Dean stared at the group of teenagers and the nuns, his expression unreadable.
"I asked you a question," he repeated, his tone calm but firm.
The oldest nun, a woman in her early fifties with weary eyes and a dirt-streaked habit, stepped forward. "My name is Sister Agnes," she said, her voice hoarse from exhaustion. "We… we were from Saint Theresa Orphanage."
At the mention of the name, Dean's lips curled into a small smirk, his eyes darkening slightly. Well, would you look at that…
Sister Agnes continued. "The orphanage was destroyed… we ran out of food, and we tried to ration everything, but it wasn't enough. Some of the older kids left to find supplies and never came back. And then…" she trailed off, her voice faltering.
Marcus frowned. "And then?"
Sister Agnes closed her eyes. "Then they came. The undead. They attacked us at night. We had no choice but to run."
One of the younger nuns, a woman in her thirties, wiped away silent tears as Sister Agnes continued. "We've been on the streets for a week. We hid, scavenged for whatever we could find, but…" she shook her head, her voice thick with emotion. "We were barely surviving. Then, just before you found us, we ran into that massive horde. If you hadn't come when you did, we wouldn't have stood a chance."
Dean let out a quiet chuckle, but it lacked humor. "Saint Theresa, huh?" he muttered under his breath. "What a damn coincidence."
Sister Agnes looked at him curiously. "You… know of our orphanage?"
Dean crossed his arms, looking at the ground for a moment before meeting her gaze. "That's where I grew up."
A stunned silence filled the air. The teens exchanged glances, whispering amongst themselves. Sister Agnes's eyes widened in shock. "You… you were one of our children?"
Dean ignored the question, his expression unreadable. Instead, he asked, "There was an old nun there. Sister Beatrice. Where is she?"
Sister Agnes's face fell. "Sister Beatrice… she… she didn't make it."
Dean's smirk faded. He remained silent, waiting for her to continue.
"She sacrificed herself," Sister Agnes whispered, her voice thick with sorrow. "When the undead broke in, she stayed behind to hold the doors shut so we could escape. She told us to run, to save the children. She… she gave her life to protect us."
Dean let out a small chuckle, but his eyes were distant. "Yeah. That sounds like her." He exhaled slowly, shaking his head. "Always trying to save everyone, even if it meant throwing herself into the fire."
Sister Agnes gave a weak smile, remembering her dear friend. "She always spoke about the children she raised with love… you must have been one of them."
Dean didn't respond to that. Instead, he straightened up. "Go take a bath and get some rest," he said. "We'll talk more over dinner."
The group nodded, still exhausted and overwhelmed. As they moved toward the underground bunker where the showers were located, Dean and Marcus remained behind, watching them disappear inside.
Dinner Time An hour later, the scent of cooked meat and fresh bread filled the air. Marcus's mother, Claire, had prepared a large meal—something that had become a rare luxury in this world.
The teens and nuns stared in awe at the feast before them. Freshly cooked roasted chicken, mashed potatoes, garden-grown vegetables, and warm bread. Their stomachs growled loudly, and they could barely contain their hunger.
One of the younger boys, no older than fifteen, was drooling.
"You're really feeding us all this?" a teenage girl asked, her voice shaky.
Dean smirked, leaning back in his chair. "Go on. Eat up."
The moment he gave permission, the group rushed to the table, devouring the food like they hadn't eaten in weeks—which, in truth, they hadn't.
Dean watched them for a moment before silently standing up. Without a word, he grabbed a cold can of beer from the fridge and made his way to the second-floor balcony.
He popped the can open with a soft hiss, took a long sip, and stared at the darkening sky. Got a stick of cigarette to his lips that was just wetted with that sip of beer, Lighted and inhale the nicotine filled smoke Memories of the Past As he gazed at the stars, his mind drifted back to Sister Beatrice.
She was the one who had raised him in Saint Theresa Orphanage, always kind and patient. When the other kids bullied him for being different, she defended him. When he snuck out to get into trouble, she always found him and brought him back.
She used to tell him, "You have a good heart, Dean. Even if you try to hide it, I know it's in there."
Dean scoffed, taking another sip of beer. "Guess I didn't do a good job hiding it, huh?"
He exhaled a cloud of smoke from his cigarette, closing his eyes for a moment.
She had died protecting the kids.
The same way she had always protected him.
And now… he was doing the same thing.
Dean smirked bitterly, staring at the stars. What a damn joke.