Act 2: Breakdown
The first few days blur together.
I sleep. Actually sleep. Not the shallow, knife-under-the-pillow sleep of the cabin. Real sleep, the kind that pulls you under and holds you there until morning. The bed is too soft, the room is too warm, and there are too many sounds from too many people, but my body doesn't care. It takes what it can get.
Zoe notices before I do.
"You look better," she says over breakfast. Real breakfast. Porridge with dried fruit. I'm eating it mechanically, not tasting it, but it's warm and it's there and that's enough.
"Better than what?"
"Than when we arrived."
She's right. The dark circles under my eyes have faded. My hands don't shake when I hold the spoon. Small things. They feel like borrowed time.
Don't get used to it.The thought is there and gone. I push it aside. Eat the porridge. Watch the room.
I learn the rhythms of Mugdock quickly. It's not that different from the military, if you strip away the weapons and the saluting. People wake at dawn. Breakfast in the great hall. Work assignments posted on a board near the kitchen. Lunch at midday, dinner at dusk. Guards rotate every six hours. Lights low after nine.
Tom shows me the routine. He's patient in the way people are patient when they've been somewhere long enough to remember being new.
"Woodpile's behind the east wall. Stack the split logs under the tarp, or they'll freeze solid and you'll never get them apart again. Don't bother with the green stuff. It'll smoke out the whole kitchen."
I split wood. I carry supplies. I help repair a section of fencing that collapsed under snow weight. The work is simple and physical, and by the third day my shoulders ache in a way that has nothing to do with vigilance.
It's almost pleasant.
Almost.The castle fills with small moments I'd forgotten existed. Children running through corridors, their laughter echoing off stone. A woman singing while she mends clothes by the fire. Two men arguing about whether the salt ration is enough, the argument ending not in violence but in a handshake and a shared cup of something warm.
I watch all of it from a distance. Not hiding, exactly. Just not participating. The new guy. The quiet one with the eyes that don't stop moving.
Tom introduces me to people. Sarah, who lost her husband in the first wave. David, who handles work assignments. A young man called Connor who guards the residential wing at night and plays cards badly during the day. I nod, shake hands, say the minimum. None of it sticks.
Except Zoe. Zoe is sticking.
I see her across the courtyard one afternoon, talking to Dr. Fraser outside the medical bay. Her hands move as she explains something. Dr. Fraser nods, makes notes. Zoe's posture is different here. Open. Engaged. She's standing like someone who belongs.
She needed this. Needed to be useful.I'm happy for her. I am. It's just that happy feels like a foreign language. One I used to speak.
That evening, she tells me about her day over dinner. The medical bay. The supplies they're running low on. A child with a chest infection she helped treat. She talks faster than she has in months. Animated. Alive.
I listen. Nod at the right moments. Ask questions I don't need to ask because the answers are already on her face.
"You should come to the hall tomorrow night," she says. "They do music. Someone found a fiddle. A few people sing."
"Maybe."
"Jamie."
"I'll think about it."
She doesn't push. She's learned not to push.
She's learned that from me.On the fourth day, Hugh finds me at the woodpile.
He doesn't approach like a leader approaching a subject. He walks up like a man who happens to be passing. Hands in his coat pockets. Easy stride.
"You're putting in good work," he says, leaning against a fence post. "Tom says you're the fastest splitter he's seen."
"Axe falls the same way every time. Just muscle memory."
"Military training?"
"Reserves. Nothing special."
"Nothing special about learning to be precise with a blade." He says it without irony. "How are you settling in?"
"Fine."
"Rooms comfortable?"
"Warm."
"Good." He pauses, looking out over the courtyard. "I wanted to let you know, your role will change soon. Everyone starts on general labour. Gives us time to see where they fit. But your skills could be useful elsewhere. Security. Hunting parties. We need people who can handle themselves."
"And my rifle?"
"Afraid you're going to have to wait on that a bit longer. Central armoury. Controlled access. Everyone's weapons go there. You'll get it back when we know you better." He says it simply. No apology, no challenge. Just a statement.
"When will that be?"
"When I decide you're ready." He meets my eyes. Steady. Open. "I know that's not the answer you want. But it's the answer I'm giving. Trust goes both ways, Jamie."
He claps me on the shoulder. The same simple gesture he used when we first met. Then he walks away, leaving me standing by the woodpile with an axe in my hand and a question in my chest.
Trust goes both ways.
