You awaken with a splitting headache to an annoyed Captain violently shaking you. You crack yours eyes open and they look pissed.

“Huh?” You slur out, head lolling to the side, “Wha happen?”

Captain’s clenched jaw would normally tell you all you needed to know, but you’re hungover and confused so you don’t notice. “Why the fuck are you in my tent?” They demand, eyes blazing.

Squinting, you look around the tent. All the tents look the same and you’re still a little drunk, so you focus your eyes back on Captain, whose fingers are digging into your triceps.

“This isn’t mine?”

“No.”

“Oh…”

Turning red, you scuttle out of the tent quickly but not gracefully, almost bumping into Sana in the process. She looks about as good as you feel, hijab wrinkled and eyes bloodshot, mug of what smells like coffee in hand.

She grunts at you and continues on her journey, unruffled by your near collision. You wonder if she’s always like that in the morning.

The scent of coffee is more pertinent right now, you decide, and you follow your nose down to the firepit, where Connor is crouched over a coffee percolator on the fire. Dave is perched on the unusually flat log, wrapped in a large purple comforter like a nun. He looks dead, with his face pale and eyes screwed shut. Poor dude.

Connor, ever the enigma, seems to be in high spirits, whistling as he removes the percolator from the flames and pours the liquid gold into three chipped mugs. Standing up, he passes one to Dave, who grunts his thanks. “Want some?” He asks you with a toothy grin, and you nod enthusiastically, which makes you a little dizzy.

G-d, you really should’ve known better. What kind of idiot drinks until they can’t stand?

Coffee in hand, you settle down on the log next to Dave. He doesn’t acknowledge you but you don’t expect him to. The coffee is surprisingly good, and you gulp it down gratefully, grinning at Connor. You really don’t know how he does it.

It’s late morning by the time everyone is down by the firepit and coherent enough for conversation, but still the silence lingers. It feels heavy but not smothering—exhaustion colors every breath with shades of static.

“We were supposed to spend today gatherin’ supplies and shit but that’s out the window now, ain’t it?” Dave chuckles, voice hoarse. Everyone grumbles in agreement.

Connor laughs softly, “I think we can get away with it because nobody’s back yet. Jian would’ve given us an earful if they knew we got that fucked up.”

Sana and Dave both nod emphatically, leading you to wonder what kind of person this Jian is. Will you like them? You sure hope so, you’re going to spend the rest of your life with this person as a campmate.

“I think maybe we should try to do something today, I don’t want to waste time feeling sick,” Harley suggests, drawing an affectionate smile from Dave, who agrees. Your queasy stomach and pounding head give you pause but you agree that you should try to do something.

“What are you idiots going to be able to do while that hungover?” Quips Captain as they approach the firepit, approaching the lean-to and digging around for some breakfast.

Everyone collectively ignores them.

Captain huffs but says nothing more, probably annoyed that they were ignored. They take a handful of granola and, with nary a glance for everyone at the firepit, stalk back up the hill.

“Maybe we could do laundry? I know it’s Electra’s turn but she deserves a break,” Connor suggests, namedropping another person you don’t know. At least she sounds nice.

Sana nods but adds, “We don’t need everyone to do laundry, though, so perhaps someone could reorganize the lean-to? It’s so messy in there I can never find anything I need.”

“I think you’re on to somethin’, Sana. Who wants to organize our food?” Dave asks, surveying the others with a scrutinizing squint. No one moves. “Alright, then. Flash? You wanna do it? You’re the one who’s gonna be usin’ it the most, after all.”

You shrug. He laughs. “All yours, then.”

If you’re being honest with yourself, you’re glad to organize the lean-to—you find organization very relaxing. Plus, this gives you a chance to fix those cans that bothered you before. This is a win-win if you’ve ever seen one.

You pull everything out and separate them by food type, humming absent mindedly to yourself as your fingers dance over cans and boxes. Taking your time, you restack all the goodies, making a special place for all of Sana’s spices.

When it comes down to it, you don’t really rearrange the food all that much. Upon looking at your finished, organized lean-to, you realize it’s not much different from what you started with. It’s less messy, sure, but essentially the same. Connor, Dave, and Sana are impressed so you guess you did a good job.

