Jack rubbed the sleep from his eyes, his gaze sharpening. The hammering continued, drawing his attention fully. As he looked closer, he saw that Maarg wasn't just idly striking something. He was hitting the hilt of one of his knives, not to sharpen it, but clearly trying to break it or detach the blade. A small, sturdy rock lay nearby, serving as an impromptu hammer.
"What the hell are you doing?" Jack mumbled, his voice thick with sleep and irritation.
Maarg turned, a faint, tired but undeniably content smile touching his lips, his eyes, though still shadowed by fatigue, clear and focused. "About time you woke up," he replied, a hint of his usual dry wit returning, completely unfazed by Jack's gruff awakening. He didn't stop his work, his hands still busy with the knife. Without looking at Jack, he continued, his voice calm and practical, "I'm turning one of my knives into a spear." He gestured vaguely towards a long, stout branch he'd evidently salvaged from somewhere outside. "A spear has longer range and more thrusting power. It'll be a better option than just a knife in close quarters, and it keeps zombies at a distance." The simple, brutal logic made perfect sense, even to a still-groggy Jack.
Jack pushed himself fully upright, the aches in his body a dull background throb. He watched Maarg for a moment, impressed despite himself. While he'd been wrestling with nightmares and the feeling of inadequacy, Maarg had been up, actively preparing, thinking ahead. It was a stark contrast to the emotionally volatile, often reactive kid he knew. This new Maarg, tempered by loss and newfound power, was different. He was proactive, calculating, almost... mature.
"Hey, Maarg?" Jack began, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. "Wanna play truth, paper, scissors?"
Maarg paused his hammering, then slowly looked up at Jack, his smirk deepening, losing its softness and gaining an edge. "If you have any questions, just ask," Maarg said, his voice flat, devoid of its earlier warmth. "We've come far enough to not disguise confrontation into a game, Jack."
Jack let out a sigh, but his smile remained, tinged with a touch of bittersweet pride. "You've really grown up a lot," he said, his gaze steady on Maarg's. "Not ignoring important conversations, facing things head-on..."
Before Jack could even finish his thought, Maarg cut him off, a distinct hint of irritation now in his smirk. "Just ask the damn question or I might change my mood."
Jack took a steadying breath, his smile fading as the gravity of the moment settled in. This wasn't about teasing anymore. "Alright, fine," he said, his voice dropping to a serious tone. "Maarg... how do you do all those superhuman things?" He gestured vaguely, encompassing the impossible speed and strength he'd witnessed. "And... does it have something to do with the zombies?" Jack's mind immediately went to the horrifying image of Mark. "I saw Mark. He was strong, sure, but he completely lacked intelligence, just a brute. You're like... the superior version. You still you."
He paused, leaning forward slightly, his eyes searching Maarg's for any flicker of discomfort. "Does using those abilities put a strain on you? Do you get tired, or... worse?" The unspoken fear hung heavy in the air. "Will you also become a zombie if you keep using it?"
Maarg didn't meet Jack's gaze immediately. He kept his focus on the knife, his jaw clenched. "Sorry, Jack, but I don't know what has happened to me," he finally said, his voice low, strained by effort and the weight of his words. "As far as I know, it has something to do with Amar, but I'm not even sure if it was Amar who sent me those things in the first place." As he spoke, he poured all his strength into breaking the hilt of the knife. With a sharp crack, the handle splintered, separating the blade from its worn grip.
Maarg finally looked up, his eyes meeting Jack's. The earlier smirk was gone, replaced by a grim, unsettling resolve. "And yes," he continued, his voice barely above a whisper, the raw honesty stark in the quiet cabin, "there might come a time when I might not be able to control my abilities and go berserk." He held Jack's gaze, unflinching, as he uttered the chilling request. "I wish that you behead me if that ever happens."
The words hung in the air, heavier than any physical blow. Jack felt a cold dread seep into his bones, chilling him far more effectively than the humid night air ever could. His eyes widened, reflecting the pale morning light, fixed on Maarg's face. He saw no hint of jest, no trace of the usual Maarg. This was a desperate plea, a burden being laid bare. Jack's throat tightened, and for a moment, he couldn't breathe, couldn't speak. The image of Mark, grotesque and mindless, flashed in his mind, then overlaid with Maarg's own face. The thought of having to do what Maarg asked, of having to end his best friend's life, was a torment. His hands clenched into fists, trembling slightly. The silence stretched, punctuated only by the distant roar of the waterfall, a constant reminder of the world's indifference.
Then, a sudden, sharp laugh broke the tension. Maarg looked at Jack, his face now split by a wide, almost defiant grin, completely dispelling the grim mask he'd worn moments before. "You should look at how serious you look!" Maarg chuckled, the sound surprisingly light after the heavy confession. "Do you really think I'll let some stupid virus take control of me? Over my dead body, I say!"
Just like that, Maarg was back to being Maarg, the reckless kid challenging fate, brushing off existential threats with bravado. The fleeting glimpse of vulnerability was gone, replaced by his usual irreverence. Jack could only stare, a mix of relief and exasperation washing over him.
***
The sharp crack of the knife hilt breaking, followed by Maarg's defiant laugh, had finally done what the waterfall's roar couldn't: fully rouse the rest of the cabin. Soon, the quiet hum of early morning gave way to the sounds of stirring bodies, yawns, and hushed conversations. Maarg, now finished with his makeshift spear—a sharp knife blade expertly lashed to a sturdy wooden shaft—was practically buzzing. He moved around the cabin with renewed energy, proudly showing off his new creation to anyone who'd look, a tangible result of his restless night.
Breakfast was a quick, somber affair, consisting of the last few processed items scrounged from a vending machine found nearby. The stale crackers and sugary granola bars offered little comfort, but they provided a necessary burst of calories for the day ahead.
Meanwhile, everyone was busy in their own ways.
Henry, ever the strategist, was hunched over the crumpled brochure of Whispering Falls, his brow furrowed in concentration. He was trying to mentally connect its layout to the complex map of Toronto etched in his memory, piecing together their next route. Johan and Andy, the practical duo, were outside, making the last few adjustments to the truck, their mechanical murmurs blending with the distant rush of water. They were ensuring their lifeline on wheels was as ready as it could be for the treacherous roads ahead.
Gabby, having spent most of the night keeping watch was now finally catching up on much-needed sleep, a silent, bundled form on the sofa. His presence, or lack thereof, offered a temporary reprieve from the unspoken questions Maarg still harbored about him.
Miss Carla was the first to emerge from the cabin, her determined expression signaling a need for personal care. She ventured away from the main cabin, towards the waterfall, returning later with clean clothes and a refreshed demeanor, the dirt and soot of their recent ordeal washed away. Her simple act inspired others, and soon, one by one, the rest of the group took turns heading to the water to wash themselves, shedding the grime of survival.
By the midday sun, a sense of readiness had settled over the group. The cabin, though still a mess, felt less like a temporary grave and more like a brief, albeit chaotic, haven. Supplies were checked, weapons secured, and minds were set. Everyone was ready to continue the journey. The road to the Vipers, and whatever awaited them there, beckoned.