Chapter Twenty-Four: A Gathering of Strays

In a world where monsters could talk and systems could dictate your survival, he wasn’t sure what to expect. He gestured for the others to stay quiet, then moved cautiously toward the doorway, his boots crunching softly on the gritty floor.

Craig stepped up beside him, his expression unreadable but his grip on the nearest tool—a rusted pipe—firm. Darren stayed near the workbench, his stance low and ready, tension written in the tight line of his jaw. Joel could feel a static charge about him.

The first sign of the newcomers was the sound of crunching boots on gravel, faint at first but growing louder. Then voices grew louder, clearer, as if whoever they belonged to was getting closer. Joel pressed his back against the wall beside the door, the cool metal chilling his skin through his shirt. He strained to make out the words, but all he caught were fragments—enough to know they weren’t screaming for help, but not enough to make sense of what they were saying.

Then a shadow moved across the thin line of light seeping under the door.

Whoever they were, they were just outside.

Joel, Craig, and Darren stood frozen for a moment. The tension that had lingered after the system’s demands flared anew, every muscle in Joel’s body coiling tight.

Craig lingered by Joel’s side, the quiet weight of the moment pressing between them. Joel glanced sideways at Craig, noting the tension in his friend’s shoulders, the subtle way his fingers flexed like he was trying to shake off the weight of something unseen.

Joel stepped closer, his voice low and pointed. “You’ve got a card too, Craig. Why haven’t you used it?”

Craig glanced at him, startled. “What, the chain thing?”

Joel nodded, folding his arms. “Yeah. I am guessing you’ve had it since the rig. You know, the merger.”

Craig shrugged, looking almost sheepish. “I didn’t think it’d... I don’t know, do much. It’s just a chain.”

Joel arched his brow. “Just a chain? The system doesn’t hand out cards for nothing, Craig. That chain could save your life—or ours. Maybe it’s time you see what it can actually do.”

Craig frowned, the weight of Joel’s words sinking in. “I guess... I’ve just been holding off. Don’t want to screw it up, you know?”

Joel rested a hand on his shoulder and whispered, “You’re not going to screw it up. But you’re not going to know what you’re capable of unless you try. Trust it—and yourself.”

Craig exhaled slowly, then nodded, his jaw tightening. “All right. Let’s see what this thing’s made of.”

Joel stepped back, watching as Craig began to summon his card, his fingers brushing against its surface. The faint hum of the system stirred in the air, and Joel couldn’t help but feel a flicker of anticipation. Whatever happened next, they’d face it together.

The voices reached them before the people did—tired, anxious murmurs, but unmistakably human. Joel stepped outside, Craig and Darren flanking him as the first figures emerged from the tree line.

The group staggered into the view like ghosts from a forgotten world, their steps uneven and weary. Nearly two dozen of them—oil workers and depot crew—stood in the clearing, their faces a canvas of dirt, sweat, and hollow-eyed exhaustion. Clothes were torn, smeared with grease and dried blood, the remnants of whatever horrors they had endured.

Some clutched makeshift weapons—wrenches, pry bars, even lengths of pipe—held more out of habit than readiness. Others came empty-handed, their fingers twitching, searching for something solid to grip in the face of the unknown. The faint glint of desperation in their eyes told stories of narrow escapes and hard decisions.

Joel’s gaze swept over the group, landing on a cluster of six he knew from the rig. Familiar faces, though now pale and gaunt, with dark shadows etched under their eyes. Survivors of the collapse. They carried themselves differently from the depot crew—more cautious, more guarded. As if one wrong move might shatter what little remained of their fragile hope.

One of them, a young woman named Sarah, clutched her left arm against her side, the fabric torn and soaked with dried blood. A burly man behind her kept his hand on her shoulder, steadying her when she stumbled, though his own legs seemed ready to give out. Another man limped forward, dragging a foot wrapped in strips of fabric—improvised bandages. His face twisted with every step, but he never stopped.

The depot crew fared no better. A wiry man near the back carried a toolbox strapped with frayed rope, its contents rattling faintly as he moved. Beside him, a middle-aged woman with ash-streaked hair kept glancing over her shoulder, flinching at every distant sound.

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They were a patchwork of broken people, held together by little more than the stubborn refusal to give up. Their stances were hesitant, their gazes flickering between the fires and the three men standing near the workbench. And yet, beneath the weariness, there was something else—something fragile but undeniable.

Hope.

Joel felt his throat tighten as he stepped forward. These people had seen hell, and yet they were here, searching for something—someone—to guide them. It wasn’t just survival they needed; it was a reason to believe that survival was worth it.

“Welcome,” Joel said quietly, the word feeling small against the weight of what they carried.