You’re hungry but you dare not eat—nausea loves to rear her ugly head when you least expect it. The others seem to be very much in the same state of mind, eyeballing the lean-to but saying nothing.

Lunch time comes and goes with no one save Captain speaking of food. They side-eye you and ask if they can whip something up, and you give them the go ahead. It saves you the trouble. Plus, you’re not sure if you could even handle the smell of food right now.

Dave and Connor get the fire going again while Captain decides what to make. Watching Connor whistle while he stacks sticks makes you wonder if he’s impervious to hangovers, like some kind of liquor god. Honestly, you wouldn’t put it passed him.

Dave is less a liquor god and more a hangover patron saint—he’s been sneaking off periodically to throw up in the bushes and the bags under his eyes are so purple they look fake.

By the end of what should have been lunch, the lean-to is organized and the laundry is done. Cap is off doing… something, and the rest of you are sitting awkwardly around the firepit in silence once again.

“What do we do now?” Connor asks and everyone shrugs. “That’s what I thought.”

Dave sighs, “This kinda sucks, no? I wish we had a TV.” G-d. What you wouldn’t give for a TV right now.

“What would we even watch? I doubt we could all agree on something,” Sana quips after a moment, bringing up a valid concern—one magical property of the television is that it always incites disagreements.

Or, you guess, it used to.

“I can’t remember a single TV show that wasn’t shit,” Connor complains.

“I can’t remember a single TV show,” You say casually, drawing deep laughter from the man. There is no better feeling than making Connor laugh, and you bask in it.

Dave and Connor, the only two who can remember any TV show titles, go back and forth for some time. A lot of the names evoke deep emotion but you can’t actually remember anything about them. The rush of simultaneous affection and disgust you get when Connor says ‘Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives’ really throws you off. What could possibly make you feel that way?

Why can’t you stop thinking about button down shirts with flames on them?

Many long minutes trickle by in silence, which grinds on your nerves more than it normally does. Realistically, you’re gonna spend every day of the rest of your life with these people—how will you survive if none of you can think of anything to say? Are you doomed to die of boredom?

That is, perhaps, a little dramatic, but you feel that way nonetheless.

Eyeing the others, you realize they’re in very much the same boat as you. Maybe practice will make perfect by the time you die.

As awkward as it is, it’s kind of nice to know that everyone else is as uncomfortable as you are. About fucking time.

You huff and cross your arms. Dave raises a sardonic eyebrow at you, “Somethin’ wrong, Flash? You not enjoyin’ sittin’ around in awkward silence?” This comment effectively dissolves the tension, and chuckles ripple across the firepit.

“Dave?” Sana hums with her hand on her chin.

“Hmn?”

“Don’t you have a bunch of books? You said something about practicing our reading skills so that might keep us busy for a while,” She suggests somewhat blandly, dark brown eyes trained on Dave’s now grinning face.

Dave stands and leans over Sana, grabbing her face, “Oh, my dear Sana, you’re a genius!” He punctuates his declaration with a chaste but enthusiastic kiss on Sana’s cheek.

“Oh, stop!” She coos, gently pushing him away. If you didn’t know better you’d say she was quite pleased with herself and Dave’s reaction. Your focus doesn’t stay on her long when you realize Connor is nowhere to be seen and Dave is almost vibrating with excitement.

He cracks his knuckles and announces, “So, newbies, I haven’t said anything about readin’ yet but now’s as good a time as any. Connor and I realized pretty quickly that while our memories faded, our skills did not, and that includes readin’. All of you should still know how to read right now. But as time goes on, now that y’all’re awake, you’ll lose that skill if you don’t practice. Literacy is an objectively useful skill, even after the apocalypse—how’re we supposed to communicate, read signs, read labels on food, etcetera, if we ain’t literate?”

“And so, we read!” Connor declares, approaching the firepit with a big crate of books in his arms.

Despite Connor’s enthused announcement, everyone spends the afternoon digging through the crate and trying to guess the plot of books based on their titles alone instead of doing any actual reading. Dave seems annoyed but unsurprised by this result—you assume this has happened before.