Then why are you the only one who decides when it's earned?I watch him cross the courtyard. People greet him as he passes. A woman waves. A child runs up and tugs his sleeve. He crouches, says something, makes the child laugh. Ruffles the kid's hair. Stands. Moves on.
He's good at this. The people thing. Making three hundred strangers feel like they're all in it together. Making himself seem like one of them, not above them.
That's what the best ones do. Make you forget they're holding the reins.That night, I sleep again. Deep and dreamless. When I wake, Zoe's already gone. Her bed is made, which means Dr. Fraser asked her in early. Good. She's needed. She's useful.
I eat breakfast alone. Check the work board. Firewood again. Same as yesterday. Same as the day before.
The routine should be comforting. A structure. A purpose.
Instead, somewhere around the fourth day, I start noticing things.
The guard rotation on the east wall. It's consistent. Almost too consistent. And there's a corridor I keep coming back to. East wing, third floor. End of the maintenance passage. A door I haven't seen anyone enter or leave.
Reinforced metal. Electronic keypad. Two guards. Always two.
What needs that much security?The question plants itself in my head. And once it's there, it doesn't leave.
The bed's comfortable. Warmer than anything I've slept on in months. But it doesn't help. Clean sheets, actual pillows, a heavy wool blanket. Zoe's breathing softly in the bed across the room, finally resting.
But every time I close my eyes, I see that door. Metal. Reinforced. Two guards standing watch over something Hugh doesn't want people seeing.
What's behind it? What's he hiding?The questions circle endlessly. No answers. Just the dark ceiling and the sound of my own breathing.
When grey light finally creeps through the window, I give up pretending. I'm dressed and standing by the door before Zoe stirs.
"Jamie?" Her voice is rough with sleep. "What time is it?"
"Early. Go back to sleep."
She doesn't. She sits up, rubbing her eyes, watching me with that look she's had since the clearing. Like she's trying to find the person she knew underneath whatever I've become.
"Did you sleep at all?"
"Enough."
We both know it's a lie. But she doesn't push. She's learned not to push.
The castle's already awake. Voices echo through stone corridors. The smell of cooking drifts from somewhere below. People move with purpose, nodding to each other.
It looks like civilization. Like safety.
So why can't I stop scanning every face for threat? Every doorway for ambush points?
Breakfast is served in what must have been a great hall once. Long wooden tables, benches packed with people. The noise is overwhelming after months of silence. Conversations layering over each other, laughter, the clatter of utensils. Children. There are actually children here, chasing each other between tables while parents call after them.
Zoe gravitates toward it. I watch her face soften as she takes it in. This is what she wanted. Community. Normalcy. A place where survival isn't a minute-by-minute calculation.
"There's space over there." She points to a gap at one of the tables.
I follow her. Sit down. A woman across from us smiles, introduces herself. Sarah. Been here since February. My birthday was in February. I didn't even notice it pass. Lost her husband in the first wave but her kids made it. She's talking to Zoe within seconds, asking where we came from, how we survived, welcoming us.
I eat mechanically. Porridge, thick and warm. Real food, not the scraps we rationed at the cabin. It tastes like nothing.
My eyes keep moving. The exits. The guards by the main door. The way people cluster into groups—who talks to who, who defers to who. The hierarchy's subtle but it's there. And at the centre of it, even when he's not in the room, is Hugh.
"Jamie?"
I look up. Sarah's watching me expectantly.
"Sorry. What?"
"I asked what you did. Before."
Before. Such a simple word for the end of the world.
"Army reserves," I say. "6 SCOTS."
Her expression shifts slightly. Respect, maybe. Or wariness. Hard to tell.
"We've got a few ex-military here. Marcus was regular army. Parachute Regiment, I think." She lowers her voice slightly. "They handle security. Keep us safe."
Keep us controlled.The thought comes unbidden. I push it down.
"That's good," I say. "Good to have structure."
Zoe's watching me now. She heard the flatness in my voice. Knows I don't mean it.
After breakfast, people disperse to their duties. I watch them go—some to the kitchens, some to what looks like a workshop, others heading outside with tools. Everyone has a role. Everyone contributes.
A young man approaches us. Clipboard in hand, efficient smile.
"Jamie and Zoe, right? I'm David. I handle work assignments." He checks his list. "Zoe, Hugh asked me to take you to the medical bay. He said your veterinary skills would be needed—we've been struggling without proper medical training."
Zoe lights up. Purpose. Value. A reason to be here beyond just surviving.
"That's—yes, I'd love to help."
David nods, makes a note. Then turns to me.
