Chapter 3: The Prophecy and the Parasite

“Welcome back.” Everett Brooks adjusted his glasses, nodding at Jace.

Everett was another ability holder I’d saved. He was sharp—always calculating, always managing the safe zone’s supplies with meticulous care.

Everett’s gaze landed on the kitten in my arms, and he frowned, lips pressed tight.

He always did that—like he was weighing the cost of every new mouth, even a kitten’s.

“Mara, why’d you bring something back again?”

His tone was half-scolding, half-resigned. He knew better than to expect anything different.

I blinked, hugging the kitten closer.

The kitten purred, nuzzling into my chest. I made my eyes wide and innocent.

“If I hadn’t saved it, it would’ve died.”

I lowered my head, gently stroking the kitten’s head.

It’s so pitiful—why shouldn’t I save it?

I have a soft spot for the weak. Maybe it’s a flaw, maybe a strength, but it’s mine.

Everett sighed, but there was a hint of fondness and helplessness in his voice.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking his head. “You always do this, Mara.”

“Not again next time. If you keep bringing things back, the safe zone will burst at the seams.”

He tried to sound stern, but I could hear the smile hiding underneath.

I promised, then took the kitten to the kitchen.

The kitchen was just the old home ec room, but we’d made it work. Pots hung from the ceiling, counters scrubbed clean. It almost felt like home.

The kitten growled, low and menacing, and a few black tentacles unfurled from its fur.

The tentacles writhed, sharp as knives, but only for a moment.

They aimed at Everett’s back, black fur bristling with protectiveness.

The kitten was fiercely loyal, eyes narrowed to slits.

“Easy, sweetheart. Don’t get mad.” I stroked the kitten’s chin, and only then did the tentacles retract.

The fur smoothed, the kitten relaxed, purring again. I scratched behind its ears, whispering nonsense.

After setting the kitten on the floor, I washed my hands and started dinner.

The water was cold, soap nearly gone, but I scrubbed until my hands were pink. The routine calmed me.

I chopped up squirrel meat, tossed it in chicken broth, sprinkled in a little salt—our simple dinner for the night.

The scent of broth filled the air, pushing back the usual odors of bleach and sweat. For a second, I remembered my mother’s kitchen, laughter echoing down the hall. I hummed a tune from some old commercial, letting it drift through the hallways.

When I finished, I tossed a slice of fresh, raw meat on the floor. The kitten padded over, stretched out its black tentacles to snatch the meat, and opened a wide mouth on its back to swallow it whole.

Anyone else would have screamed, but I just found it endearing. The kitten licked its lips, content.

The kitten really is adorable.

It rubbed against my feet, fur sticky with blood.

I grabbed a rag and wiped it down, laughing as it batted at my hand.

I set out soup and small bowls on a cart, humming as I wheeled it to the infirmary.

The wheels squeaked, bowls rattled. The sound was almost cheerful—a reminder that we were still here, still human.

Calling it an infirmary was generous. It was just a classroom, desks shoved aside, cots crammed in. The walls were plastered with faded motivational posters: "You can do it!" and "Never give up!" Somehow, I found them comforting.

Most of the people I brought back were injured, so they all stayed here.

Some had lost limbs, others just hope. I made my rounds every day, checking wounds, offering smiles.

The healthy ones took care of whatever needed doing in the safe zone. Ability holders went out to scavenge or fight monsters.

Most days, there weren’t many healthy people left—and even fewer ability holders. Sometimes I wondered how long we could keep this up.

Every day, I counted heads, afraid there’d be fewer tomorrow.

Everyone here was someone I’d brought back, just because I couldn’t bear to leave them behind.

I couldn’t help it. Seeing someone in pain, I had to do something. Maybe it was a compulsion. Or maybe it was just my excuse.

When people saw me, their faces lit up.

I was hope—or at least the illusion of it. I wore it like a badge.

I handed out bowls, ladling soup for each person.

The broth was thin, but I made sure everyone got some. I smiled at each person, calling them by name.

Someone tugged at my sleeve. I looked down and saw a little girl with only one eye.

Her hair was tangled, face smudged with dirt, but her gaze was steady.

She pointed to a woman sitting in the corner without feet—her mother, who lost her legs saving her daughter from monsters.

I understood, filled a bowl of soup, walked over, squatted down, and asked, "Can you eat by yourself?"

My voice was gentle, careful not to embarrass her. I offered the bowl, waiting.

The woman nodded, tears streaking her face.

Her hands shook as she took the bowl. She mouthed a thank you, voice breaking on the words.

“Thank you, Miss Mara, you’re so kind.” She choked out the words, eating the soup in big spoonfuls.

The little girl nodded, obedient as ever. She seemed especially drawn to the kitten, cradling it in her arms.

The kitten squirmed, but finally settled, purring softly.

The kitten fought for a while, then gave up and curled up in her arms.

It looked almost peaceful, eyes half-closed, tail flicking.

“Thank you for saving us, Miss Mara.” The girl came to my side and took a small yellow flower from her pocket.

It was a daisy, as bright and fresh as the girl herself.

I slipped the daisy into my pocket, fingers lingering on its petals.

I pressed it between my fingers, letting the scent linger. A reminder—there’s still beauty in the world, if you know where to look.

Just then, the bell at the gate rang—the signal the search team had returned.

The bell was a rusty old fire alarm, but its shrill clang was unmistakable. My heart leapt, relief and anxiety tangled together.

I chatted a bit with the wounded, then left.

The kitten broke free from the girl’s arms and padded after me, silent as a shadow.

Its paws made no sound on the tile, a little ghost at my heels.

Back in the main hall, besides the ability holders I knew, there was a new face I’d never seen before.

A cute girl, probably eighteen at most, with a sharp, knowing gaze that didn’t match her sweet looks.

Her hair was in a messy ponytail, jeans ripped at the knees, boots caked with mud. She looked like she’d seen hell and come out laughing.

How odd. This is our first meeting, but I can feel her hostility like a knife.

Her eyes flicked over me, cold and assessing. I felt like she was sizing me up and finding me lacking.