Stick didn't recognize where they were. The car jolted through snowdrifts, past trees stripped bare of leaves, with no building in sight. That probably meant they were no longer in Simcoe—but that was the least of his worries.

"Isn't this... kidnapping?" Stick asked, glancing nervously at Eden.

"It's spreading the word of God," she chimed.

Stick found himself sitting in a car alongside a girl he barely knew. Eden, had drugged Bella by slipping some type of pill into the pudding they found.

He glanced at Bella sprawled across the floor, unconscious and unnervingly still.

"Hasn't it been about awhile?" Stick asked anxiously.

Eden nodded, unbothered by the weight of the situation. She kept her eyes fixed ahead as the car rolled over snow-covered ground, the landscape quiet.

After what felt like hours, they finally stopped in front of a small, isolated house nestled deep in the snow.

Eden stepped out and grabbed Bella's wrist, dragging her limp body toward the house. Bella's head lolled to one side, her mouth slightly open. Her snow pants were soaked from the wet ground.

"Um... should I carry her?" Stick asked.

The cold air bit at his skin, but Eden seemed unaffected, determined as ever. Once inside, she kicked open the old door, revealing a dark living room cluttered with empty bags, cigarettes buds, and scattered newspapers. The stale smell of smoke filled the air, making Stick uneasy.

"No. Those God sees as wrong must receive the proper course of action," Eden said.

She dropped Bella onto the laminate floor with a dull thud, then moved over to a single window and yanked down an orange blanket that had been acting as a makeshift curtain.

Stick stood awkwardly in the doorway, his eyes flickering between Bella's still body and the dusty furniture. Two worn-down sofas sat across from an old wooden table littered with burnt-out candles and ashtrays.

"We aren't doing drugs, right?" he asked cautiously.

Eden barely glanced his way. "No."

Eden shook the dusty wool blanket, then turned to the table and grabbed a lighter. With a quick flick, she ignited the wick of several candles arranged there, their warm glow flickering across the room.

"Then what exactly are we doing?" Stick pressed.

Eden looked at him thoughtfully with her hands laced together. "Reform and redemption," she answered. "Revelation says, 'Those whom I love I rebuke and discipline. So be zealous and repent.'"

Stick sank onto the small blue sofa, glancing at Bella, who slept soundly on the floor. He didn't think redemption started with being in a cabin, staring down at a pretty girl.

"What is this place?" he asked again.

Eden opened a cupboard drawer, rummaging until she pulled out a box of crackers. Without hesitation, she tore it open and began stuffing crackers into her mouth.

"It's a drug house that my gang used to hang out in," she said casually. "Here. I'll show you a picture."

She disappeared into a side bedroom, returning moments later with a photograph. She handed to Stick.

The girl in the picture looked nothing like the Eden standing in front of him. She looked around twelve, half her dark-brown hair shaved off and a nose piercing. With a cigarette dangling between her fingers, she wore a careless swagger.

Stick glanced back at Eden, her dyed white hair framing her face like a glowing halo. They looked nothing alike—yet they were the same person.

"See, Jesus changes people," Eden said.

Stick thought "change" might be an understatement. It was insane how drastically someone could transform.

"God will forgive you for your sins, and we'll change her," Eden said, motioning toward Bella.

"When will she wake up?" Stick asked.

Eden shrugged. "Whenever she does. Redemption requires confronting yourself," she said, kneeling down. "You must forgive yourself, and God will forgive all."

Stick thought over her words. Could he ever forgive himself for killing Vickie? Taking a life wasn't just a crime—it was a sin, one with heavy consequences.

"Asking for forgiveness, not just from Vickie but others," Eden said firmly.

Bella groaned, her eyes slowly blinking open. "Where am I?"

"An abandoned house," Eden said flatly. "And if you don't listen, I'll drug you again."

"You drugged me!" Bella cried out, struggling to stand but collapsing back onto the floor.

"God wanted us all to bond together for redemption and reform," Eden chimed, smiling at them.

"I'm not doing this!" Bella shouted, scrambling toward the door.

"I can numb your movements," Eden threatened. "Your soldier isn't in danger, but God is watching over him."

Stick desperately wanted a path to forgiveness—or change—but he had no idea where to start.

"We must support one another," Eden said, crossing her legs. "Bella, you need to focus on healing. Stick is seeking redemption, and you need to spend time in isolation."

"I'm not isolating myself. I can't stand being alone," Bella muttered.

