Harem Apocalypse: My Seed is the Cure?!-Chapter 191: Doctor Shawn

By the time we reached the barricade the Boardwalk community had thrown up, the city around us had already started to change.

The open, hollow streets we’d crossed earlier—lined with abandoned cars and dark storefronts like a dead mouth full of broken teeth—narrowed into channeled approaches. Vehicles had been pushed sideways across the road and locked together nose‑to‑nose. Sheets of corrugated metal, fencing, and scavenged railings filled the gaps above them. Someone had taken the chaos of the ruined city and forced it into shapes: choke points, kill lanes, paths that could be watched and defended.

And that’s exactly what they were doing.

A handful of figures waited ahead, half in shadow, half washed in the weak spill of flashlight beams and the faint glow from strings of LED lights. Everyone was armed. Rifles slung or held low, pistols visible at hips, blades strapped where hands could reach them quickly. No one stood with the loose, half‑bored posture of people "on watch" only because someone made a duty roster. These people were awake in the way only those who expected bad things at any moment could be—eyes tracking, shoulders slightly forward, fingers close to triggers.

They had set up a gate in the middle of the vehicle wall. It wasn’t anything fancy—just a section of welded metal and reinforced scrap on hinges—but it was heavy enough that two people would probably have to work together to open or close it quickly. Above it, a man stood on what looked like a crate or a cut‑down scaffold platform, gaining a little extra height so he could look over the barricade into the darkness beyond.

Compared to the "security" Margaret’s community had back in Jackson Township’s municipal building, this felt like another world.

Margaret’s people had tried to do something similar, of course. A few men at the main entrance, a rotation posted near the parking lot, a list pinned to the wall with names and times. On paper, it looked like security. In practice, it was mostly three tired people sharing cigarettes and complaining about ration sizes while watching for infected wandering too close. Their biggest concern had been the dead and, on the worst nights, the Fire Spitter. Even then, half the community still preferred to believe the flames were the work of some rival group or the Screamer Wave—anything that fit within the old human categories of "gang" and "enemy faction."

The Starakians didn’t fit any human category.

I’d told the truth about them only to a very small circle: Margaret, Martin, Clara, Mark. The people who had to know, who needed the full board to make decisions. Margaret had listened, face growing tighter and tighter as she processed the idea of an alien race behind the infection and "evolutions," then simply said: Don’t tell the others. Not yet.

"They’ve lost their homes, their routines, half their families," she’d said. "They don’t need one more horror to break their minds. Let them focus on the dangers they can see. The rest... we carry it for now."

And she was right. Most people in Margaret’s community were already walking around hollow‑eyed, held together by routine and inertia. Handing them "interstellar invasion" on top of "the dead walk and spit fire" would have been cruel.

Same with the things I’d done. The things Rachel and Sydney had done. The little touches of inhuman speed or strength, the impact resistance that didn’t make sense, the way some infected seemed to hesitate when getting close to me. The few who had watched too closely had gone quiet afterward instead of asking questions. Maybe they’d decided we were just "blessed" or "mutants." Maybe they simply filed it under "things I’m too tired to understand." I couldn’t blame them for that either.

But this Boardwalk group... this was different.

They had a human enemy, not just monsters. Another community right here in the same city, with a name and a leader and clear intent. Callighan. You could see that awareness burned into their posture. It sharpened everything. They weren’t only watching for shambling bodies in the dark. They were watching for headlights, for organized movement, for silhouettes that knew how to move like soldiers.

"I see some new faces out there," the man on the platform called, voice carrying easily across the gap. He was silhouetted from behind by a string of LEDs, his jaw working steadily as he chewed gum. One hand held a flashlight, the beam cutting across us in a ruthless sweep that made spots blossom in my vision when it hit my eyes. "Hope that’s not Callighan’s people and you just got soft and took pity."

The question was aimed mostly at Molly, though the beam lingered on Clara’s slack face and the blood‑darkened shoulder of her shirt before it came back to me.

"Open the damn thing, Theo," Maribel said, already sounding like she’d spent all her patience for the week.

"Alright, alright, princess," Theo groaned, but his tone was more familiar ribbing than true irritation.

He hopped down from his perch and moved to the gate. Metal shrieked against asphalt as he dragged back the heavy panel. The sound made my shoulders tense and my teeth itch. I felt Clara flinch faintly in my arms even though she was half‑conscious at best.

We stepped through the narrow opening, and that was the moment I realized how much this place was unlike anywhere we’d been since Jackson fell.

Inside the barricade, there was light.

Not much, not compared to the old world. But enough.

A web of small, low‑hung LEDs was strung along the inner side of the barricade, wrapped around poles, threaded through holes drilled into metal beams. They cast pools of soft, bluish‑white glow onto the cracked pavement, leaving deep shadows between them. Farther in, a few more lines of light traced the edges of paths between buildings, marking where it was safe to walk and where the obstacles began.

