Graves sat down in the center of the room. Around him were the rest of the – survivors? – refugees? They all lay slumped in some sort of haphazard circle around the room, waiting to see what the next plan of action would be. The days seemed to be getting shorter and shorter, and even with the sconces lit at the four corners of their shelter, the daylight was fading fast and few of them could see through the dim gloom that rested around each of them. It was omnipresent in those days, as if God had taken a step back and this sorrow and fear had filled his void.

Graves looked from face to face. Stryder’s constant stern and stoic countenance glared back. His long brown hair hung over his face, yet those dark eyes burned through, almost conspicuously in the dim light as they absorbed what little luminescence there was in the room. Only upon closer inspection could Graves make out that scar across his cheek. It really was fading well. The one down the side of his neck and across his shoulder stuck out of the collar of his tattered brown shirt though, a symbol of that day. Graves felt Stryder’s gaze meet his own and turned away, avoiding whatever mystical power it seemed he had.

Aphrodite was making those longing yet hopeless eyes at Marx again. She knew there was nothing there, but she couldn’t help but love his cherubic features. There were so few left that his babyface appealed to her despite the onset of late adolescent acne. Maybe it was his amazing talent for remembering things from the days before that this sunblonde saw in him. After all, a girl so pretty wouldn’t have even noticed someone like Marx in the days before. Graves took one cautious look down to her breasts and then sharply looked away, feeling the heat well up inside him. Her cleavage peaked out of her shirt. She was always trying to look her best, a trait inherited from before when she would walk the beaches in her swimsuit and give guys false numbers. Maybe it was the instincts kicking back in, trying to find a mate to continue humanity. Life is a big wheel, and eventually you ride this Lazy Susan so long you come right back to where you started.

Marx, deep in thought again. He had that look like at any moment he might say something either profound or idiotic. Graves could tell by his eyes that he did not even notice Aphrodite at the opposite side of the room. Marx was lost in the depths of his own mind again. A better world than the one in which they all presently sat. The boyish features were still there. In a different time, Marx would be sitting in a college classroom, or maybe on the porch of some fraternity house as a new pledge so cocky and bright. Somewhere behind that bowl cut lay brilliance though, Graves was sure of it.

Conan sat just to Graves’s right, twiddling the dagger he had found at their last outpost. He looked closest to happy of anyone in the room. His shirt still bore the bloodstains from the previous weeks, despite how many times he had been told to wash his damn clothes. He sat poised, ready to lash out at the first sign of movement. Beneath his sunstained skin, the sinews twitched, tense and jumpy. In the dim light, the tattoos on his head blended together in some mass that in a darker atmosphere could have been mistaken for hair. At his hip on a holster rested a Taurus .357. Nothing that large was necessary in these days, but he always liked to be overprepared, or at least that was what he said when questioned about it.

Eve sat with Mary in her lap, absentmindedly braiding the child’s amber hair. Eve did likewise with the Raggedy Anne doll they found in a burning house several weeks back. Both were dressed plainly and modestly with loose blouses and long earthy colored skirts. Eve had not said a word since they had found her at the 7-Eleven slurping melted Icee drinks. She had merely said “Hello, how are you doing today,” and that was it. Complete silence from that day forth. Eve had taken her on as her own child, and anytime the girl was concerned, Eve spoke in her defense.

There were three new faces in the room, ones that had just been found. They did not have names, yet. But tonight was a night for great palaver. It had been too long since, and if tales are not told and remembered then they are lost and forgotten. Graves did not know why this seemed so important to him, but he had always bought into the philosophy that the past is studied to understand the present and prepare for the future. Well understand they would try, and prepare they certainly would.

Graves was the first to move. Conan snapped his head up as Graves slowly brought himself to stand. I’m getting too old for this, he thought as he listened to the creaks in his knees and spine. Oh cliché, at least I still have some attachment to the old world. He walked into the kitchen, near pitch blackness now that the sun had finally set. If Graves had not known where exactly he was going, tragedy surely would have ensued. Blindly, he grabbed three of the logs they had gathered that afternoon, making sure to pick at least one rotted one, and tossed them into the half barrel Conan had cut with a hacksaw. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a blue Bic, struck the flint and pressed the button, watching bright blue magic flame spring forth. He grabbed a newspaper, November 25th, 2008, New York Times. Still before it happened. Whoever lived here before had some useful fetish for keeping the old news, and in this dry, dead house, they made for the perfect firestarter. He put fire to paper and set the wad beneath the logs, making sure that the dry rotted one rested directly above his tinder. Thank God my parents made me go through with getting my Eagle Scout.

Stryder stood in the doorway watching, holding a pot of water which he silently passed to Graves, who set it aside to put a fireplace grill over the young fire. He set the pot on top of the grill and tossed in some salted venison and began peeling potatoes. Stryder reached into a pouch he carried on his hip and removed a Ziploc back filled with herbs. He tossed only a pinch into the pot and replaced the bag within his belongings. Silently, he took his place back in the main room, waiting for the ritual that was sure to begin soon.

Everyone looked up when Graves walked back into the room, carrying the stew carefully so as not to spill any of their precious sup. It was not every day that they had new guests. New mouths to feed. That thought sat at the back of everyone’s minds, even the new. True there was strength in numbers, but how large could they grow before they overextended their population? Just how many mouths could they afford to feed? I’m the head of a goddam Catholic family now Graves thought.

“I wondered if we were going to eat tonight, filet mignon?” Marx said, breaking the silence. There was no laughter. Laughter was running in short supply these days. Mary looked up and around as everyone began to dig their bowls out of supply sacks. Graves ladled the stew into each of the nine bowls and then his own, nearly having to pour the remnants of the pot into it to fill it halfway. Too many mouths, he thought.

“Tonight we are joined by three new guests,” he said as everyone sat down and began to slowly sip their dinner. He motioned to the two ladies and one man. “It has been too long since last we told our stories of old, of how we came to be together. As you all know, I think that if we reflect enough on our pasts, it may give us some insight to our futures.” He paused, half trying to read the comment on everyone’s face and half trying to think just what he was going to say next. “I supposed one of us should start to tell our tale, and then I invite you three to tell us of your journey. After we are done, you can decide whether or not you will stay with us, or strike out on your own,” he added, putting extra emphasis on this latter part. “So, who wants to go first?”

Marx looked away, hiding his anticipation. Stryder stepped back into the shadows, his comfort zone. Conan stood.

“I will,” Conan said, and began his story.