What Lies Ahead VI

The farmhouse carried the scent of miso and smoked fish, warmth drifting from the kitchen hearth and settling into the beams overhead. Ren followed the others through the sliding screen to the long, low table. Sayaka had already laid out the morning meal—bowls of miso soup steaming gently, pickled radish bright against dark lacquer trays, and a basket of still-warm rolls wrapped in cloth. At the center, a plate of salted trout, its skin crisp from the fire.

Genzo sat cross-legged at the head, spine straight as a post, silver-streaked hair pulled back tight. His daughter knelt beside him, smoothing her apron with restless fingers.

“You must all be hungry,” she said. “Please—help yourselves.”

Ren settled onto his cushion, watching steam rise in pale threads. Only the clink of chopsticks echoed off the walls.

Sayaka’s gaze lingered on them again. Finally, she said what was on her mind. “Such a large group. I don’t understand how you all made it out alive—no offense.”

Ren paused, chopsticks hovering. Haruka sat rigid at the far end, spine soldier-straight, while Reina shifted uneasily but kept her eyes on her rice.

Midori gave a dry laugh. “We don’t either. Luck, I guess.”

“It was more than luck,” Shion said. “The bodies we saw. The path laid out before us.”

Several faces blanched at the reminder. Ren’s eyes dropped to the broth, his own reflection quivering back at him.

“And the bridge…” Haruto exhaled. “I couldn’t see clearly, but it looked like it just—collapsed. Exploded, maybe. I don’t know.”

“It seems like you’ve been through quite a lot.”

Genzo set his bowl down with a muted thud. “Doesn’t matter how. You’re alive. That’s what counts. Be grateful.”

Sayaka’s cheeks flushed. “Dad, please…” She drew a breath. “I didn’t mean to sound harsh. It’s just—we’ve lost more people than I imagined. Before the networks went dark, hospitals were already overflowing. The illness spreading before the turning ever began. We’re on the outskirts of Suiren Gaoka, the old affluent district. I drove as close as I dared last night, scouting the roads, the abandoned cars. You’re the first survivors I’ve found—besides these three.”

Opposite them, the three newcomers fidgeted. The boy hunched forward, chopsticks trembling above his bowl, dark hair veiling his eyes. Beside him, a woman tugged at the wrinkled hem of her skirt, her whispered thanks barely audible. The man slumped in his jacket, shoulders rounded, gaze fixed on the broth as if waiting for something to rise.

“We didn’t see many others either,” Midori said, frowning.

“You’d think there’d be more camps. Checkpoints. Something,” Satsuki said. “We thought we saw lights once, but it was too far… and we ran when the—” She stopped, freezing, memory catching her mid-sentence.

“Don’t count on anyone saving you now. What matters is learning how to fight. You don’t waste bullets guessing. You aim here—” Genzo raised a calloused hand, tapping the base of his neck. “Back of the head, just below the skull. Otherwise, they’ll keep coming. I shot one in the chest once—it didn’t even slow down.”

Amira, cross-legged near the door, snorted. “Lovely breakfast conversation.”

“So what’s our plan here?” Haruka asked. “A couple of cows, some chickens, and one well won’t keep us alive.”

Ren watched faces shift—hope, fear, denial. Most looked ready to settle in, to cling to Genzo’s small refuge until help arrived. But, as Genzo had said, rescue wasn’t coming.

“I’m worried about supplies too,” Hayami murmured, hands folded in her lap. “What I brought won’t last. If anyone gets seriously injured, we’ll be fighting two battles.”

“Then we ration. Every scrap of food, every bandage. No waste. Survival demands discipline.” Shigure’s voice cut through—smooth, practiced. His gaze swept the room. “I walked the treeline already. Nothing close. We’re safe enough, for now.”

Ren felt the others ease. Even the weary man at the end straightened, as though leaning on Shigure’s certainty. Haruka alone narrowed her eyes, lips pressed tight as she jabbed her chopsticks into her rice. But she said nothing.

The room filled with tentative chatter—apologies, quiet questions, thin laughter. The woman spilled her broth, and Midori steadied the bowl with gentle hands, drawing the faintest smile. Ren kept his bowl untouched.

Sooner or later, he thought, I’ll have to choose.

━━━━━━━━━━𝑾𝑪𝑨━━━━━━━━━━

The sun had climbed high enough to bleach the farmhouse roof until it gleamed white. Yuka raised a hand to her brow, sweat gritty beneath her palm. In her other hand, the bucket sloshed with cool water that tickled her wrist through the rough rope handle. For the first time since the school, her shoes weren’t sticking with blood. For that, she was grateful.

Around her, the farm thrummed with ordinary sounds: a grasshopper rasped in the tall grass, the distant low of a cow drifted across the field. How cruel, she thought, that the world could look and sound so normal after everything they’d lost.

She set the bucket down just inside the kitchen door, its metal rim clinking against the threshold. She flexed her fingers, shaking out the dull ache in her knuckles. She’d volunteered for chores—hauling water, stacking wood—anything to keep moving. Whenever she stopped, the thoughts returned.

Her eyes drifted over the yard. Haruka leaned against the barn wall, arms folded, jaw set hard as Shigure spoke with Genzo. Kurobane sat on the porch steps, elbows on his knees. Satsuki sat beside him, jabbing his side with a twig until he swatted her hand away, muttering something that made her grin. It settled on Ren, who rested beneath the great oak, a knife braced across his knee as he worked an oiled cloth along the edge in slow, deliberate strokes. His eyes never stilled, tracing the yard in restless circles.

Yuka chewed her lip. Others might not notice, but she did. She lifted the ladle from the bucket and walked toward him. “You’ll wear that blade down if you keep at it,” she said, forcing a lightness she didn’t feel.

