Lucien woke to a murmur of voices, the sound of people stirring in the camp. His eyes were heavy, his body sore, but the rough voices outside pulled him out of the thin blanket of sleep. Max was still sprawled on the bed, one arm hanging off the side, breathing steady. For a second, Lucien envied him. Sleep came to Max easily—like the world could fall apart and he'd still find rest in its ruins.
He pushed himself up, rubbed his face, and stepped outside. The morning was a dull gray, the sky low and oppressive. Smoke from cooking fires curled lazily into the air, stinging his nose. People were already gathered in small clusters, sorting what little food they had managed to salvage. He passed them quietly, nodding to a few familiar faces, though no one had the strength for conversation.
A group of children sat near the edge of the camp, their clothes still ragged from yesterday's chaos. One little boy clutched a stick and traced meaningless shapes in the dirt. A girl, no older than six, stared off at nothing, lips pressed tight. Lucien crouched near them, offering a small smile. "Eat something if you can," he said, pointing to the pot of thin soup being stirred by a tired woman nearby. The children nodded faintly, though their eyes remained distant.
Max appeared not long after, yawning loudly, hair sticking up in every direction. He dropped beside the kids and started making faces, pulling his cheeks apart, crossing his eyes until one boy giggled. Max's grin widened. "There it is. Knew you could still laugh." His voice carried warmth, that unshakable lightness he always tried to bring into heavy moments.
But not everyone welcomed it. An older man, gray streaks in his beard, turned sharply. "This isn't the time for jokes, boy," he snapped, voice edged with bitterness. The laughter died instantly.
Lucien felt his jaw clench. Heat flashed through him—not at Max, but at the man's words. He wanted to bite back, to defend Max, to tell the man that maybe a joke was what they needed, that maybe silence wasn't saving anyone. The anger rose like fire licking the back of his throat, but he swallowed it down. His hands curled into fists at his sides, hidden by the folds of his jacket. He said nothing, only forced himself to breathe.
The day dragged on with that same heaviness. Food was divided in strict portions—too strict. People whispered about how little was left, about how long they could survive like this. Someone muttered that they'd starve in a week, and the words clung to everyone who overheard. Lucien moved through it all, helping where he could—fetching water, carrying wood—while his thoughts wandered restlessly. His parents' faces flickered in his mind like ghosts, and every time he tried his phone, the silence felt like another door slamming shut.
By noon, whispers spread of sickness. A boy shivered with fever, his mother wiping sweat from his brow with trembling hands. A stray dog lay on its side, its body weak, breath shallow. Panic settled like a second shadow over the camp. Medicine was tried, but it didn't work. Fear sharpened every voice.
"What if it spreads?" someone hissed.
"We'll all catch it—we'll all die here."
Lucien listened, but said nothing. Fear was changing people faster than hunger. It hollowed them out, made them selfish. He thought of how easily order crumbled, how quickly people unraveled when the world stopped holding them.
As evening set in, fires burned brighter, and people huddled close. Lucien sat near one, staring into the flames. His eyes wandered across the camp until he noticed three men standing apart from the rest. Ex-soldiers, their posture gave it away—straight-backed even in weariness, movements measured. They spoke in low tones, their faces set like stone.
He couldn't hear their words, but if he had walked closer, he might have caught fragments—
"They're still waiting for the army to arrive," one said, voice low and rough.
The second shook his head. "If the army comes, it won't be with food and shelter. Martial law. Control. They'll see us as liabilities, not survivors."
"And if they don't come?" the third asked, his voice quieter, heavier.
The first man rubbed his forehead, gaze fixed on the distant, ruined horizon. "Then the people here will realize they're on their own. And when that hope breaks… so will they."
The others nodded grimly. None of them would tell the truth. Better the camp clung to fragile hope than face the despair of knowing the government wasn't coming—not in the way they imagined.
Lucien, unaware of their talk, leaned back and watched sparks rise from the fire into the night. Around him, people whispered rumors like prayers, and children curled into their parents' arms. His anger from earlier still burned faintly, his dread heavier now than panic had ever been. The night deepened, and the weight of the world pressed closer, silent and unyielding.