Building Rapport

Days passed in a rhythm of cautious routine. The group had claimed a two-story house on the edge of a small town, its windows boarded, its doors reinforced with furniture and scrap metal. Each morning began with a check of the perimeter, a silent nod between Chris and Mike as they took turns on watch. The dead still wandered the streets, but they were sparse here, as if the apocalypse had forgotten this corner of the world.

Monte, Chris’s ten-year-old son, had taken to following Monta around like a shadow. The man’s quiet demeanor and grease-stained hands fascinated the boy. Monta had found an old generator in the garage and spent hours tinkering, his mutterings a low hum of mechanical logic. Monte sat on a overturned bucket, handing him tools, asking questions that Monta answered with patient brevity.

“What’s that do?” Monte pointed at a small valve.