A community.

Days gone by PT2:

Mirabelle guided us through Wingston, her pace brisk yet confident as she began her tour. "This place became a safe haven for survivors after the initial outbreak four months ago," she explained, her voice carrying a mix of pride and weariness.
“So, this was a town before the outbreak?” Priya asked, her curiosity piqued as she tried to soak in as much information as possible. Her eyes darted around, taking in the makeshift fortifications and bustling survivors.
“Yep,” Mirabelle replied, throwing a glance over her shoulder. “This used to be a mining town, back in the 1840s, I think. It grew some over the years, but it never quite made the leap into becoming a city. It stayed small, tight-knit. When the outbreak hit, most of the locals decided to stay put rather than risk heading to the big cities like L.A. or San Francisco. Turned out, it was a smart call. We had the resources, the land, and the people. All we really needed were walls.”
Her words lingered as Garrett surveyed the ongoing construction along the town's perimeter. A team of workers reinforced the barriers, while others cleared out walkers shambling too close for comfort. “You’ve got some resourceful folks here,” he said, his tone carrying a note of admiration.
“Thanks,” Mirabelle responded with a proud smile that faltered slightly as her gaze shifted toward a cluster of armed soldiers near the gates. “We’re proud of what we’ve built, even if some parts of the ‘community’ are… complicated.”
Garrett and I exchanged a quick look. I raised an eyebrow. “Not a fan of your friends over there?” I asked, nodding toward the soldiers. The tension in her voice hadn’t gone unnoticed, and it seemed wise to get a sense of any brewing conflicts early on.
Mirabelle studied me for a moment, her expression unreadable. There was an air of appraisal in her gaze, part approval, part wariness. “Huh. You’re sharp,” she said with a faint smirk. “I like that. We could use more people like that around here. As for them…” She gestured subtly toward the soldiers. “Let’s just say some folks don’t trust them. I get it, having G.I. Joes wandering around with guns doesn’t exactly scream ‘calm and cozy.’ But they’re here to help, not to boss us around.”
“I don’t know,” Priya interjected with a dismissive puff of air. “That Barker guy seemed like a real pain in the ass.”
Mirabelle chuckled, though there was a hint of defensiveness in her tone. “He’s better than he seems. Rough around the edges, sure, but he’s a good guy at heart. He looks out for us.”
Changing the subject, I asked, “You mentioned someone earlier, Gavin, I think? Who is he?”
“You’ll meet him soon enough,” Mirabelle replied. “We’re heading there now. He always insists on meeting newcomers personally before deciding if they can stay.”
“So, he’s the boss?” Garrett asked, his brow furrowing.
“Not exactly,” she said, her voice taking on a more serious edge. “He’s more like a… natural leader. People follow him because he’s got the skills and the personality for it. But you’ll see for yourself soon enough.” She stopped abruptly, turning toward the church at the end of the street. “Hold on. I’ve got to take care of something first.”
The church was a modest structure, its steeple weathered but still standing tall. A man stood at the closed doors, his posture relaxed but purposeful. He greeted Mirabelle with a warm smile. “Good morning, Mirabelle.”
“Good morning, Jeremiah,” she replied, a smirk playing on her lips.
Father Jeremiah was a man in his mid-40s with slicked-back light brown hair and a commanding presence. He exuded a charisma that felt less like a gentle shepherd and more like a magnetic orator. Something about him set me on edge, reminding me of certain people I’d encountered in Japan, leaders who could rally masses with mere words.
“Ah, new faces,” he said, his sharp gaze shifting to us. Extending a hand, he introduced himself. “Father Jeremiah. Pleased to meet you.”
I shook his hand, his grip firm and unyielding. “Nathan,” I replied, matching his intensity.
The rest of the group introduced themselves, and Jeremiah’s attention lingered on each of us, his expression unreadable but calculating. He seemed to sense more about us than we might have liked.
“Father, have you seen Sandy?” Mirabelle asked, her tone brisk as she steered the conversation toward her purpose.
“Yes, she’s with Gavin. They’re still debating that Homemart ordeal,” Jeremiah replied with a faint sigh. “The girl doesn’t seem to grasp the meaning of ‘no,’ and I doubt Gavin appreciates her persistence.”
Mirabelle groaned, rubbing her temples. “Great. More trouble for me.”
Jeremiah handed her a small package from a nearby box. “Here’s what you asked for.”
Mirabelle opened it, her eyes lighting up at the sight of its contents. She pulled out a pack of cigarettes and grinned. “Thanks. What do you want for it?”
“Nothing,” Jeremiah replied with a practiced smile. “Consider it an act of charity. Though, I would be delighted if you attended mass this afternoon.”
“You know I don’t believe,” Mirabelle said, rolling her eyes.
“Perhaps you’ll find some peace,” he countered, then turned his gaze to us. “You’re all welcome to join as well.”
Priya offered a polite nod. “We’d be honored.”
I glanced at Mirabelle, sharing her skepticism, but said nothing.
Jeremiah smiled faintly. “Take care.” He picked up a nearby box and disappeared into the church.
As he left, Garrett arched a brow. “Huh. Interesting guy. I figured all the preachers were gone by now.”
“Most probably are,” Mirabelle replied with a shrug. “But Jeremiah’s been here as long as I can remember. Anyway, let’s get moving. Gavin’s waiting, and I need to make sure Sandy isn’t causing more headaches than usual.” She motioned for us to follow, taking the lead once again.
