It started with a muted clinking.

My sleep-laden mind conjured a metal spatula in a frying pan. I imagined my father cooking dinner, with rich spices wafting through our tiny house, and my stomach squeezed out a pitiful groan. When the clinking became a metallic rattle, I was the one cooking, and the frying pan and spatula had tipped off of the stove and clattered to the ground. Still cloaked in remnants of sleep, I chanted a panicked command. Clean it up fast before Father finds out.

When the howling began, I snapped fully awake.

I twisted toward the window, shoulders aching in protest, but the faint moonlight revealed nothing. The howling crescendoed, eerie shrieks dropping off into guttural moans, punctuated by arrhythmic jangling like a chained beast. 

With a cold sweep of dread, I remembered Recluse’s calm explanation.

A group of Overcooked has been rattling my fence each night.

The sounds grew still louder, snarls and groans and ringing coming from all sides. I had seen Overcooked before, but never this many, and only in the South. 

They were the reason I left.

The rattling continued long into the night, lulling occasionally only to return even louder than before. When I finally fell back asleep, I dreamed of broken fingernails and rotting teeth ripping apart my flesh. Help, I screamed at a retreating silhouette with a rifle and a bionic leg. You can’t just leave me here.

Watch me, he replied.

* * *

The morning passed slowly. Sunlight peeked through the high slatted window, gradually spilling color over the room. A leopard-fur rug stretched across mahogany floorboards, white dust clung to the gray stone hearth, and orange light striped the cordless space heater.

I crossed my boot over my other knee to examine the bandage. Dried blood sponged across the white, crisping the bandage. I dropped that foot and lifted the shoeless one, studying the pink scabs from the Infected’s fingernails. I had never actually seen a person change into an Infected before. Maybe fluid needed to be exchanged. Blood? Saliva?

If an Infected bit me tonight, I hoped I got the chance to kiss Recluse goodbye.

Each time I heard footsteps outside the door, my muscles clenched in anticipation. However, when the door finally opened, the aroma overpowered my fear. My stomach doubled over, saliva flooded my dry mouth, and my mind sang out a single reverent word.

Food.

As Recluse neared me, I tracked the bowl in his calloused hands. He stopped in front of me and sifted the fork through the bowl, sending up billows of steam. I squeezed my eyes shut, but I could not block out the smell. 

“Recluse, if… if you are not giving that to me, please get it out of here. I can’t —”

“I’ll give it to you.”

I opened my eyes one at a time and lifted my gaze to meet his. “You will?”

“If you answer my questions.”

My stomach grumbled noisily, and I jerked my head in a nod. “Ask me anything.”

“What do you know about the Cutthroat Crew?”

I blinked. “Not much. I know they used to be the wealthiest group around, but their supplies are dwindling.”

His brown eyes pierced me, and I had the uncanny notion I was being dissected. “Anything else? Think carefully, Southie.”

I started to shake my head no but then stopped, remembering Greaseball’s promise before his not-so-unfortunate demise. “I heard they plan to take your fortress.”

A pause, and then a slow nod. “Good. Did they ever request your help?”

I scowled. “You really think they would enlist a Southie?”

“No, but I do wonder where you learned that information.”

Well, shit. An omission might have raised suspicion, but giving the truth might have been even worse. I chewed my lip before attempting a reply.  

“I met with a man from the Cutthroat Crew recently, and he… he was explaining how he could soon pay more for, um…”

Eyes not leaving mine, Recluse said softly, “For what?”

I dipped my head as heat rose to my cheeks. “Me.”

A long moment passed in silence, and I fought the urge to squirm. I never usually felt ashamed by what I did to survive, but the scrutiny of someone so unaffected by the apocalypse cast the memories in a different light. Guess he now knew how someone so pathetic survived eight years of apocalypse.

“I think we can move on to the next question,” I whispered.

“Right.” The word came out a bit strained, but then he cleared his throat and evened his tone. “How did you get over my fence?”

I furrowed my brow. “I… don’t know what you mean. I just climbed.”

“The fence is twenty feet high, and the top is covered with barbed wire.”

“I climbed carefully.”

His free hand slid up to rest on his hip. “You said you’re not skilled at anything. Where did you learn to climb like that?”

My mind flashed over suppressed memories of sprinting out of the house and scrambling up into the safety of a tree. I swallowed back a swell of saliva, appetite now tainted by nausea. Infinite Ether, earning this food was turning out to be challenging.

“I climbed a lot as a kid.”

He studied me in silence for a moment before speaking again. “And how did you figure out the combination for my cellar door?”

I shrugged. “It’s three numbers long. That’s only a thousand possibilities.” 

He huffed a snort. “You mean to tell me you sat right outside my fortress and tried a thousand different combinations?” 

“No,” I said. “I tried five hundred twenty-seven combinations.”

I could have sworn the barest hint of a smile teased his lips before his face returned to stone. “Alright.”

I raised my eyebrows, still wary. “Alright, you’ll feed me?”

“Yeah, I’ll feed you — again. I’m going to untie your hands, but don’t fucking try anything. I don’t want to waste any more ammo.”

My mind concocted a sarcastic apology for stealing his precious bullet, but my stomach vetoed it. “I won’t,” I promised.

Recluse strode behind me and latched a hand over my forearm, his skin warm and rough. His other hand picked at the knot. When the rope slipped free, I brought my arms around in front of me and massaged my wrists where the rope had carved spiraling indents. Recluse appeared in front of me again and extended the bowl. 

I reached out in slow, spasmodic movements as though approaching a hissing snake. When my fingers closed over the bowl, I yanked it into my lap and shoveled a forkful into my mouth.

Fluffy rice, salty vegetables, and a few chunks of lean meat ground down under my quick mastication. As my throat still worked to swallow the first bite, I forked in another. And another.

Recluse edged one step toward me and rumbled a harsh command. “Stop.”

My body refused to obey. When I attacked the rice a fifth time, Recluse snatched my wrist. 

The heat and power of his grip sparked an old fear in my gut, and I flinched back in anticipation. The food bowl slipped to my knees and teetered before Recluse steadied it. Then he released my wrist, slid the bowl back to the center of my lap, and lowered his voice.

“Easy, hey? You eat that fast, you won’t hold it down, and I don’t like my food wasted.”

I sifted the fork back and forth through the rice but resisted loading up another bite. “Isn’t feeding me already a waste?”

He huffed a laugh through his nose. “Well, the Infected prefer live bait.”

My dreams from the night before breached my mind, and I squeezed the bowl in both hands to hide a tremor. “You’re feeding me now so you can feed the Overcooked tonight.”

His brow creased slightly. “The mines will blow them up before they reach you… probably.”

“How reassuring. And if I do survive, then what?”

“Then I’ll cut you loose and call it even.”

My fingers tightened over the fork, and I swallowed. “But I don’t even know if I can walk.”

He tilted his head and pursed his lips in a facial shrug. “That’s not my problem.”

I released the fork with a bitter laugh and a shake of my head. “It’s true what they say about you, isn’t it? You really did sip tea and smile as you watched humanity fall apart.”

“Nope,” he said. “I sipped whiskey.”