Harem Apocalypse: My Seed is the Cure?!-Chapter 198: A Warm Meal with Carmen and Shannon [2]

Part of me wanted to turn around and walk away. Go back to Clara, eat whatever we had in our bags in silence, avoid this.

But I’d already agreed.

So I climbed the three steps to the porch, raised my hand, and knocked twice on the door.

The voices inside went quiet for a heartbeat.

Then footsteps approached, quick and light, and the door swung open to reveal Shannon’s grinning face.

"Ryan! You actually came!" She said, like there had been real doubt. "Come in, come in! Mom’s almost done cooking and it smells amazing!"

She stepped back, pulling the door wide, and I crossed the threshold into their home.

The door closed behind me with a soft click, sealing me inside warmth and the smell of cooked fish and the strange, fragile domesticity that somehow still existed at the end of the world.

Shannon moved ahead of me through the narrow entryway, her walking stick tapping rhythmically against the hardwood floor. The interior of the house was dimmer than outside, with curtains drawn partway across most windows to preserve privacy and warmth. The walls were painted a faded cream color, marked here and there with scuff marks and nail holes where pictures had once hung and been removed or rearranged. A small table near the door held a collection of mismatched items—a flashlight, a folding knife, a coil of rope, all the practical detritus of survival.

"Mom! Ryan’s here!" Shannon called out.

"You don’t have to shout it that loud," Carmen’s voice drifted back from somewhere deeper inside, tinged with xasperation. "I do have functioning ears, Shannon."

I followed Shannon through what had once been a formal living room. Furniture sat pushed against walls to create more open floor space—a faded couch, a armchair with worn upholstery, a bookshelf half-empty with books stacked haphazardly. The carpet beneath my boots was thin and marked with foot traffic patterns. Family photos lined the mantle above a cold fireplace, their frames dusty but carefully preserved.

The smell of cooking grew stronger as we moved through the house, but it wasn’t coming from inside. Shannon led me toward the back, where a door stood open to reveal a small backyard garden bathed in late morning sunlight.

And there was Carmen, standing in front of what looked like an improvised coal barbecue setup—except it wasn’t coal burning beneath the grill grate. Wooden branches and scraps of lumber fed the fire, producing uneven flames and billowing smoke that Carmen carefully managed with practiced adjustments. A proper grilling plate sat atop the improvised grate, and on it several fish fillets sizzled alongside various vegetables. Another pan held potatoes and what looked like tomatoes, all cooking in some kind of oil or fat that made everything smell rich and savory.

Carmen had tied her flaxen hair back in a loose ponytail and wore a stained apron over work clothes. Her face was flushed from the heat of the fire and beaded with sweat along her hairline. She looked up as we appeared, offering a small smile while simultaneously adjusting one of the fish fillets with a spatula to prevent burning .

"You can take a seat," she said, gesturing vaguely toward a small outdoor table that had been set with mismatched plates and utensils. "This is taking longer than expected, as always. Cooking over wood fire is temperamental."

"It’s fine," I said, moving toward the table. "Take your time."

The backyard was surprisingly well-maintained for a post-collapse property. A vegetable garden occupied most of the available space—neat rows of what looked like tomato plants, some kind of leafy greens, potato mounds marked with sticks, even a few bean poles with vines climbing them. Everything showed signs of careful tending: weeded earth, improvised irrigation channels, protective fencing made from scavenged materials to keep out animals or infected.

"You’ve planted quite a bit out here," I observed, genuinely impressed. "This must take constant work."

"Yes," Carmen said, checking the potatoes with a fork before flipping them. "That was the first thing we all thought of when we secured the Boardwalk—find good spots with decent soil and plant as much as possible. Vegetables, fruits, anything that could grow in this climate. They take weeks or months to mature, so we had to move quickly. Every day we delayed was a day further from having real food."

"Smart thinking," I said, taking a seat at the table. The chair creaked slightly under my weight but held.

Shannon settled into the chair across from me, propping her injured ankle on another chair and setting her walking stick within easy reach. She watched me with that same bright curiosity from earlier.

"Molly mentioned you’re from a town not far from here?" Carmen asked, glancing over her shoulder while tending the fire. "That you and your group traveled here together?"

"Jackson Township, yes," I said. "We lived there for about two months. We’d done similar things—planted gardens, cleared the area, established defenses and routines. It was working pretty well for a while."

I paused, my expression darkening a bit.

"But Infected overwhelmed us eventually," I continued. "A large group of them, more than we could handle with our numbers and resources. We lost people trying to hold them back. In the end, we had no choice but to evacuate and abandon the settlement."

Carmen turned fully now, her expression shifting to something more serious, touched with surprise. "You were unable to hold them back? After two months of establishment?"

It was a fair question. On the surface, it did seem strange. Communities didn’t usually fall that suddenly after two months of relative stability. Infected attacks came in waves, sure, but a group with even basic defenses and organization could typically manage them through coordinated response .

Unless something exceptional happened. Unless something changed the equation entirely.