Most of the books are paperbacks salvaged from bunkers, with yellow pages and curled covers. Besides a 1992 sports almanac and a biography of Richard Nixon, the books are all fiction, which strikes you as odd. Why wouldn’t people take useful books into their bunkers?

Also, who the hell thought they would need a 1992 sports almanac? There are books from 2014 in here, so that was outdated even before the war.

“There are no books here that were printed after 2014—when do you think the war started?” You ask Dave. You know that they don’t know what year it is now but it’s possible they know the timeline of the war.

Dave shoots you a pleased look, “Very observant, Flash! As far as we can tell, the war started in early 2015 and ended in mid 2017. Some of the bunkers had journals in ‘em, and they all ended in June of 2017, so we think that’s probably when the gas hit. We haven’t seen anythin’ dated later than that. I’d say it’s maybe 2020 now but we have no way of knowin’ for sure.”

Nodding, you turn back to your excavation of the book crate, digesting the information. If you’re being honest, these books seem older than they should if it’s only been a few years since the war ended.

You tune out Connor’s enthusiastic guess at what happens in ‘The Scarlet Letter’ to read the Richard Nixon biography, intrigued by the man’s jowls and what the world was like all those years ago.

As it turns out, you don’t get very far, reading only a few pages before a large raindrop hits your nose. You tilt your head back and gape at the dark clouds—how had you not noticed them? Dave springs to his feet and hastily collects the books, except yours which you shove under your shirt, returning them to his tent to save them from the rain.

It drizzles for a few moments and then stops as suddenly as it started. None of you move. You and Connor share a shrewd look, equally put off by the fickle clouds.

How annoying is that? Dave rushed to protect the books from what, a millimeter of rain?

The sun is obscured by the viscous layer of nimbus, but her warmth remains, settling over you like a heavy fog. It feels wet, almost—like the air itself is pregnant with dew from the heights of Olympus.

You wonder what Apollo does now, shielded from the prying eyes of mortals. Perhaps he sleeps in the sopping glow, nestled in his golden chariot, leaving the sun to her own devices for a while.

Perhaps he remains flying, dragging her behind him for naught but his own pleasure.

Harley stands slowly and rubs at her eyes. “I’m gonna go take a nap, I’m pretty sleepy,” She mumbles softly, effectively taking everyone’s attention away from the weather. She meanders up the hill, followed by a chorus of ‘good night’s, and all is well.

Camp lapses into a soft silence once again as everyone wonders what to do next. This question is—thankfully?—answered with no effort from anyone at the firepit.

“WHAT’S UP, BITCHES?!” A booming voice echoes across camp and scares the living shit out of you. You make frantic eye contact with Sana, who shakes her head desolately.

“Oh G-d, it’s him,” She mumbles under her breath, visibly steeling herself for the arrival of the most infamous person in the camp.

Distressed, you ask, “Who? Who is it?” No one that they’ve mentioned so far seemed worthy of such a reception from a normally sweet person. You run through all the names you know: Buck, Electra, Rowdy, Argo, and Jian. Which one could it be?

She hisses acidly, “Gio.” You don’t know that name. “Part of me hoped he would never come back, but I’m never that lucky, am I?”

As soon as those words leave her mouth, the man of the hour arrives, waving a purple baseball cap over his head like a flag. He’s clad in the most mismatched outfit you’ve ever seen—and that includes Captain’s bright pink flower tank tops and forest green camo shorts—with a pink and yellow Hawaiian shirt and blue and green plaid cargo shorts.

Scanning the man, Sana’s reaction seems well-deserved, you note.

Gio is pale and freckled, with wide shoulders and a crooked nose and the most shit-eating grin you’ve ever seen on a human being. He first approaches Dave and Connor, clapping each of them on the back, and then makes his clumsy way over to you and Sana.

“And who might this be?” He asks, eyeballing you in a way that unsettles you, “Hard to believe those fools found anyone else in the middle of buttfuck Egypt.”

“I’m, uh, Flash. They found me and two others a few days ago,” You tell him for the sake of getting him to go away as soon as possible.

