Block C was quieter than the rest of the bunker.
The cheering from the common area still echoed faintly through the ventilation shafts, but down here it arrived softened—like distant thunder rolling far above ground.
John walked slowly through the corridor.
The concrete walls were narrower here, painted a faded institutional gray that had chipped in places over the years. Overhead lights hummed softly, casting steady pools of yellow along the hallway. Handwritten signs taped beside doorways marked the temporary living spaces.
FAMILY QUARTERS — C1
C2
C3
The bunker felt different down here.
Quieter.
He could hear small things—murmured conversations through thin walls, the faint creak of a bunk bed shifting somewhere, a child coughing behind a closed door.
John slowed his pace.
This part of the bunker felt less like a command center and more like a shelter.
People trying to remember what normal looked like.
He passed a doorway where two elderly men sat at a small folding table playing cards under a desk lamp. They glanced up at him briefly, curiosity flickering across their faces before returning to their quiet game.
John nodded politely as he continued.
His boots echoed softly against the concrete floor.
C7
C8
He checked the numbers as he walked.
Ray had said she was somewhere in Block C, but the bunker was big enough that even a simple hallway could stretch longer than expected.
John turned a corner and stepped into the next corridor branch.
This one had more signs of life.
Blankets hung across a few open doorways for privacy. Someone had set up a makeshift toy corner near the wall—plastic bins filled with mismatched stuffed animals and board games salvaged from somewhere above.
A small pair of shoes sat neatly outside one door.
John stopped briefly when he noticed them.
Kids.
Still down here.
Still alive.
He let out a slow breath and kept walking.
C12
C13
Then—
C14
The door was slightly open.
Warm light spilled out into the hallway.
John slowed as he approached, his hand hovering near the frame before he stepped closer.
Then he heard it.
Soft at first.
A hum.
Low and steady, carried gently through the open doorway.
A woman's voice followed it—not loud, not meant for anyone else to hear. Just a quiet melody filling the small room beyond.
Betty Wilson was singing.
The same church song she always sang when she made tea.
John felt his chest tighten instantly.
"…Precious Lord… take my hand…"
Her voice was older now, softer than he remembered, but the rhythm hadn't changed.
"…lead me on… let me stand…"
He stopped just outside the doorway.
Inside, Betty Wilson stood at a small folding table set up against the bunker wall. A kettle sat beside a single ceramic mug, steam rising gently from the cup as she stirred it with a teaspoon.
"…I am tired… I am weak… I am worn…"
Her humming filled the pauses between the words as she worked.
She moved slowly, carefully—like someone who had already decided the world could rush all it wanted.
She wasn't going to.
"…through the storm… through the night…"
John leaned lightly against the doorframe.
He hadn't realized how tightly he'd been holding his breath until that moment.
"…lead me on… to the light…"
The spoon clinked softly against the mug as she finished stirring.
Then she stopped.
For a moment she just stood there, her hand resting on the table.
"…take my hand… precious Lord…"
She lifted the second mug.
The one sitting across from the first.
The one she had set out days ago.
"…lead me home."
Silence followed.
John swallowed.
Then he knocked gently against the doorframe.
"Mrs. Wilson?"
The spoon slipped from her fingers.
The spoon clattered softly against the table.
John stepped fully into the doorway.
"Mrs. Wilson…" he said again, gently.
She hadn't turned yet.
For a second she just stood there, one hand resting against the edge of the table, the kettle still steaming quietly beside her.
John took another step inside the small room.
"Betty."
That did it.
She turned.
Her eyes found him immediately.
For a heartbeat she just stared—like her mind was catching up to what her eyes were seeing.
Then her face lit up.
"Johnathan Holden!" she exclaimed, her voice full of delighted disbelief. "Is that you?!"
The warmth in her voice hit him harder than he expected.
She stepped toward him quickly, wiping her hands against the sides of her skirt like she had flour on them instead of tea.
"Well I'll be," she said, shaking her head in amazement. "Look at you!"
John smiled despite himself.
"Hi, Mrs. Wilson."
She looked him over head to toe, eyes wide with relief.
Then she stepped forward and pulled him into a hug.
It wasn't tentative.
It was the kind of hug someone gives a boy they'd known since he was small enough to run through the neighborhood barefoot.