"It was a concentrated group," I said carefully, choosing words that wouldn’t reveal too much about Fire Spitters or Starakian involvement. "A lot of them, different types, attacking simultaneously. We were unprepared for that scale and coordination. We fought, but we couldn’t hold the line. People died trying."

Jason. Jasmine and plenty of others in the Municipal Office.

Carmen’s expression softened into something sad and understanding. "I’m sorry for your loss," she said quietly. "We’ve all lost people since this began. Everyone here has empty spaces at their tables now."

My gaze drifted to the mantle visible through the open door—to the family photos Shannon had mentioned earlier. I could make out the details now: Carmen, younger and smiling, her arm around a middle-aged man with kind eyes and Shannon’s same bright grin. Another figure stood beside them, a young man around my age, lean and athletic-looking, caught mid-laugh in the frozen moment .

Likely the father and brother Shannon had mentioned in passing last night. Both dead in the initial outbreak, from what I understood. Carmen had lost her husband and son in a matter of days or weeks, leaving only Shannon behind. The grief must have been—must still be—enormous. Yet she carried it quietly, held together by necessity and the living daughter who still needed her .

"All we can do is move forward with the people we still have," I said, meaning it.

Carmen smiled wryly, acknowledging the truth in that. "Indeed. Shannon is everything I have left now. If something had happened to her..."

She trailed off, unable or unwilling to finish the thought. Her hands stilled on the spatula, knuckles whitening briefly before she deliberately loosened her grip .

"I don’t think I would have been able to continue," she finally said. "So once again, truly—thank you for saving her."

I nodded simply, not trusting myself to say anything that wouldn’t sound hollow or insufficient .

She returned the nod and shifted her attention back to the cooking. After a moment, she glanced back with visible effort to lighten the mood.

"You seem quite young, Ryan," she said. "What were you doing before all this? Before it began?"

"I was in high school," I said. "Nothing particularly special or interesting."

"H...High school?" Carmen turned again, surprise clear on her face. "How old are you exactly?"

"Seventeen," I said.

Was I really looking that much older? I thought, reaching up unconsciously to touch my face as if I could feel the difference there .

"Seventeen?!" Shannon echoed, her voice jumping in pitch. She’d been quiet for a few minutes, but now she sat forward in her chair, eyes wide. "You’re barely older than me? You’re like my brother’s age? I honestly can’t believe it."

"Why is that so surprising?" I asked her.

"I mean, you just seem... stronger," Shannon said, gesturing vaguely at me. "More experienced. You killed those Infected so easily yesterday, barely even struggled. And you faced off against Rico without being scared at all, even when he had his gun pointed at you."

"Something happened with Rico?" Carmen asked, turning from the grill with renewed attention and a hint of concern.

"He pointed a gun at Ryan despite Ryan having just saved me," Shannon said, her voice taking on a sulky, indignant tone. "Like, literally right after. It was ridiculous."

"Ah..." Carmen sighed deeply. "I’m sorry about that. Since that man started sending his men to threaten us and probe our defenses, everyone here has been on edge. Trust doesn’t come easily anymore, especially toward armed strangers."

By "that man" she clearly meant Callighan who’d turned Atlantic City into a contested battleground, the source of constant tension and the reason why Rico’s people were wound so tight they pointed guns first and asked questions later.

An idea occurred to me, one I’d been turning over since my conversation with Marlon earlier.

"Is there really no possibility of reaching a truce between your group and Callighan’s?" I asked carefully .

Obviously full agreement or reconciliation seemed impossible at this point—too much blood spilled on both sides, too many grievances and deaths creating unbridgeable divides. But maybe something less ambitious could work. A ceasefire. Territorial recognition. Something that stopped the constant bleeding on both sides.

Carmen’s expression went cold and hard in a way I hadn’t seen before. The warmth that had been there moments ago vanished entirely, replaced by something that bordered on hatred but was tempered by weariness.

"A truce?" She repeated, voice flat. "With that man?"

She turned back to the grill and flipped the fish with more force than necessary, the spatula scraping harshly against metal.

"That man murdered fifteen of our people" Carmen said. "He burned down homes. He sent men to ambush our fishing crews and scouting parties. He’s trying to starve us out or force us to submit to his authority—and he doesn’t care how many people die in the process."

Shannon had gone quiet, her earlier brightness completely extinguished. She stared down at the table, clenching her hands.

"Marlon tried negotiating in the beginning," Carmen continued. "Sent envoys, offered to divide the city peacefully, proposed resource-sharing arrangements. Callighan killed them.

She paused, shoulders rigid with tension.

"So no," she said finally. "There’s no possibility of truce. Not with that monster. Not while any of us are still breathing."

That Callighan seemed really quite evil.

"I understand," I said quietly after a while.

And I did. Better than Carmen probably realized. I understood what it meant to carry hate for something that had destroyed people you loved. I understood the weight of grief that didn’t fade just because time passed. I understood the impossibility of forgiveness when the crimes were too enormous and too fresh .

Carmen took a slow breath, visibly forcing the tension out of her shoulders. When she turned back, her expression had softened again, though shadows remained in her eyes .

"The food’s ready," she said. "Let’s eat while it’s still hot."