____
Mirabelle led us to a large brick building near the center of town. The aged sign above the door, faded but still legible, read Wingston Town Hall. The structure bore scars from time and the apocalypse alike, with vines creeping up the sides and boards covering shattered windows. Despite its weathered appearance, it stood firm, a testament to its enduring importance.
“We’re here,” Mirabelle announced, guiding us through the heavy wooden doors. The faint smell of old paper and dust lingered in the air, mixed with the metallic tang of disinfectant.
The interior was functional but maintained a sense of order. Survivors bustled around, some carrying clipboards, others chatting in low voices. We ascended a wide staircase to the second floor, where Mirabelle approached a desk occupied by a young woman. She had short blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail and wore a patched cardigan over her faded blouse. A nameplate on the desk read: Valerie Jensen – Admin Assistant.
“Hey, Valerie! How you doing, girl?” Mirabelle greeted warmly, leaning casually against the desk.
Valerie looked up from a stack of papers and smiled. “Miri, good to see you. Coming to see Gavin?” She shuffled some files into a neat pile, her demeanor professional despite the chaos outside.
“Yep. Got some new folk with me.” Mirabelle gestured toward us with a thumb over her shoulder.
From the room behind Valerie, the muffled sound of raised voices filtered through the door. A man’s steady tone clashed with a woman’s fiery retorts. Mirabelle’s expression tightened. “She’s in there, isn’t she?”
Valerie sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Yeah. She’s been at it with Gavin for almost an hour now. You can go in, they’re probably wrapping up. Good luck.”
Mirabelle motioned for us to follow her. We entered Gavin’s office to find the argument reaching its climax.
A young woman with long fiery red hair stood by the desk, her green eyes blazing with frustration. She wore a gray hoodie that seemed several sizes too big, the sleeves frayed at the cuffs. Despite her casual attire, there was an undeniable intensity about her, an aura of determination sharpened by a life of survival.
Facing her from behind the desk was a man who could only be Gavin. He had the poised demeanor of someone accustomed to command, his sharp features framed by short-cropped, salt-and-pepper hair. A clean-shaven jawline and piercing blue eyes gave him the appearance of a seasoned leader. His olive-drab jacket bore patches that hinted at his military history, though they were too faded to read clearly.
“This is stupid, and you know it!” the red-haired woman snapped. “We can handle this if you’d just let us.”
Gavin’s voice was measured but firm. “I know you can, Sandy, but you’re putting untrained volunteers at risk. My soldiers are already spread too thin as it is. Sending them would leave Oasis defenseless against walkers or, worse, raiders. The answer is no. Dismissed.”
Sandy let out a frustrated huff, her hands clenched into fists. She turned toward the door and paused, her gaze sweeping over us. For a moment, her fiery glare softened. “Mirabelle,” she said with a curt nod before brushing past us, her hoodie swaying behind her.
Mirabelle shook her head and muttered under her breath, “Hothead,” before stepping forward to address Gavin. “Mayor, I’d like to introduce the newcomers. I’ll let you handle it while I check on Red.” She turned to us and added, “Be good,” before slipping out after Sandy.
Gavin stood and studied us, his arms crossed. He radiated the authority of a seasoned officer, his posture straight and his expression calculating. “Major Frank Gavin,” he introduced himself, extending a hand. “52nd Infantry. Pleased to meet you.”
I shook his hand, feeling the strength in his grip. “Nathan,” I replied.
His sharp eyes flicked to Garrett. “You’re military, aren’t you?”
Garrett nodded. “Garrett Walker, 552nd Infantry.”
Gavin raised a brow, impressed. “Good unit. And you?” He turned to me.
“Special operations,” I said vaguely. “The kind that doesn't officially exist.”
Gavin gave a knowing smile. “I figured as much. You carry yourself differently.”
His gaze shifted to Priya. “And you?”
“Priya Walker, student. Problem with that?” she said, her arms crossed and her tone defiant.
Gavin chuckled, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Not at all.”
He sat back down, steepling his fingers as he leaned forward. “Let’s get to it. What brings you to Oasis?”
We explained our journey, months of barely surviving on the road, the constant threat of walkers, the dwindling supplies. When we mentioned the radio signal, Gavin’s expression softened slightly.
“So, the usual,” he said with a dry chuckle. “You need shelter, and you’re hoping we can provide it. Can’t blame you. But let me be clear: Oasis doesn’t take freeloaders. Everyone pulls their weight. You’ll need to earn the trust of the community and prove you’re not here to take advantage of us.”
“That’s fair,” I replied. “How do we start?”
Gavin leaned back, his chair creaking. “There’s a Homemart depot nearby. We’ve scouted it, it’s untouched, but it’s in a walker-heavy zone. Sandy wants to lead a team to loot it and establish a safe route. The problem? Most of her team are civilians, not fighters. I can’t spare soldiers, so I need experienced hands to keep casualties low. That’s where you come in.”
“You want us to help?” Priya asked, her tone skeptical.
Gavin nodded. “Exactly. Help Sandy’s crew complete the mission, and you’ll be one step closer to earning a permanent place here.”
I glanced at Garrett and Priya. There wasn’t much to debate. We needed a safe haven, and this was a chance to prove ourselves.
“All right,” I said. “We’re in.”
Gavin smiled. “Good. Be ready. You’ll move out tomorrow at dawn.”