The night was calm.
Too calm.
Crickets chirped faintly beyond the cracked windows of the colony house, now their safe haven. Moonlight filtered in through thin curtains, casting soft shadows across the old wooden floors. Everyone was asleep. The hallway was quiet, the kind of quiet that you didn't question—until it broke.
A slow, low creak echoed from the front door.
It wasn't much. Just a sound.
But Asharab's eyes flew open in an instant.
His senses, honed by weeks of survival, went on high alert. He sat up, listening. The wind outside rustled again, followed by the soft click...clack of something stepping on wood. Heavy. Uneven.
His breath hitched. That wasn't the wind.
That was footsteps.
Asharab grabbed the shawl that put beside his makeshift bed. He padded quietly into the hallway. The door—the one he had specifically told his best friend to double-check—was half open. Swinging slightly. Moonlight shone into the living room, and standing just past the threshold was a shadow.
A rotting, shuffling shadow.
A zombie.
Its head tilted. Its hollow, sunken eyes scanned the dark until it caught sight of movement. It let out a low, gurgled moan and stumbled forward—toward the bedrooms.
Asharab's heart clenched. His family was in there. Habiba was in there.
"No you don't," he growled under his breath, rushing forward.
Asharab's eyes flew open at the sound of a groan.
A zombie—inside the house.
He bolted into the hallway. The front door was half open. And there it was—lurching toward the bedrooms.
His family.
Habiba.
With no weapon nearby, Asharab tore off his shawl, twisted it tight, and charged. He slammed the zombie against the wall, then looped the shawl around its neck, yanking it backward with all his strength.
It screeched, clawing wildly.
Asharab dragged it, step by step, toward the metal table.
"You—picked—the—wrong—house!"
He slammed its head onto the table. CRACK."THERE—" CRACK."YOU—" CRUNCH."GO!"
The skull caved in on the final blow. The zombie collapsed, limp and dead.
Breathing hard, Asharab dropped the bloody shawl. Behind him, Habiba stood in shock.
He looked at her, voice steady. "It's dead. You're safe."
Then he turned toward the open gate outside.
Eyes narrowing.Something wasn't right.
"Dammit," "I knew that door looked off."
Behind him, the bedroom door creaked open.
"ASHARAB?" Habiba's voice was a shaky whisper.
He turned just as she ran to him, her arms wrapping tightly around his chest. She didn't care about the blood. "Are you okay?!"
"I'm fine. I got it before it got close to you all." He rested a hand gently on her back, letting her breathe into his chest.
"I heard something. Then a groan. I thought—" she broke off, clutching him tighter. "I thought I lost you."
He stroked her hair. "Not tonight. Not ever if I can help it."
From another room, his best friend stumbled out, hair wild, holding a frying pan like a weapon. "Yo! Who's dying?! What did I miss?!"
Asharab glanced at the zombie corpse. "Just the guest we didn't invite."
"I leave one door slightly open and BAM—one zombie waltzes in," his friend muttered. "This is why I prefer rooftops."
Asharab rolled his eyes and pulled the body outside. The gate creaked in the wind... open. Wide open.
He stared out into the darkness, scanning the trees and distant shadows.
"We locked that," he muttered.
"Yeah," his best friend said behind him, "we did."
They exchanged a glance. Something felt wrong. Like someone—or something—had let the creature in.
But for now, there were no more moans. No more shuffles.
Just silence.
The next morning, sunlight bathed the colony house in golden warmth. The events of the night lingered, but the fear had passed. Mostly.
The family sat together for breakfast in the old dining room—an ancient wooden table with mismatched chairs, a chipped teapot at its center, and the smell of toasted flatbread and herbs filling the air.
Asharab's mother placed a plate in front of him. "My brave son, fighting monsters in the night. Didn't even stop to put on shoes."
"I was busy saving all your lives," Asharab said, raising a brow.
"And hugging Habiba," his best friend added with a wink.
Habiba coughed into her tea. "For the record, I hugged him. He just stood there like a dramatic statue."
"I was processing trauma," Asharab said dryly.
"Trauma, huh?" his best friend teased. "You looked pretty relaxed for someone holding a bloodied machete and a girl."
Asharab glared. "Do you want to clean zombie guts off the porch or should I?"
Habiba grinned. "It's okay. I think it was kind of heroic."
Asharab froze mid-bite. "Wait—what?"
She leaned closer, her hand slipping over his on the table. "You, shirtless, covered in blood, saving my life? Kinda hot."
"OH GOD," his best friend groaned. "Someone throw me back to the zombies. I don't want to hear this."
Asharab was too stunned to respond. His ears turned a deep shade of red.
His sister giggled from across the table. "Are you guys dating now or just flirting with trauma bonding?"
His dad chuckled behind his teacup. "Either way, I'll need a dowry. Or at least another zombie-fight to seal the deal."
Asharab covered his face. "This is why I never talk."
Habiba leaned in further, enjoying the moment. "It's okay. I'll talk for you."
"God help me," he muttered.
His best friend smirked. "Hey, man. I'm proud of you. One minute you're slicing up a rotting corpse, next minute you're holding hands over breakfast. Real range."
Asharab tried to stay composed. "She grabbed my hand."
"Oh, sure. Just like the zombie grabbed your leg—pure coincidence," his friend said.
Habiba laughed so hard she nearly spilled her tea.
Asharab sighed but smiled quietly. Despite the teasing, despite the horror of the night before, something warm was growing here. They weren't just surviving anymore. They were laughing. Living.
After breakfast, they all helped tidy up. Asharab patched up the gate, hammering the old hinges while his best friend "supervised" from a lawn chair with sunglasses he found in a drawer.
"I feel like a suburban dad," he said, sipping weak tea from a chipped mug.
"You feel like a deadbeat dad," Asharab replied, not looking up.
Habiba came by, carrying fresh bandages. "Need help?"
Asharab looked down at her soft smile, the way the morning light played in her eyes.
"Yeah," he said. "Always."
She helped him tie a fresh wrap over a small cut on his forearm. He winced.
"Big strong hero afraid of little bandages?" she teased.
"I fought a zombie last night," he grumbled.
"And now you're fighting feelings," she whispered.
He shot her a look. "Don't make me pull the machete again."
She tousled his hair and walked away.
The fear would come again. The threats would return.
But here, in Havenfall, with teasing and love and breakfast jokes, they had something more powerful than any apocalypse:
Each other.