Somewhere, a generator hummed—faint and irregular, but steady enough to provide this trickle of power. Or maybe they had solar panels rigged on rooftops, feeding batteries during the day. Either way, the effect was the same: a small bubble of civilization pushed back against the darkness.

"Where’s Shawn?" Molly asked as soon as the gate clanged closed behind us.

"The doctor’s probably sleeping," Theo said, trotting alongside now, still sneaking glances at the bloody Clara in my arms. "Was up half the night cutting and sewing."

"Then wake him," Molly said. "Tell him we’ve got a bullet wound, not a scraped knee."

"Right, right." Theo nodded and broke away.

I’d assumed he would head straight for the towering casino‑hotel Shannon had pointed out earlier, but he veered instead toward a smaller building set just off the main path. It was only one story high, brickwork weathered by ocean air and time, with front windows boarded halfway up. Someone had left the top sections open, the glass still intact behind bars. Faded letters clung above the door, where sun and salt had eaten the paint down to ghosts. I could just make out the outline of words that had probably once read something like "Medical Clinic" or "Family Practice."

"The doctor prefers his own place," Molly said, following my gaze with a slight smile. "Thankfully it’s near the Boardwalk proper. When we finally cleared this area of infected and told him he could come out of hiding, you should’ve seen his face. Like Christmas morning, if Christmas came with iodine and sutures."

"An actual doctor," I said. "We’ve got a nurse with us. Ivy. She’s... very good. Stubborn, but good."

Ivy’s face surfaced clearly in my mind’s eye. She wasn’t showing much emotions but she was doing her job perfectly.

"Extremely rare these days," Molly agreed. "A real doctor. A real nurse. We’re both luckier than most."

"See you, Ryan!"

I turned at the call.

Shannon twisted around on Frank’s back, one arm still hooked around his neck, the other waving enthusiastically in my direction. The movement jostled her injured ankle and made Frank grunt, but she didn’t seem to care.

Maribel walked beside them now, one hand at the small of Shannon’s back, steering her toward the towering hotel in the distance. She didn’t even flick a glance my way. Her expression was locked straight ahead.

Again, I couldn’t blame her. After everything Callighan’s people had done to them, hearing me even joke about joining him—tactical or not—must have felt like betrayal. I’d threatened to throw my group’s safety in with the man who’d turned their community into a minefield of grief.

"Doctor, thank God you’re awake," Theo’s voice drifted from the clinic door.

"You dragged me out of bed, you idiot." The reply was rough with sleep and annoyance.

By the time we reached the entrance, the door had already swung open.

A man in his thirties leaned in the doorway, one forearm braced against the frame. He wore a long white coat over a rumpled shirt that had probably been buttoned correctly at some point earlier in the day. Below that, however, he sported nothing but dark briefs and a single mismatched sock. His legs were pale under a scattering of dark hair, knees knobbier than you’d expect from someone who probably spent his pre‑apocalypse days standing over examination tables instead of running marathons.

He scrubbed a hand through his messy hair, making it stick up even more, and blinked blearily at us. A few days’ worth of stubble shadowed his jaw and upper lip, giving him the look of someone who had lost any interest in shaving after the world ended but hadn’t quite committed to growing a full beard.

So this was Shawn. The Boardwalk’s doctor.

He was not the image my pre‑collapse brain had filed under "doctor." No pressed shirt and tie. No polished shoes. No calm, rehearsed professional smile.

But his eyes, when they landed on Clara, changed in a way I recognized immediately.

All the tiredness didn’t vanish, exactly, but it got pushed to the edges. His pupils focused sharply, his body straightened almost by reflex. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a small flashlight, and flicked it on with a practiced motion.

The beam swept across my face first—bright enough to make me squint—then dropped to Clara. It traced the line of her jaw, the slackness of her mouth, the shallow rise and fall of her chest. It lingered longest on the bandages at her shoulder, now soaked through with dark blood, the fabric stiff around the edges where it had dried and then been soaked again.

"Bullet," he said. Not a question.

I nodded once.

"Any other injuries?" he asked, already stepping back into the clinic and gesturing for us to follow. The brusqueness in his tone was less rudeness and more efficiency. He’d clearly done this a lot.

"Just the one," I said. "Right shoulder, near the collarbone. Entry wound only as far as we know. No exit. She’s been bleeding, but we stopped the worst of it on the way."

"Time since injury?"

"Couple hours," I said. "Maybe three. Hard to say exactly."

"Get her inside," he repeated, turning away fully now. "We’ll talk more where I can actually see what I’m doing."

Only Molly followed as I stepped over the threshold with Clara in my arms. Rico and the others had already drifted away, fading back into the settlement’s pathways, to watch posts and family corners and whatever counted as "home" for them now. The door swung slowly shut behind us, sealing out the faint hum of the generator and the murmur of voices beyond the barricade.

Inside, the clinic felt like a pocket of the old world that had been swallowed whole and then left to sit in someone’s stomach for too long.

