's office. If the dentist was Batman.”

  He smiled again. Dude was weirdly cheerful for a guy walking into a potential murder basement.

  “I like him,” I muttered.

  “You also like instant ramen and movies with The Rock in them,” Gail said flatly. “Your judgment is flawed.”

  Still, we decided to do the thing. The “Clown Cop and Brood Cop” routine. Gail, in full dark-and-brooding mode, stood silently behind me like a wall with trauma. I took the lead, channeling every late-night talk show host I ever watched.

  “So,” I said, folding my arms and leaning on the table, “Harun. Is that your real name or your apocalypse name? ‘Cause mine was gonna be Phoenix Rain, but apparently that’s ‘trying too hard.’”

  “No, it’s my real name,” he said, genuinely amused. “From Bosnia. You ever been?”

  “Only in Google maps,” I replied. “You got any ID?”

  “I have a character sheet with my name on it. Does that count?”

  This was off to a weirdly good start.

  We asked the basics. Just first name only. He said Harun again, like he hadn’t changed his mind mid-conversation. Born in Sarajevo. Normal childhood. Loving parents. (Gail side-eyed me at that part. Like he didn’t believe those existed.)

  Education? Business management. "I hated every second of it, but I was good at Excel."

  Eight months of survival story? He flew in to visit some friends in Ohio. A vacation. Just some light DnD, hangouts, maybe get food poisoning from a local diner. Then the world ended. His friends were in Michigan when the outbreak hit. He’s been alone since.

  “Eight months,” Gail said, finally speaking. “Alone?”

  “I’m very good at running away,” Harun said cheerfully. “Also hiding in trees. Zombies don’t look up. It’s like Skyrim bandits.”

  “God, I miss Skyrim,” I sighed. “Do you have any experience with… groups?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Harun said. “I ran into a few survivor enclaves. One guy wanted to start a new civilization. Had a flag and everything. Another group made me eat soup with undisclosed meat.”

  “Willingly?”

  “It was a dare. And I was hungry.”

  When we brought up Unity Group, his whole demeanor shifted. Still calm, but serious now.

  “They’re like a cult,” he said. “All that ‘Unity through obedience’ stuff. Saw them once. Got the hell out before they saw me.”

  “You sure you’re not one of them?”

  Harun looked genuinely confused. “Why would I be this charming if I was with them?”

  “Spies can be charming,” Gail said.

  “True,” Harun nodded. “But they also usually don’t wear Pokémon socks.”

  He raised his pant leg. Yep. Conkeldurr, right there. Faded but proud.

  Back in the observation room, Jules and Alex watched. I knew they were listening, whispering their votes.

  I stood up and looked at Gail.

  “Well?”

  “He’s either an idiot or honest. Maybe both,” Gail muttered.

  “Great,” I said. “My favorite combo.”

  We left the room and joined Alex and Jules. They looked... confused.

  “You didn’t threaten him once,” Alex said to Gail.

  “I didn’t feel the need,” he replied.

  “That’s worse,” Jules muttered.

  We voted. Alex and I gave the thumbs up. Jules reluctantly agreed, mostly because she couldn’t figure out how a Unity spy would fake Pokémon socks. Gail… didn’t object. Which, for him, was basically a bear hug.

  We let Harun out of the room. He stretched like he’d just finished yoga and smiled at us all.

  “Does this mean I’m hired?”

  “Not yet,” I said. “But you’re on probation.”

  “Cool,” he said. “Do I get a bunk?”

  “You get a closet with a mattress in it.”

  “Luxury.”

  “Chores start tomorrow.”

  “I make great soup.”

  God help me, I liked him already.