All Chapters of Project Dakota: Rising of the dead: Chapter 61 - Chapter 67

The common room of Birkin Shelter hummed with a low, domestic energy that was both a balm and a strangeness after the stark silence of the outside world. The conversation between Lester and Levi flowed like a river finding its old course, meandering from the cosmic stakes of superhero crossovers to the intricate, flawed humanity of indie graphic novels. Levi, who minutes before had been a coiled spring of defensive tension, was now gesticulating with an open palm, explaining the nuanced tragedy of a specific character’s arc, his voice alive with a passion that had nothing to do with survival and everything to do with being a fifteen-year-old boy.Ethel watched from a nearby table where she was sipping a cup of bitter, herbal tea, feeling the grime of the journey seep from her pores just by being in this safe, enclosed space. She saw the way Lester listened, not with the polite patience of an adult humoring a child, but with the engaged curiosity of a fellow enthusiast. He would nod, a

The wedding was amazing. It was a word Ethel would have scoffed at using just a day before, but it was the only one that fit. In the soft, golden glow of the salvaged fairy lights, with the stars beginning to prick the velvet blanket of the night sky above their fortified walls, the grim reality of their existence had been temporarily suspended. The ceremony itself had been simple, heartfelt, and profoundly moving. Patrick, the unassuming gardener, had spoken the ancient words with a dignity and conviction that belied his usual quiet demeanor. Sarah had wept happy tears. Ben’s hands had trembled as he slid a ring fashioned from a twisted piece of copper wire onto his bride’s finger. The entire shelter had watched, united in a rare, uncomplicated moment of joy.Now, the reception was in full, raucous swing. The makeshift dance floor—a cleared space in the center of the courtyard—was a whirl of moving bodies. Elise, of course, was at the heart of it, her guitar set aside now as she danc

The grim finality of the vote settled over the shelter like a shroud of lead. The words, "The sentence is exile," echoed in the cavernous silence of the hall, a verdict that felt to many not like justice, but like a precarious, half-measure, a dangerous gamble with their collective future. A low, restless murmur rippled through the assembled crowd, a current of disbelief and simmering fury. Exile. It meant he would still be breathing. It meant he was out there, somewhere in the vast, unforgiving ruins, a predator set loose, his rage and psychosis now amplified by a death sentence narrowly avoided. The fear was palpable, a sour taste in the air. People were pissed, their faces etched with a fresh layer of terror. They had wanted closure, a final, brutal line drawn under the horror. Instead, they had been given a ghost, a perpetual boogeyman who now had a very real, very personal grudge against every single soul within their walls.Ethel stood amidst the discontent, her own disappointme

The dust motes were her only companions, the tiny, dancing sprites of forgotten air. They swirled in the single, slender finger of sunlight that pierced the gloom of her room, a room that was not a room at all but a tomb of rough-hewn stone and despair. It was cold, the kind of cold that seeped into your bones and made a home there, a permanent chill that no amount of huddling or shivering could ever dislodge. The walls pressed in, not with a visible motion, but with a heavy, constant weight, making her feel impossibly small, a forgotten trinket on a dusty shelf. In this oppressive silence, the only thing that felt real, that felt like hers, was that crack in the wall.It was more a flaw in the ancient masonry than a window, a long, jagged line that ran diagonally across the stone, wide enough in one place to press her eye against, wide enough to let in that precious, life-giving beam of light. Now, standing on her toes, her bare feet cold against the gritty floor, she leaned into the