"Oh, it's good to see you," Betty said warmly, squeezing his shoulders before stepping back. "Lord knows this place has been too quiet."
John smiled faintly.
"It's good to see you too."
She studied his face again, still smiling.
"How's your mama doing?" she asked. "Margaret still keeping that garden of hers alive?"
John felt something tighten in his chest.
There was something in the way she asked it.
Something… off.
But he didn't let it show.
"She's fine," he said gently. "Still stubborn as ever."
Betty chuckled softly. "That sounds like Margaret."
Then she turned back toward the table, reaching for the kettle again.
John watched her carefully now.
The way she moved.
The way she hummed under her breath again.
Then she said something that made his stomach drop.
"Well," Betty continued casually, " you must be here for Devon but he's not here right now."
John blinked.
She poured a little more hot water into one of the mugs.
"He went out with some friends earlier," she said, stirring the tea slowly. "But he should be back soon."
The spoon clinked softly against the ceramic.
"I made his favorite tea after all."
John didn't answer.
He just looked at the table.
Two cups.
Both steaming.
Both waiting.
John's eyes stayed on the cups.
Steam curled slowly upward from both mugs, drifting lazily into the bunker's warm air.
Two cups.
Waiting.
His chest tightened.
And suddenly he remembered what Alex had told them earlier.
She was making tea when we found her.
John could almost hear Alex's voice again.
She didn't want to leave. Said her boy was coming home. Said she just needed to wait.
He swallowed slowly.
Betty stirred the tea in the second mug, humming softly under her breath again like nothing in the world was wrong.
Like she had done this a thousand times before.
Like the world outside wasn't crawling with monsters.
Like her son would walk through the door any minute.
John's gaze drifted from the cups to her hands.
Steady.
Careful.
Familiar.
She had been doing this when Alex and Ray found her in the house.
Waiting.
The realization settled heavily in his chest.
She wasn't just waiting tonight.
She'd been waiting the whole time.
Betty finally looked back at him with a warm smile.
"He's a good boy," she said fondly. "Just loses track of time."
She pushed the second cup slightly closer to the empty chair across from her.
"But he'll be back soon," she added gently.
John stood there in the doorway.
And for the first time since walking into the room—
He didn't know what to say.
John stood there for a moment longer.
The steam from the tea drifted between them, twisting slowly through the light.
He closed his eyes briefly.
Then he steadied himself.
When he opened them again, his voice was calm.
Gentle.
"That's actually why I'm here, Mrs. Wilson."
Betty looked up at him with warm curiosity.
"Oh?"
John stepped closer to the table.
"Devon asked me to come get you," he said carefully. "He wanted to make sure you were safe."
Her face softened immediately.
"Oh that boy," she said fondly. "Always worrying about his mama."
John nodded once.
"He asked me to bring you and your daughter."
Betty blinked.
"My daughter?"
"Kendra," John said.
The name hung in the air.
Betty didn't seem alarmed.
She simply waved her hand lightly, like the answer was obvious.
"Oh, she's not here right now."
John's stomach tightened.
"She's staying at a friend's house for the night," Betty said casually. "Teenagers, you know how they are. She'll be back in the morning."
The words settled in John's chest like stones.
Morning.
His eyes slowly lifted back to her.
"…Mrs. Wilson," he said quietly.
"Yes, honey?"
John's voice stayed calm.
"What day is it?"
Betty frowned slightly, thinking.
"Well let's see…"
She glanced toward the small wall calendar hanging beside the bunk.
Then she smiled.
"Thursday," she said.
She tapped the date lightly.
"August the twelfth."
John felt the air leave his lungs.
That date…
His stomach dropped.
That was five days ago.
The room felt smaller.
The hum of the bunker lights seemed louder now.
Betty turned back to the kettle, humming softly again as she adjusted the cups.
John stood there, staring at the calendar.
August twelfth.
Five days ago.
Outside, right before the world had fallen apart.
But in this room—
Time had stopped.
Or maybe she had.
His throat tightened for a second, but he forced the feeling down.
There would be time to deal with that later.
Right now, there was only one thing that mattered.
John looked back at her.
His voice was steady.
Quiet.
"Mrs. Wilson…"
She glanced up at him with the same gentle smile.
"Yes, Johnathan?"
He held her gaze.
"…Where's Kendra staying?"