About six months after Infusion Day, tragedy struck.
Food wasn't the issue—if anything, the problem was too much of it. The Earth seemed determined to provide in abundance, and their stores were overflowing with fresh produce and game. But abundance came with a cost. The animals were becoming increasingly dangerous. Deer were larger, faster, and more aggressive. Predators roamed closer to homes, no longer content to stay in the wilds. Even scavengers like raccoons and foxes seemed bolder, more calculating.
Charlie's father, ever cautious, had been reluctant to interact with others in the aftermath of Infusion Day. He didn't trust people, not now, not with the world turned upside down. But the growing threat of the wild meant he couldn't hunt as much, and supplies still needed replenishing. He'd started teaching the family how to defend themselves—just in case.
Even Charlie felt the changes. He felt stronger, more alive, especially when he ate what he called the "new world food." Anything freshly grown or hunted seemed to flood his body with energy. His dad felt it too.
"I'm stronger than I was at 25," his father had said one evening, holding an old set of dumbbells he'd found in the garage. He lifted them effortlessly, his muscles flexing like he was back in his military days. "It's not natural, but I'll take it."
Charlie had marveled at the sight, wondering if he would ever be that strong.
One chilly afternoon, his father and Gretchin had gone out to hunt. Charlie was in the cellar with his mother and Amber when they heard the voices.
At first, it was faint—just a murmur carried on the wind. Then the sounds grew louder, distinct. Men. Three of them, judging by the voices.
"Hey, I know you're there. Come out!"
Charlie froze. His mother, who had been arranging jars of preserves, moved swiftly to grab her bow. She nocked an arrow in one smooth motion, her movements calm and deliberate. Her blue eyes darted to Charlie.
"Take this," she said, pressing the crossbow into his hands.
Charlie stared at it, the weight unfamiliar and intimidating. "What do I do?" he whispered, his voice trembling.
"If they come," she said firmly, "you shoot. Don't hesitate if I tell you to shoot. Do you understand?"
He nodded, his hands slick with sweat as he gripped the weapon.
She turned to Amber, holding out another bow. "Here."
Amber shook her head violently, stepping back. "I—I can't."
"Amber," their mother said, her voice softer but urgent, "you need to—"
"No!" Amber interrupted, tears welling in her eyes. "I can't do it!"
Renee's jaw tightened, but she didn't push further. Instead, she motioned for Amber to get behind some crates.
Charlie could hear his heart pounding in his ears, drowning out the voices above.
"Hey, found a cellar!" one of the men called out, his voice sharp and excited.
"Yeah, look at this entrance," another one added. "It's well-traveled. I think there's people down there."
Charlie's grip on the crossbow tightened. His palms were slippery, and his fingers felt clumsy as he tried to keep his breathing steady.
"I'm only giving one chance," the first man shouted, his voice louder now, closer. "If no one comes out, I'll start this place on fire! Is anyone in there?"
The threat hung in the air, heavy and suffocating.
Renee didn't answer immediately. She stood still, her bow at the ready, her eyes darting toward the cellar door. Charlie could see her thinking, weighing their options.
Her calmness didn't soothe him. If anything, it made him sweat more. His stomach churned, and his hands shook so hard he thought he might drop the crossbow.
Above them, the sound of boots scraped against the wooden floorboards.
"Come on," one of the men said, his voice growing impatient. "You think I'm kidding? We'll burn this place down!"
The threat of fire loomed, but Renee still didn't move. She stayed poised, her knuckles white on the bowstring.
Eventually, his mother spoke, her voice calm but firm. "We mean no harm. We're just minding our own. What do you want?"
There was a pause, then a chuckle from above—low and mocking. It was followed by a woman's voice, cold and laced with amusement.
"Oh look a women responded " and me of the men said.
The men laughed as if it were a joke. One of them stepped closer to the cellar door, his voice dripping with mockery. "Listen, deary, the men and I are hungry, well-traveled, and… feeling lonely. Your voice sounds real nice. Are you pretty, too? Think you could make us feel a little less lonely?"
Charlie didn't fully understand the implication, but even at eight years old, he knew it was wrong. The way the men spoke made his skin crawl. He tightened his grip on the crossbow, his palms slick with sweat. His heart pounded in his chest, and his breath came in short, uneven gasps.
For the first time, Charlie knew with absolute certainty: if his mom told him to shoot, he'd do it.
The voices above grew louder as the men shuffled closer to the cellar door, laughing and talking among themselves. Charlie could hear their boots scraping against the ground, their tools clanking faintly as they moved.
And then—screaming.
A sharp, guttural yell cut through the air, followed by another and then another.
Charlie froze, his heart hammering in his chest. His mother's shoulders relaxed slightly, and she let out a breath of relief.
"Stay here," she whispered, her bow still drawn.
But Charlie didn't listen. He dashed to the cellar door, curiosity and fear driving him forward. He peeked out, his hands trembling as he held the crossbow.
Two men were sprawled on the ground, arrows sticking out of their chests. Blood pooled beneath them, dark and glistening in the afternoon light. A third man, slightly younger than Charlie's dad, was still standing, his face twisted with fury as he dodged an arrow.
Charlie's father was closing in, his compound bow drawn with precision. Another arrow flew, but the man ducked and rolled, evading it with practiced ease.
David Green didn't hesitate. He dropped the bow and pulled a machete from his side, the blade glinting in the golden light. The younger man swung a crowbar, meeting David's blade with a loud clang.
The fight wasn't like in movies or games, where flashy moves and quippy lines filled the screen. It was raw, brutal, and methodical. The crowbar scraped and clanged against the machete as the men circled each other, their movements deliberate and tense. The younger man lunged, swinging wildly, but David sidestepped, the blade of his machete slicing the air in a sharp arc.
Charlie crouched low, his heart racing. His father had always taught him the importance of staying unseen, of keeping quiet until the right moment. He crept closer, the crossbow shaking in his hands, his breath shallow and fast.
The younger man was too focused on David to notice Charlie approaching.
David saw him but said nothing, maintaining his distance as if to buy Charlie the opportunity he needed.
Charlie exhaled slowly, raising the crossbow. His hands felt clammy, and his aim wavered, but he steadied himself as best he could. He aimed, held his breath, and fired.
The bolt hit—a glancing shot that struck the man in the side. The attacker screamed, clutching his wound as he stumbled.
It was the opening David needed. He surged forward, his machete slicing through the man's neck in a brutal, clean arc. Blood sprayed, and the man fell to the ground at Charlie's feet, gurgling as he struggled to breathe. The rasping, wet sound of his last moments echoed in Charlie's ears as the man's chest stopped moving.
Charlie stared down at the lifeless body, his legs shaking beneath him.
David looked at the man, then at Charlie. For a long moment, there was silence. Charlie saw something shift in his father's face—not pride, not anger, but something heavier, like the weight of knowing what the world was becoming.
His mom arrived moments later, her bow still drawn, but David stopped her with a raised hand, she was furious look at Charlie for running out of the cellar.
"Son," he said, his voice steady. "You did well. Good approach. Decent shot. Next time—center mass."
Charlie nodded, his hands still gripping the crossbow tightly.
"Why?" his father asked, tilting his head slightly, his eyes searching Charlie's face. Wondering how is son could shoot a man.
Charlie looked up at him, then down at the dead man. His voice was quiet but firm. "Because I didn't like how they talked to Mom."
David's expression softened, just slightly. He sighed, reaching out to ruffle Charlie's hair. "Good answer."
Charlie still ended throwing up and didn't sleep very well for a week or so, seeing the dead man in his dreams, but even Charlie would do it again if he had too.