It, of course, doesn’t work out the way you want it to, as Gio is nothing short of chatty, “Three newbies, huh? That ought’a be fun. Where are the others? Hiding, I bet! As they should be, I’m in a hazing sort of mood.”

Wow. What a dick. You’re already close to punching him in the nose, and it’s only been about a minute. Off to a good start, yeah?

“Knock it off, Gio,” Sana chides gently, seemingly aware of your building rage, “Did you bring anything good back from your mission?” You appreciate the subject change more than you can ever express with words, and you shoot Sana a grateful smile. Her eyes twinkle knowingly in response.

“You bet your sweet ass I did! That Blue Ridge Parkway is chock full of abandoned cars and shit, lots of them had some good working stuff, it was a veritable gold mine. Connor, you’re gonna be psyched when you see the goodies I found.”

You wonder for only a second why Gio went on his mission alone—you wouldn’t want to go with him, and you expect nobody else wanted to either. He seems perfectly happy with that arrangement so it all works out, you suppose.

Connor jumps up excitedly and barrels over to Gio’s side, “What’d you find, man?”

Gio grins and flops down onto the floor, removing his backpack and digging through its contents. “There’s some good shit in here, Con! Plenty of leather I ripped out of the upholstery, a bunch of stereos, plus I salvaged a lot of engine parts so I’m thinking we can finally finish that AC unit,” He babbles as he grabs mechanical bits and lines them up in the dirt.

You know next to nothing about machinery so you can’t really describe anything better than a “mechanical bit” but Connor seems happy, and that’s what matters.

Instead, you focus on Gio’s mentioning of stereos. You wonder if any of them work, or could be made to work—imagine being able to communicate with anyone else out there.

Dave perks up at the mention of stereos, approaching Connor and leaning against his side, “Do you think you’d be able to get one of those stereos working? Man, that’d be amazing, we could really start to rebuild with that. We could find the other groups out there, and have a real society again.”

Honestly, you’re not sure how pleased you are with idea of going back to the ways things were. You can’t remember much of it and that’s almost liberating—past society ended in apocalyptic war, maybe it’s not so bad to start from scratch.

Not wanting to rain on Dave’s parade, you say nothing, but share a strange look with Sana. You make a mental note to talk to her later—something tells you she feels the same way you do.

Connor, Dave, and Gio go back and forth with ideas on how to make a functional radio. It’s all logistics and technobabble so you tune them out.

Your growling stomach none-too-gently informs you that it’s dinnertime, so you pull Sana aside, asking her if she has any good recipes using the spices she collected. She tells you she has plenty, but you’re shit out of luck if you want to use them now.

“We have no meat at the moment,” She explains, “We have to wait until Buck, Electra, and Jian get back. Buck’s our hunter so we can’t really do anything until he brings game back. Most of my dishes need meat, but I have a few rice-based recipes we could try. I don’t remember the details of all of them but I’m sure we could figure it out together.”

You grin at her and nod, “We got this.”

She smiles and starts listing off recipes, more excited about cooking than you originally thought she would be. It’s refreshing, honestly, to have someone share an interest with you. Suddenly, you feel less alone.

It takes a fair amount of teamwork but your combined culinary expertise eventually creates a damn good meal. Connor complains about it being too spicy but gobbles it all up with a chipped grin nonetheless, so you call that a success. He’s kind of a drama queen, anyway.

Dinner is a quiet but comfortable affair.

Harley offers to do the dishes and you get ready for bed, more exhausted than you feel you should be. Your hangover has mostly passed but you guess you should be more understanding of your body—you gulped down a lot of poison and spewed out a lot of bile. That’s enough to make anyone tired as hell.

You consider reading but realize the sun is mere minutes away from the mountain, so you scrap that idea and just crawl right into your tent. Sleep’s sounding real good right now, anyhow.

The night is still, humming with the sounds of life. Fireflies flicker unobtrusively in the trees as Apollo slumbers beyond the stars. You slide into your sleeping bag and curl up, lulled into Hypno’s loving arms by the evening breeze.

You dream of velvet and silk.