"Jamie, we've got you on general labour for now. Firewood detail. Tom will show you where to go."
He gestures to a bearded man waiting by the door. Axe over his shoulder. Manual work. No weapons.
"Firewood," I repeat.
"Everyone starts somewhere." David's smile doesn't waver. "Once you're settled in, we'll find something that fits your skills better."
Zoe squeezes my arm. "I'll see you later, okay?"
She follows David toward the medical bay. Toward her new role. Toward being useful and wanted and part of something.
I stand there watching her go.
Tom clears his throat. "You coming?"
I follow him out into the cold.
The work is simple. Mindless. Swing the axe, split the log, stack the pieces, repeat.
Tom doesn't talk much, which suits me fine. He shows me the woodpile, hands me an axe, and we work in silence. The cold bites at my face but the labour keeps me warm. Physical. Rhythmic. The kind of work that should quiet the mind.
It doesn't.
My hands move automatically while my eyes keep scanning. The guards on the wall walk their patrol routes. Two on the north side, two on the south. They carry rifles. Proper weapons. They move like they know how to use them.
Why them and not me?I bring the axe down. The log splits clean.
Another guard passes nearby. Young, maybe twenty. He's got a shotgun slung across his back, walks with the easy confidence of someone who's never had to use it for real.
I've killed nine people. I know exactly what it costs to pull a trigger.
And they've got me chopping wood.
"You alright?" Tom's watching me. I've stopped mid-swing, staring at nothing.
"Fine." I bring the axe down again. "Just thinking."
"Don't do too much of that. Makes the day longer."
We work through the morning. Other people come and go—collecting wood for cooking fires, for heating, for the smithy I glimpsed near the workshops. Everyone nods, exchanges a few words with Tom. They glance at me with curiosity but keep their distance. The new guy. The unknown quantity.
Around midday, a group returns from outside the walls. Hunting party, from the looks of it. Two deer slung on poles between them. They're laughing, joking, the easy camaraderie of people who work well together.
They're all armed. Rifles, bows, knives on their belts.
One of them notices me watching. Older guy, weathered face, looks like he's been hunting his whole life. He says something to the others. They look over. Their laughter fades slightly.
I turn back to the woodpile. Swing the axe.
They know. Everyone knows. The new arrival with the body count.My hand drifts to my belt. The knife's still there. They let me keep it. Small comfort, but it's something.
"Break time." Tom sets down his axe, pulls out a flask. "Water?"
I take it. Drink. The water's cold, clean. Better than the snowmelt we survived on at the cabin.
"How long have you been here?" I ask.
"Since March. Came down from Stirling after the riots." He shrugs. "Nowhere else to go."
"And Hugh? What's he like?"
Tom considers the question carefully. Too carefully.
"Fair," he says finally. "Keeps us safe. Keeps us fed. Can't ask for much more than that."
"But?"
"No but." He takes back the flask. "Hugh's a good man. We're lucky to have him."
It sounds rehearsed. Like something he's said before, or been told to say.
I don't push. Instead, I watch a pair of guards escort someone toward the main building. A woman, wrapped in blankets, stumbling. New arrival. They found her outside, probably. Brought her in.
They'll take her to Hugh. He'll welcome her, same as he welcomed us. Warm smile, kind words, food and shelter.
And tomorrow she'll be assigned to kitchen duty or laundry or whatever other role doesn't involve weapons.
"Where's my rifle being kept?" I ask.
Tom pauses. "Armoury, I'd guess. Marcus handles all that."
"When do I get it back?"
"You'd have to ask Marcus." He picks up his axe again. "Come on. These logs won't split themselves."
I work through the afternoon. My shoulders ache. My hands are raw despite the gloves. But the physical exhaustion doesn't touch the thing coiled tight in my chest.
Around four o'clock, I see her.
Zoe.
She's crossing the courtyard with a woman in a white coat. They're talking animatedly, Zoe gesturing as she explains something. The woman laughs, nods, puts a hand on Zoe's shoulder.
Hugh appears from the main building. He walks over to them, says something. Zoe smiles—actually smiles—and responds. The woman introduces herself, Hugh shakes her hand, but his attention keeps drifting back to Zoe.
He's interested. Engaged. Warm.
Everything he wasn't with me.
I grip the axe handle tighter.
"Easy." Tom's voice cuts through. "You'll split your hand open gripping like that."
I force my fingers to relax. Watch Hugh guide Zoe and the other woman back toward the main building, still talking, still attentive.
No one guides me anywhere. No one cares what I think or feel or need.
