Zombie survivor

[63] Just life

The fire crackled softly in the quiet desert night, the flames dancing against the cool breeze. The others were asleep, scattered around the camp in makeshift bedding, their exhaustion finally overpowering the weight of their grief. Jean sat near the fire, his knees drawn up to his chest, staring into the flames as if they held answers to questions he didn't know how to ask.

Morgan sat across from him, her back leaning against a crate, her legs stretched out in front of her. Her posture was relaxed, but her sharp eyes constantly scanned the shadows beyond the firelight, her fingers twitching near the holster at her hip. After a few minutes of silence, she reached into her jacket and pulled out a can of food, tossing it toward Jean.

He startled slightly, catching the can with fumbling hands. "What's this for?"

"Dinner," Morgan said simply, pulling another can for herself. She flipped open her knife and began prying at the lid.

Jean shook his head, setting the can down beside him. "I'm not hungry."

Morgan's hand froze mid-motion, and she looked at him with a raised eyebrow. "You're not hungry," she repeated, her tone skeptical. "You haven't eaten since... what? The RV? Before the bridge?"

"I said I'm fine," Jean muttered, his gaze fixed on the fire.

Morgan's expression hardened. She leaned forward, picked up the can, and shoved it into his lap. "Eat."

Jean looked up at her, confused and irritated. "I said I'm not—"

"Eat," she interrupted, her voice cold but firm. "I'm not letting you turn into dead weight because you want to starve yourself out of guilt or whatever the fuck you're doing right now."

Jean glared at her but didn't argue further. With a sigh, he grabbed the can and opened it, taking a reluctant bite of the cold, tasteless contents. It wasn't much, but the act of eating forced him to focus on something other than the heaviness in his chest.

Morgan leaned back again, lighting a cigarette. The flicker of her lighter briefly illuminated her face, revealing the lines of exhaustion and something deeper—something that didn't quite reach her eyes but lingered beneath the surface. She took a long drag, exhaling a plume of smoke into the night.

Jean ate in silence, the tension between them heavy. Finally, Morgan broke the quiet.

"I'll tell you why I saved you," she said, her voice low but steady.

Jean paused mid-bite, looking up at her. "What?"

"The gas station," Morgan clarified, tapping ash from her cigarette. "You've been wondering, right? Why the hell I stepped in. Why I didn't just keep riding."

Jean swallowed hard, his throat dry. "I mean... yeah," he admitted quietly. "I figured you just... didn't want to see a bunch of kids get killed."

Morgan chuckled darkly, shaking her head. "That'd be a nice story, wouldn't it?" She took another drag of her cigarette, her gaze fixed on the distant horizon. "But no. It's not that simple."

Jean set the can down, his appetite forgotten. He didn't speak, letting her continue at her own pace.

"Ten years ago," Morgan began, her voice taking on a distant quality, "I was part of a Ranger squad. We were deployed in a shithole country—classified, so don't bother asking where. Mission was simple enough: intel retrieval, quick extraction."

She took another drag, the ember of her cigarette glowing in the dark. "But shit hit the fan. Terrorists ambushed us. Blew up the convoy with IEDs, snipers picking off survivors. Total bloodbath."

Jean's eyes widened slightly, but he stayed silent, his full attention on her.

Morgan's jaw tightened, and she stared into the fire as she continued. "I wasn't there. You know why?" She let out a bitter laugh. "Because I had a fucking stomach ache. Some shitty local food the night before. I was stuck in the infirmary, throwing up my guts while my squad was out there getting torn apart."

Jean opened his mouth to speak but couldn't find the words. Morgan's voice hardened, the bitterness seeping into every word.

"Sixteen people. Every single one of them dead. And me? Sitting on a fucking cot, useless. The only one left because I ate bad curry."

She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, the cigarette dangling between her fingers. "I quit after that. Couldn't do it anymore. Went stateside, bought a farm, and drowned myself in booze and cigarettes. Every night, I'd see their faces. Hear them screaming. And every night, I'd think, 'If I'd been there, maybe I could've done something.'"

Jean finally found his voice, though it came out as little more than a whisper. "It wasn't your fault."

Morgan's laugh was sharp and humorless. "Doesn't feel that way. Survivors' guilt, they call it. Feels like carrying a fucking anchor everywhere you go. And no matter how much you drink, or smoke, or fight, it doesn't go away."

She leaned back, staring up at the stars. "That's why I stepped in. At the gas station. Because maybe... just maybe, saving you lot was a chance to even the scales. To do something right."

Jean shifted uncomfortably, her words cutting deep. "You didn't have to do that," he said softly. "Risk your life for us. You didn't even know us."

Morgan's gaze snapped back to him, sharp and piercing. "You think I don't know what it's like to feel helpless? To watch people die because you couldn't do shit to stop it?" Her voice softened slightly, but it carried the weight of her pain. "You don't leave people behind. Not if you can help it."

Jean looked down, his hands tightening into fists. "But Luca—"

"Made his choice," Morgan interrupted, her tone firm but not unkind. "We're all going to lose people, kid. That's just the way it is. Doesn't mean you stop fighting."

Jean's shoulders slumped, the weight of her words settling heavily on him. "I just don't know how we're supposed to keep going," he admitted, his voice cracking. "It feels like everything we do is pointless."

Morgan extinguished her cigarette against the edge of the crate, the ember hissing softly before going dark. "You keep going because stopping isn't an option," she said simply. "Because if you stop, then everything really is pointless."

Jean looked up at her, his eyes searching hers for something—anything—that could make sense of the chaos. Morgan met his gaze, and for a moment, the hardness in her expression softened.

"It doesn't get easier," she said quietly. "But you learn to carry it. Piece by piece."

The fire crackled between them, the desert night stretching on, cold and vast. Jean nodded slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly.

"Thanks," he said, his voice barely audible.

Morgan didn't reply. She simply leaned back against the crate, her eyes scanning the horizon once more as the night pressed in around them.

Q: Do you agree with the saying: Life doesn't get easier, you just get tougher?