We had the morning, maybe half the afternoon, before someone came knocking.

  So we used every second.

  First stop: the apartment laundry room. Harun struck up a chat with an older woman folding clothes, told her he was just looking for detergent, that kind of thing. I ducked into the supply closet while she ranted about how hard it was to get soap that didn’t smell like hand sanitizer.

  Empty.

  No hidden rooms, no scribbled notes, no bloodied shirts tucked away.

  Next stop: the market’s backend. Harun asked a vendor about the produce, where they grew it, how they kept it fresh. I watched their eyes, their shoulders. Too casual. Practiced.

  And the answers? Too clean.

  “Oh, we have some rooftop greenhouses. There’s a team that handles crop cycles,” the vendor said, handing Harun a sample slice of dried mango.

  Right. Because rooftop agriculture can support hundreds.

  We scouted behind the mall next. Loading docks. Trash areas. Found two guards laughing over a game of cards. Their rifles leaned against the wall casually. Harun tripped on purpose to peek inside a supply bin.

  Just food. Canned stuff, vacuum-sealed meat, water. Good loot. Too good.

  We whispered about it over a game of chess back in the apartment.

  “No bodies. No punishment boards. Not even a warning list,” I said. “This isn’t how survival works.”

  “They could be really organized,” Harun offered.

  “Or someone’s cleaning it up before we see it.”

  “We need more time.”

  And that’s exactly what we didn’t get.

  A knock at the door. Friendly. Like always.

  “Gentlemen,” a voice called through. “The colony leader would like to meet you now.”

  Harun and I shared a glance.

  Here we go.

  ---

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  The walk to the colony leader’s building took ten minutes, but it felt longer.

  We passed more patrols, all casual. All calm. They nodded at us like we were neighbors.

  When we reached the building, a retrofitted bank, it looked less like a war bunker and more like a City Hall that never got the memo the world ended. Potted plants. Polished floors. Reception desk.

  The guard opened a door to the main office. “He’s inside.”

  I stepped in first. Harun followed.

  The room was warm. Cozy, even. Bookshelves lined the walls. A whiteboard mapped out crops and housing units. A record player in the corner played lo-fi jazz.

  Behind the desk sat a man in his forties. Neatly dressed. Button-up sleeves rolled. Calm eyes. Balding just slightly. A weathered warmth to his smile.

  “Elliot. Harun. It’s good to meet you both,” he said, standing to shake our hands. “I’m Mason. One of the coordinators here.”

  “Nice place you’ve got,” I said, shaking his hand.

  “Thanks. Took a lot of sweat to build it into something safe.”

  He gestured for us to sit. We did.

  Mason folded his hands, leaned in slightly.

  “I know you’ve probably got a thousand questions. But I have one, just one, before anything else.”

  He smiled. Not kindly. Not cruelly.

  Just…calm.

  “What are you looking for?”

  ---

  Harun answered first, with that golden-boy charm of his that made even death seem polite.

  “We heard the broadcast,” he said, fingers loosely folded on his lap. “We’ve been moving around a lot. Thought it wouldn’t hurt to meet people who sounded…well, sane.”

  Mason chuckled. “Glad we don’t come off as completely deranged on air.”

  “You really don’t,” Harun said with a grin. “Your infrastructure’s impressive. The tour earlier, very kind. Honestly, we’re hoping you’re open to trade. We have a few contacts, and we’re looking to branch out. Allies. Supplies. Mutual growth.”

  Smooth. Friendly. A wet puppy in human skin.

  Then I leaned forward just a little, slow and steady.

  “We’re not here to join the Collective,” I said. Flat. Cold. Precise. “We’re here to see if we can work with it. Independently.”

  Mason looked between us. His smile thinned, but it didn’t vanish.

  “Appreciate the honesty,” he said carefully.

  I shrugged and said nothing. Just gave him the Gail Special?. A soft grunt and a non-committal nod. Mason’s attention returned to Harun, just like we hoped it would.

  Harun smiled wider. “It’s really not a ‘no’ forever kind of thing. We just want to understand how things work here. We have our own community. Small, but tight. It’s home. So if we ever did partner, it’d have to be on even terms.”

  “That’s fair,” Mason said. “We’re always open to dialogue. You’re not the first to visit us with that mindset.”

  Harun leaned in like he was confiding a secret. “If I’m being honest, Elliot’s a little…cautious.”

  I raised an eyebrow at him.

  He kept going. “He’s very good at what he does. But trust takes him time.”

  “I get it,” Mason said. “You’d be amazed how many people walk in smiling and leave with half your food and none of their morals.”

  “I believe it,” I said. My first actual words since the opening statement.

  Mason tilted his head. “You two always tag-team this way?”

  Harun laughed. “Only when it works.”

  I grunted again. Gail would’ve been proud.

  Mason offered them both glasses of water. Harun accepted graciously. I let the glass sit in front of me untouched. Let him notice that too.

  “Then let me return the gesture,” Mason said. “We’ve been calling ourselves the Collective, but it’s really a patchwork. Five main colonies. Ours is the largest, and we keep lines open with the others. That’s what the broadcasts are for. We trade, we share intel, and once a month, the five leaders meet to vote on bigger policies.”

  Harun nodded like a diplomat. “So no top-down authority?”

  “Not exactly,” Mason said. “Each colony self-governs. I coordinate joint decisions. You could say I’m the moderator, not the king.”

  “Sounds ideal,” I said quietly.

  “But still centralized enough to organize against a threat?” Harun added quickly.

  Mason smiled again. “We do what we can. Why?”

  “No reason,” I lied.

  Harun smiled and changed the subject smoothly. “How do you manage food so efficiently? We saw greenhouses, but it seemed too small for the population.”

  Mason didn’t miss a beat. “We trade for bulk. A few partners in Amish territory, believe it or not. They’ve adapted.”

  Harun whistled. “Didn’t expect that.”

  Neither did I. But I didn’t let my face betray anything.

  The meeting lasted another twenty minutes. Mostly Harun. Harun this, Harun that. Laughs and polite questions. While I observed, silence and side-eye, every nod calculated.

  By the time we left, Mason was relaxed again. Offered us a crate of dry rations as a gesture of goodwill. Harun thanked him with both hands. I just said:

  “Appreciated.”

  And we left.

  Back in the apartment, when the door closed behind us, Harun exhaled.

  “That was... something,” he muttered.

  “They like you.”

  He smiled sheepishly. “Hard not to, right?”

  I raised an eyebrow.

  He raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. But hey. I got us a month's worth of dried chili mac and green beans. That counts for something.”

  “Still doesn't tell us what they’re hiding.”

  He sobered. “But it tells us how they’re hiding it.”