I'm just the soldier with blood on his hands, chopping wood where he can't do any damage.
The axe comes down hard enough to bury itself in the stump.
Tom pretends not to notice.
Evening. Our room.
Zoe's sitting on her bed, brushing out her hair with a comb someone lent her. She looks better than she has in weeks. The bruises on her face are fading. The cut on her neck is healing. There's colour in her cheeks that wasn't there before.
Safety suits her.
"How was your day?" she asks.
"Fine. Chopped wood."
"That's... good exercise, at least." She's trying. I can hear it in her voice. The effort.
"How was yours?"
And she lights up. Just like that. Like someone flipped a switch.
"Amazing, actually. The medical bay is really well-organised. Dr. Fraser, she's a GP, managed to grab a lot of supplies before everything collapsed. She's been running things, but she's completely overworked. When I told her about my training, she nearly cried."
"Veterinary training."
"Medicine is medicine, Jamie. The principles are the same. And honestly? Most of what they need is basic stuff. Wound care, infection management, nutrition advice. I can do that." She sets down the comb. "I felt useful today. Actually useful. For the first time since..."
She trails off. We both know what she's not saying. Since the cabin. Since I turned into something she doesn't recognise.
"That's great," I say. The words come out flat.
Zoe's smile falters. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"Jamie."
I should let it go. Should just nod and agree and pretend everything's fine. But the words are already building, pushing up through my chest.
"Hugh was very attentive to you today."
She blinks. "What?"
"In the courtyard. I saw you talking to him. He seemed... interested."
"He was asking about the medical bay. About what supplies we might need, what skills we're lacking." Her voice has gone careful. Measured. "He's the leader here. That's his job."
"He doesn't ask me about anything."
"You've been here one day."
"And in that one day, you've been welcomed into the inner circle while I've been put on manual labour with no weapon and no information. Doesn't that seem odd to you?"
Zoe's quiet for a moment. Then she sighs.
"Jamie, you're a stranger to these people. A stranger with military training who showed up armed and clearly..." She hesitates.
"Clearly what?"
"On edge. You're on edge, Jamie. You have been since we got here. Since before we got here." She stands up, moves closer. "These people don't know you. They're being careful. That's not the same as suspicious."
"They took my rifle."
"They took everyone's weapons when they arrived. It's a security protocol. Marcus explained—"
"Oh, Marcus explained it. Well, that's fine then."
Her jaw tightens. "What do you want me to say? That Hugh's secretly evil? That this whole place is some kind of trap? Look around, Jamie. There are three hundred people here. Children. Families. They're not prisoners. They're surviving."
"I never said—"
"You didn't have to." She's angry now. It comes off her in waves. "I can see it. The way you look at everyone. Like they're threats. Like you're waiting for something bad to happen."
"Something bad always happens."
"I know we're not." She takes a breath, forces her voice steady. "I know what you went through. What you did for me. I will never forget that. But you can't keep living like we're still in danger. We're safe here."
We're not safe. We're just not dead yet.I don't say it out loud. But she must see it in my face because her expression changes. Something shutters behind her eyes.
"There's a door," I say. "In the east corridor. Metal. Reinforced. Two guards outside it, all night."
"A door."
"I found it last night. When I couldn't sleep." I watch her face, waiting for the recognition. The shared suspicion. "What needs that kind of security? What's Hugh hiding?"
But she just looks tired.
"I don't know, Jamie. Storage? Weapons? Medicine? There's probably a hundred reasons to have a secure room." She rubs her forehead. "Not everything is a conspiracy."
"I'm not saying—"
"Yes, you are. That's exactly what you're saying." She moves back to her bed. Sits down heavily. "I can't do this right now. I'm exhausted, I've got an early start tomorrow, and I just... I need you to try. Please. Try to see this place for what it is, not what you're afraid it might be."
I want to argue. Want to make her understand.
But the wall between us is higher than it's ever been. And I don't know how to climb it.
"Okay," I say quietly. "I'll try."
She nods. Doesn't look at me. "Thank you."
She lies down, pulls the blanket up, turns to face the wall.
I sit on my own bed in the gathering dark. Listening to her breathe. Feeling the distance between us like a physical thing.
Three metres away and a thousand miles apart.
A knock on the door wakes me from a half-sleep I didn't realise I'd fallen into. Zoe's bed is empty. Already gone to the medical bay.
"Jamie?" A voice through the wood. "Hugh would like to see you. When you're ready."
Would like. Polite. Everything here is wrapped in politeness.
