Zombie survivor

[78] Job search

The camp's dim firelight barely lit the area where the group had been left to sit on the ground. A few old blankets had been tossed their way—scratchy and moth-eaten—and the cold night air gnawed at them as they waited. Every one of them was exhausted, the adrenaline from earlier fading into a painful dull ache in their muscles and minds.

Morgan and Ms. Heather were huddled together, Morgan's arm clumsily wrapped in a bloodied bandage while Ms. Heather fussed over her like a mother hen. The teens, meanwhile, were silent for the most part, each lost in their own thoughts.

The sound of approaching footsteps broke the tense quiet. A man in his forties, wearing a patched military jacket and a permanent scowl, stopped in front of them, his arms crossed. His face was weathered, his beard scruffy, and his eyes sharp. He looked like someone who'd seen way too much shit and wasn't interested in hearing excuses.

"You the new arrivals?" he asked, his voice gravelly and tired.

"No, we're the fucking welcome committee," Tyler muttered under his breath, earning an elbow jab from Brad, who gave him a sharp glare.

The man's eyes narrowed. "What was that?"

"Nothing," Brad said quickly, forcing a fake smile. "He's just a dumbass. Ignore him."

The man didn't look convinced, but he moved on. "Name's Daryl. I handle logistics for this part of the camp. That means I figure out who's useful and who's dead weight."

"We're not dead weight," Jean said, standing a little straighter. "We've been through hell to get here. We're survivors."

Daryl snorted. "Surviving doesn't mean you're useful, kid. You're alive—good for you. Now tell me where the hell you came from."

Jean exchanged a glance with the others before answering. "We're... we're from L.A."

Daryl raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised. "L.A.? How the fuck did you make it this far? That place was one of the first to go under."

"Yeah, no shit," Brittany said, crossing her arms. "We kind of noticed when everything turned into, like, a zombie version of The Purge."

"Shut up, Bri," Tyler muttered. "He doesn't care about your running commentary."

Brittany rolled her eyes but didn't respond.

Daryl studied them for a moment, as if trying to figure out whether they were lying or just plain stupid. Finally, he let out a sigh. "Alright. You're here now. Doesn't matter how. What matters is whether you're worth keeping around."

Jean frowned. "We can work. We're not asking for handouts."

"Good," Daryl said, his tone clipped. "Because you won't be getting any. What skills do you have?"

The group froze, exchanging uncertain glances. Skills? None of them had really thought about that before. Surviving the apocalypse hadn't exactly left much time for vocational training.

"Uh... I mean," Brad started, rubbing the back of his neck. "I played football? So, like, I'm strong and shit."

Daryl's unimpressed stare could have melted steel. "Yeah, 'strong and shit' isn't exactly a trade, kid."

"Hey, I can carry stuff, alright?" Brad shot back, his frustration bubbling over. "I'll fucking lift whatever you need."

Daryl ignored him and turned to Chloe. "What about you?"

Chloe blinked, her expression shifting between confusion and indignation. "I, uh... I'm good at... organizing things?" she offered weakly.

"Organizing what? Your makeup bag?" Tyler quipped, earning a glare from Chloe.

"Shut up, Tyler," she snapped.

Daryl sighed and rubbed his temples. "This is gonna be a long night. Alright, next. You?" He pointed at Evan, who was sitting on the ground, nervously picking at the dirt under his nails.

Evan looked up, startled. "Me? Uh... I mean, I know a little bit about tech? Like, computers and shit?"

"You think we've got fucking Wi-Fi here?" Daryl asked flatly.

"Uh... no. But... I can fix things?" Evan tried, his voice growing smaller with each word.

"Fix what? The coffee machine we don't have?" Daryl's patience was clearly wearing thin. "Next."

He moved down the line, and the responses weren't much better. Tyler claimed he could "think of cool ideas," which earned him a sarcastic laugh from Daryl. Brittany tried to play up her social media influencer skills, which resulted in an audible groan from everyone within earshot. Akira simply stared at Daryl without saying a word, her knives still clutched in her hands, which seemed to unsettle him enough to move on without pressing her.

Finally, Daryl turned to Ms. Heather and Morgan. His expression softened just slightly when he saw the blood-stained bandages. "And what about you two?" he asked.

Ms. Heather gave him a weak smile, her usual bubbly demeanor dimmed by exhaustion. "I'm a teacher," she said. "And Morgan here is... well, she's hurt."

"I can see that," Daryl said gruffly. He motioned to one of the guards standing nearby. "Get them to the medic tent. They're no good to anyone like this."

The guard stepped forward, helping Ms. Heather and Morgan to their feet. Morgan winced but didn't protest as she was led away, her face pale and drawn. Ms. Heather glanced back at the teens with a reassuring smile.

"You'll be fine," she said softly. "Just do what they ask, okay?"

As soon as they were out of earshot, Daryl turned back to the group. "Alright. Here's how this is gonna work. None of you have any real skills, so you're all assigned to manual labor."

"Manual labor?" Brad repeated, his voice full of disdain. "What kind of manual labor?"

"Rebuilding the walls, hauling supplies, clearing debris—whatever we fucking tell you to do," Daryl replied, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Brittany groaned loudly. "Ugh, this is so bullshit. Do you know who I am?"

"Do you know who I am?" Daryl shot back, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "No? Then shut the fuck up and do your job."

Tyler snickered. "Yo, she got wrecked."

"Tyler, I swear to God," Brittany hissed, her face red with embarrassment.

Jean stepped forward, trying to diffuse the situation. "We'll do it. Whatever you need us to do. Just... tell us where to go."

Daryl nodded, clearly relieved to have at least one person in the group who wasn't a complete pain in the ass. "Good. You'll start tomorrow. For now, find a spot to crash. You'll need the rest."

"What about food?" Chloe asked, her tone sharper than she'd intended. "We haven't eaten all day."

Daryl gave her a look that could have frozen fire. "This ain't a fucking bed-and-breakfast. You work, you eat. Simple as that."

Chloe opened her mouth to argue, but Jean shot her a warning look. She huffed but stayed quiet.

"Alright, that's it," Daryl said, turning to leave. "Try not to fuck anything up while you're here. You're not prisoners, but you're not guests either. Remember that."

As Daryl walked away, the group sat in silence for a moment, the weight of their new reality settling over them like a suffocating blanket.

"Well," Brad said finally, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "This place is just fucking delightful."

"Better than being zombie chow," Jean said, leaning back against the wall. "For now, anyway."

Brittany flopped onto the ground, dramatically throwing her arm over her eyes. "If this is survival, I want a refund."

"Yeah, well, life's tough, princess," Tyler muttered. "Get used to it."

The group exchanged tired, wary looks as the camp settled into the quiet rhythm of the night. They weren't dead, and they weren't alone. But the fight for survival was far from over.

Q: What job assignment do you want?