“Better sharp than stuck.”

Another stroke of the cloth gleamed across the steel before he set it aside.

“Sure. But you could take a break.”

His eyes flicked to her, unreadable. A small shrug. “Sure.”

Yuka lowered herself onto the grass across from him, folding her legs beneath her. She plucked a blade of grass and twirled it between her fingers. Silence settled between them like dust after a storm—familiar, almost comforting in its inevitability. She’d learned long ago that Ren tested people by how much silence they could bear.

“At breakfast, you didn’t say anything,” she said. “Truth is, you haven’t said much since… since all this started. I just wanted to ask how you’re holding up?”

That earned her a long look. “Things like that don’t matter now, Doc. You don’t have to be my counselor anymore.”

Yuka breathed in dry grass and earth. “Maybe not… but it matters to me. Talking to you—or anyone who sat in my office—it was never just work.”

“Then believe me when I say this once. Just once. I’m fine.”

“The thing is,” she said softly, “this time, I do believe you.” And that’s what worried me.

“I’m glad,” Ren said.

Yuka cocked her head. "Hey… Back on the roof, when you said 'We're even'—what did you mean?"

Ren exhaled. "Usually I wouldn’t answer something like that. But I guess things are different now." His voice softened. "What I mean is, you're a good person, Yuka Fujimori. Don't ever think otherwise."

The sincerity in his words caught in her chest like a hook. Whatever she’d expected, it wasn’t this gentle certainty that left her both steadied and adrift. She dropped her gaze to her hands, certain any word she spoke would shatter something fragile taking shape in the air.

When she finally spoke again, her tone was lighter, almost teasing—an escape from the weight of his words. “You know, there was always something different about you. Not just your looks.”

He arched an eyebrow. “My looks? What’s wrong with my looks?”

A deflection.

“Well, for one, I used to think you dyed your hair. That you wore contacts.”

Ren frowned, as if weighing how much truth to give. He pulled at his snow white locks. “It’s natural. I used to have brown hair, believe it or not.”

“What made it white?”

His gaze drifted to the oak’s swaying branches. For a long moment, nothing. Then: “Dyed it too much.”

Marie Antoinette Syndrome. The name floated from her textbooks—trauma bleaching hair. She suddenly wanted to ask more, dig deeper, but the careful way he held himself stopped her. So instead she said nothing. They rested, leaves whispering overhead. Yuka let herself breathe the false peace. She knew it couldn’t last. But for now, it was enough.

━━━━━━━━━━𝑾𝑪𝑨━━━━━━━━━━

When Ren stepped back inside, voices had already gathered in the main room. He slipped onto a cushion near the end of the table, catching Genzo’s rough voice mid-sentence. “It’ll be dark soon. I’m going to take Sayaka and…” His eyes cut to the man slumped on the far bench, shoulders sagging under some invisible weight. The man startled, blinking against the lamplight. “…you. We’ll circle the woods tonight, make sure nothing’s creeping close while we search for more survivors.”

“H-Hold on! I never—”

The skin around Genzo's eyes tightened like old leather, carving deeper valleys into his weathered face. The man’s protest died in his throat, replaced by a curt nod.

Midori straightened. “Are you sure you’ll be all right? Some of us could go with you.”

“I’ve been tracking deer along these pines since before most of you were born,” Genzo said, thumb brushing the brown sheath at his hip. “I’ll be all right. Besides, that’s too many people wandering in the dark. Most of you would just get us killed. Best case, you take a wrong step, hurt yourself, scream for help. Worst case, you’re the appetizer.”

“R-Right…”

“We’ll bring back what we can—maybe game if it’s safe,” Sayaka said.

Ren watched as the three of them slipped out the door, boots crunching against the packed earth until only the hinge’s groan lingered. The room felt emptier the moment they left, as though their absence had pulled the weight of the farmhouse askew.

“So… what now?” Kurobane asked.

A faint rustle from the hearth drew every eye. Amira knelt by the stone, shoving aside bundles of herbs and cloth.

Reina frowned. “What are you doing?”

Amira didn’t answer. She ducked deeper, muttering, until glass scraped stone. She rose with a triumphant grin, two dusty bottles clutched in her hands, firelight catching the amber liquid. “Well, look what I found.” She held them up like trophies. “We’re still breathing. And if I’m dead tomorrow—” her smirk widened, brittle at the edges, “—I’ll damn well enjoy tonight.”

Haruto's eyes widened. “Should we really be doing this…?”

Reina stiffened. “No, we shouldn’t. That’s theft! You want to repay their hospitality by raiding their liquor cabinet?”

“Lighten up, Your Highness.” Amira rolled her eyes. “The old man's probably counting the minutes until we clear out anyway. And right now?” She shrugged. “I couldn't give less of a damn. Who’s with me?”

“Can someone please talk her out of this?” Reina glanced around the room.

Shigure cleared his throat. “You’re all adults. I certainly can’t stop you. And given what we've all endured…” His fingers traced an invisible pattern on the table. “I suspect our hosts might understand the need for temporary oblivion. I'll compensate them, naturally.” He exhaled slowly. “God knows I could use a moment's peace from today.”

Yuka worried her bottom lip between her teeth, indecision plain on her face. But it was Haruka who reached first. She plucked a bottle from Amira’s grip, holding it up to the light. The liquid sloshed inside. “I’ll drink,” she murmured.

Something flickered across his face—surprise, quickly masked. He hadn’t expected her.

Amira grinned, cork popping from the second bottle like a gunshot. “There’s more behind the stove,” she announced. “Help yourself. Before the old man comes back to scold us.”