The air was a blend of scents: old antiseptic, alcohol wipes, dust, metal, and beneath it all the stubborn trace of human fear and pain soaked into tile and paint. The waiting area to our right still had a few chairs bolted along the wall, their vinyl cracked and discolored. A receptionist’s desk had been shoved aside, surface cleared in haste, papers stacked in boxes underneath.

Down a short hall, two exam rooms opened on opposite sides. One door stood half‑open, revealing an examination table covered with mismatched sheets and towels, a tray of instruments laid out with military precision: scissors, clamps, forceps, a scalpel with tape wrapped around the handle for better grip. A metal cabinet against the wall had glass doors, its shelves packed with pill bottles and boxes, each one labeled by hand—some with actual printed stickers, others with marker on pieces of tape.

"Put her there," Shawn said, moving into the open room and flicking on a battery‑powered lantern hanging from a hook in the ceiling. The light washed the small space in a cold, clear glow, sharper than the soft LEDs outside.

I stepped forward and gently lowered Clara onto the exam table. She let out a small sound—not quite a groan, more a dragged breath—then went limp again. Her skin felt too cool against my hands.

Molly hovered near the door.

Shawn slipped into a rhythm so quickly it was like watching muscle memory take over. Scissors flashed as he cut away the blood‑stiffened fabric of Clara’s shirt, the blades making soft, crunching sounds as they bit through layers that had dried and stuck together. The air filled with the sharp smell of antiseptic as he cracked open a bottle and soaked a wad of gauze, his movements efficient but never careless.

He peeled back our improvised bandages with careful fingers, pausing whenever Clara’s breathing hitched, then resumed once he was sure she wasn’t waking into more pain than she could handle. Under the ruined cloth, the wound looked worse than I’d hoped and better than I’d feared—angry red around the entry point, dried blood crusted thickly where it had seeped and clotted.

"You took the bullet."

"Yeah," I nodded.

"I’ve never seen you before," Shawn said suddenly, eyes still on the wound as he worked. "Am I wrong? I’ve got a shit memory for names, but I usually remember faces. Yours isn’t one of them, so forgive me if I’m missing something."

"No, you’re right," I said. "We’re from another town. Our settlement fell a few days ago. Clara was shot by someone—no warning, no shouting, just a bullet out of nowhere. We ran into Molly and the others right after it happened."

"Shot out of nowhere, huh?" Shawn muttered, dabbing away blood so he could see better. "Yeah, that fits their style. Probably Callighan’s men. They like taking potshots from cover. Keeps everyone jumpy."

"It seems so," I agreed quietly.

He flicked a glance up at me then, just long enough for our eyes to meet before he returned his attention to Clara’s shoulder. For a second, I saw myself reflected there: blood spatter on my clothes, grit on my face, the hollow, wired look around the eyes that came from too little sleep and too many close calls.

"You’re pretty young," he said. There wasn’t judgment in it, exactly—more a tired kind of surprise. "Younger than most who come in here carrying someone else’s life like that."

"This world doesn’t care about age," I said.

A faint huff of a laugh escaped him. "You’ve got that right." He reached for another instrument, checked something at the wound again. "Name?"

"Ryan."

"Alright, Ryan." His tone shifted, turned sharper. "Find somewhere to sit that isn’t in my way, and don’t hover over my shoulder for the next few minutes. I get cranky when people breathe down my neck while I’m elbow‑deep in someone’s blood."

I hesitated, then nodded and backed away from the table. There was an old wooden bench along the wall just outside the open doorway, the kind you’d find in any cheap clinic waiting room. I sat down, elbows on my knees, still angled so I could see into the room.

From here, I could watch without looming. Shawn’s silhouette moved back and forth across the lantern’s light as he worked, blocking and revealing glimpses of what he was doing: the shine of metal instruments, the steady rhythm of his hands, the way he occasionally paused to check Clara’s breathing, then went right back in.

"He looks like a beggar, I know," Molly said softly, stepping over to lean against the wall near me. "But don’t worry. Under all that stubble and bad attitude, he’s very good at what he does."

"Yeah," I said, forcing a brief nod. "I figured as much."

My gaze dropped to my hands without me meaning it to. They were clasped together, fingers interlaced so tightly the knuckles had gone white. At some point I’d started squeezing hard enough that my forearms ached, but I hadn’t even felt it until that moment.

I loosened them, spread my fingers, then laced them again, because keeping them busy felt better than leaving them idle. The tension had to go somewhere. 𝕗𝚛𝚎𝚎𝐰𝗲𝗯𝗻𝚘𝚟𝚎𝗹.𝕔𝐨𝕞

No matter how hard I tried to stay level, something always found a way in. A bullet from nowhere. Another city with its own problems we were walking straight into. And underneath all of that, the same black pressure that had risen when Jasmine died, when Jackson Township fell, when I’d watched and seen what Infected had done because of the Screamer, Elena and Alisha taken away.

It sat there now, just behind my ribs. Heavy. Restless.

Asking me to release all my pent up emotions but I held all of them back.

I felt... like I was slowly losing myself into Dullahan.