I dress quickly. Check my knife is in place. Follow the messenger—a young woman with a practiced smile—through corridors that are starting to become familiar. Past the great hall, up a staircase, to a heavy wooden door.
She knocks twice, then leaves.
"Come in."
Hugh's office is smaller than I expected. Stone walls lined with bookshelves. A desk covered in papers, maps, lists. A window overlooking the courtyard below. Functional rather than grand.
He's standing by the window when I enter, watching the morning activity. He turns, and that smile appears. Warm. Genuine-looking.
"Jamie. Thank you for coming. Please, sit."
I take the chair across from his desk. He sits opposite. The position puts the light behind him, his face slightly in shadow. Deliberate or coincidence? I can't tell.
"How are you settling in?"
"Fine."
"The accommodations are comfortable? The rooms facing the courtyard can get draughty."
"They're fine."
He nods slowly. Studying me. Not hiding it.
"I wanted to check in with you personally. We don't often get people with your background. Military, I mean. Six SCOTS, Marcus tells me?"
"52nd Lowland. Reserves."
"Army Reserve. Good people. Solid training." He leans back in his chair. "What did you do before the call-up?"
"Software developer. Worked for a firm in Glasgow."
"And when everything fell apart?"
The question hangs there. Casual. Conversational. Like he's not asking me to account for eight months of survival.
"We found shelter," I say. "Zoe and I. A cabin north of here. Stayed there until it wasn't safe anymore."
"The pagan cult. Yes, Zoe mentioned it." His expression shifts. Sympathy, maybe. "That must have been difficult. Being found like that. Having to leave."
"We managed."
"You did more than manage, from what I hear." He lets that sit for a moment. "Marcus was impressed. Said you had the bearing of someone who's seen action. Real action, not just exercises."
I don't respond. The silence stretches.
"I'm not trying to interrogate you, Jamie." Hugh's voice softens. "I'm trying to understand. We're building something here. A community. A future. And to do that, I need to know the people I'm trusting with it."
"You don't trust me."
"I don't know you yet. There's a difference."
He stands, moves to a small table where a kettle sits over a warming plate. Pours two cups of something hot. Offers one to me.
"Tea. One of the few luxuries we've managed to hold onto."
"I'm fine, thanks."
Hugh raises an eyebrow but doesn't push. Sets the cup down on his desk, keeps the other for himself.
"Zoe speaks highly of you," he continues, settling back in his chair. "She says you saved her life. Multiple times."
"She saved mine too."
"But she worries about you."
The words land like a punch. I keep my face still.
"She mentioned something to Dr. Fraser. About you not sleeping well."
"I sleep fine."
Hugh just looks at me. Doesn't argue. "If you say so." He takes a sip of his tea. "Door's always open if you want to talk. No pressure."
What did she tell them? What else does he know?My hands tighten on the armrests. "I appreciate that."
"Good." He sets down his tea, pulls a piece of paper toward him. "Now, about your role here. David mentioned you're on firewood detail?"
"That's right."
"Temporary measure. We like to start everyone on general labour—gives them time to adjust, lets us get to know them." He glances up. "But your skills are wasted chopping wood. Once you've had time to settle in, I'd like to talk about something more suitable. Security, perhaps. Hunting parties. We need people who can handle themselves."
"And my rifle?"
A slight pause. So slight I might have imagined it.
"In the armoury. We hold all weapons centrally—it's safer that way. Controlled access, proper maintenance." He meets my eyes. "You'll get it back, Jamie. When the time is right."
When the time is right. Another non-answer wrapped in reasonable words.
"Is there anything else you need?" Hugh asks. "Anything I can help with?"
What's behind the locked door in the east corridor?The question burns in my throat. But asking it would show my hand. Would tell him I've been wandering at night, looking for things I'm not supposed to find.
"No," I say. "Thank you."
"Then I won't keep you. Tom's probably wondering where you are." He stands, extends his hand. "It's good to have you here, Jamie. I mean that."
I shake his hand. His grip is firm, confident. The grip of a man who's used to being in charge.
"Thank you."
I leave his office and walk back through the castle. Past the guards, the workers, the families going about their day. Everyone has a place. Everyone belongs.
Everyone except me.
That night, I lie awake again. Staring at the ceiling. Thinking about everything Hugh said, everything he didn't say.
Zoe worries about you.
She talked to them. Told them I'm struggling. And now Hugh knows exactly how damaged I am.
The locked door pulses in my mind like a heartbeat.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow I'll find out what's behind it.
Whatever it takes.