One by one, their eyes turned to him. Some softened, relief breaking through the exhaustion. Others held skepticism, uncertainty etched into the lines of their faces. But they stayed, rooted to the spot as if they didn’t dare risk losing whatever fragile sanctuary they had stumbled upon.

Joel’s heart ached for them. For all of them. Beaten down, broken—but not defeated. Not yet.

“Joel?” One of them, a driller named Ortiz, stepped forward, his voice rough from shouting or maybe from inhaling smoke. “You made it off the rig?”

“Barely,” Joel said, his voice steady despite the flood of emotions clawing at him. He looked over the group, taking in their haggard faces. “What about the rest of you? How—how did you get here?”

Ortiz shook his head, the shadows of grief flickering in his expression. “The rig... It’s gone. Collapsed into the water. Most didn’t make it. A few of us got to a lifeboat, drifted until we hit land, and then we just kept moving. Heard voices, saw the smoke. Figured someone had to be here.”

Joel nodded, he wanted to believe the man, swallowing the lump in his throat. “You’re safe now,” he said, though the weight of the words felt almost too heavy to carry. However, Joel thought to himself, “What about the monsters in the water?”

The depot survivors shared their own story—of hiding in the woods as chaos erupted, of avoiding the monsters, mainly the otters but there were a few others that stalked the edges of the forest. They’d lost people, too. Too many.

As they filtered into the depot, Joel watched Darren step into the centre of the group, his posture shifting into something more deliberate, more commanding.

“All right, listen up!” Darren’s voice cut through the din, steady and firm. “We’ve got shelter here. It’s not much, but it’s safe for now. If we’re going to make this work, we need to pull together. That means dividing up responsibilities—food, water, keeping watch. We’re not just surviving anymore. We’re rebuilding.”

The crowd quieted, their attention on him. Darren’s presence had shifted subtly since Joel handed him the Mother Otter’s card. There was a steadiness to him now, a kind of gravity that drew people in. Joel saw it clearly: Darren was the leader they needed here.

Joel stepped back, letting Darren take the reins. It wasn’t his place anymore, and he knew it.

As Darren organized the group, Joel slipped away, retreating to the work bench. He pulled out a battered notebook he’d scavenged from the workbench, flipping to a blank page.

Fort Saint John, he wrote the words scrawled across the top, stark and heavy.

He began sketching out the roughest of plans, jotting down supplies he’d need, distances he’d have to cover, and possible dangers along the way. His mind churned with questions. Could he make it through the wilderness? Would the system intervene again? Would there even be a home left waiting for him?

But despite the doubts, his resolve was unshakable. He had to get back. To Oliver. To their daughter.

As he worked, he let a part of his mind wander so dispare didn’t take over.

The scent of rain lingered in the air, the snow and hail storm outside tapping a soft rhythm against the windows. Joel sat on the worn couch in their small living room, his hands streaked with oil from an earlier repair job. Oliver leaned against the doorway, his dark eyes catching the low lamplight, a teasing smile playing on his lips.

“You’re filthy,” Oliver said, crossing the room.

Joel smirked, glancing down at his hands. “You don’t seem to mind.”

“I didn’t say that.” Oliver dropped into Joel’s lap, straddling him with an ease that made Joel’s heart pound. “But you could at least pretend to care about my standards.”

Joel raised a brow, his hands moving to Oliver’s hips. “Standards? You married me.”

Oliver laughed, the sound low and rich, and leaned in until their faces were inches apart. “Regrets already, huh?”

Joel’s lips found Oliver’s neck, trailing slow kisses upward until he reached his ear. “Not a chance.”

Oliver’s fingers threaded into Joel’s hair, pulling him closer as their mouths met, hot and demanding. Joel’s grip tightened on Oliver’s waist, the world outside fading until it was just the two of them, their breaths mingling, the heat of their connection drowning out everything else.

They broke apart for a moment, foreheads resting together, their smiles softer now.

“You’re getting oil on me,” Oliver murmured, his voice warm and teasing.

“Maybe you’ll need a shower then,” Joel shot back, his voice low.

Oliver’s laugh turned into a gasp as Joel’s hands slid under his shirt, rough fingers tracing the smooth planes of his back. The storm outside grew heavier, but inside, they created their own kind of storm, filled with whispers, laughter, and the unshakable certainty of their love.

The sound of footsteps interrupted his thoughts, and he looked up to see Craig approaching, hands shoved into his pockets. “You’re really leaving, aren’t you?” Craig asked, his tone more observation than question.

Joel nodded. “I can’t stay. This isn’t my fight.”

Craig studied him for a moment before nodding. “Fair enough. Just make sure you don’t get yourself killed, all right? Some of us are still rooting for you.”

A faint smile tugged at Joel’s lips. “Thanks, Craig. I’ll do my best.”

As the fire from the earlier burn pit smouldered low in the distance, Joel turned back to his notebook. There was no time to waste.

The journey home was waiting.