“I didn’t count. Hundreds; possibly more.”
Sloane’s expression hardened. She’d suspected. Hearing it confirmed still seemed like a blow.
“Just wandering?” she asked.
“Mostly, but some are clustering near the entrance areas.”
Jeff gave a low whistle. “So we’re sitting in a cage.”
“More or less.”
The silence that followed carried weight.
Sloane spoke first, quietly. “The doors are secure.”
“For now,” I said.
Jeff leaned forward. “So, what’s your long game?”
I stood and walked to the table where the maps and blueprints still lay spread out. That morning, Sloane and I had been planning fish tanks and generators. Now those plans seemed like they belonged to a different day entirely.
I pointed to the coastline. “This place keeps us alive in the short term. It’s not a forever answer.”
Sloane watched me, arms folded, reading every word before I said it.
I tapped the map farther north. “About three hundred miles up the coast. Off Maine.”
Jeff came to stand beside me. “What’s up there?”
I pointed to a tiny speck of land. “This.”
They all leaned closer.
“Finn’s Island.”
“His brother’s island,” Sloane said quietly.
Jeff looked between us. “Island?”
“My brother owns it,” I said.
Ethan’s eyebrows climbed. “Like… actually owns an island?”
“Yeah.”
Jeff chuckled. “Not something you hear every day.”
“He bought it years ago through a tax auction, the government selling off remote properties nobody wanted.”
“And he just… lives there?” Jeff asked.
I paused. “My brother’s a former Navy SEAL.”
Jeff’s expression changed in an instant. The amusement drained. Something sharper took its place—respect or recognition. “Oh.”
“Yeah,” I said, letting a small laugh escape. “Exactly.”
“He’s also a prepper,” Sloane added.