Eden closed her eyes briefly. "Yes, but your soldier is out there, doing something without you."

"That has nothing to do with any of this!"

"Yes, but God will guide you to change."

Stick glanced at Bella, his lips pressed tightly together. He couldn't help but wonder how they ended up here—the golden boy and golden girl, now facing threats and moral pressure neither had ever imagined.

Bella had always been effortlessly charming, drawing attention wherever she went. Stick shared the same magnetic allure, thriving on praise from teammates and peers. Together, they had been the dynamic duo of their high school.

But that world was gone. Stick had tied Bella up, helped people who wanted her dead, and killed someone himself. Bella had shifted too, retreating from danger when it involved Jason.

They were no longer golden.

Now, they were stuck in a dimly lit room that used to be a drug house, sitting across from a girl who was far more than just some religious fanatic. For Stick, this was only the second time he'd genuinely felt threatened by a girl his age.

Eden folded her tan hands together with calm precision. "I must teach you the right way to live," she said firmly. "We must face our fears and change our beliefs."

The golden boy and golden girl were now the killer and the housewife—labels whispered through gossip, whether they mattered or not. Yet people always found something to whisper.

"God, I will set them on the right path," Eden murmured. "Matthew, focus on what you'd say if Vickie were here."

Stick remembered seeing Vickie as one of those followers—illusions, created by the purple substance. Imagining what he might say filled him with fear.

"And Bella, stop using controlling behaviour," Eden continued. "That's why I want you to go in isolation."

Stick didn't understand her insistence, but he knew he had to find the words—even if he wasn't ready.

Light burst from Jason's hands, hissing as it struck the snow and seared the frozen surface. Around him, Sunny's campground lay dim and silent, the only steady glow coming from a repurposed fish tank burning inside a trailer.

Everything had spun wildly out of control. Jason had stopped running. Stopped trying to fix everything. Stopped pretending he could keep everyone safe. A mutant child on the way. Luke as a follower. Chaos closing in.

"Try burning this," Jade said, sliding a chunk of firewood toward him.

Jason picked up the damp chunk of wood, shivering as he focused. A pulse of blue light flickered from his hand—warm but weak. Smoke curled upward for a moment before fading into cold air.

"Too damp," James said, holding up a piece of scrap metal.

"Put that near the left," Jason said, nodding toward the pile of salvageable scraps.

Jason knew he wasn't the best leader. A few people understood what he was trying to do, but trying to satisfy everyone was impossible. He couldn't meet everyone's needs—he couldn't even manage Bella's.

"So far we've found bottled water, pudding cups, and a few crackers that aren't moldy," Jade announced, holding them up like trophies.

Jason and James lunged for the pudding cups, their stiff fingers clumsy with cold. The plastic lids cracked under their trembling hands. Cold didn't matter. Food did.

James stuffed a spoonful in his mouth, cheeks flushed from the tiny warmth of sugar.

"I used to hate vanilla pudding," he murmured. "Now I'd eat a truckload of it."

The sweetness hit like a brief burst of sun through a grey sky—memories of birthdays, ice cream, and summers that now felt impossibly distant. He closed his eyes for a second, savouring it, letting the tiny warmth seep into his frozen fingers.

It reminded Jason of the kind of sweetness you'd give a baby—if having a baby in this ruined bubble of a world wasn't so insane. But somehow, that unborn child stopped the storm. It has saved them, at least for now.

"When we're done here, we need to figure out who's pregnant," Jason muttered.

"I haven't exactly seen any pregnancy test lying around," Jade said dryly. "And the storm ended last week."

"Well, we could probably rule out the little kids," James offered, fixing his glasses. "Start with seventh grade and up, maybe?"

They sat huddled around the glowing fish tank, its cracked glass filled with flickering fire from the branches Jason had managed to light. The warmth was small, but it felt amazing.

Jason knew he couldn't just come out and ask who might be pregnant. It was awkward. Personal. And dangerous, if the wrong person found out first.

"Well, we know it's not Bella," Jade said, cracking a rare smile.

Jason pressed his lips together. "Then... who?"

James adjusted his glasses. "Start with seventh grade and up. That's all I got."

Jade arched an eyebrow. "And the storm stopped... which means someone must've done something."

"Yeah," Jason muttered. "Someone or something."

"Ashley wants all of us gone. And Divina wants her dead," James rambled. "But it wasn't Divina who ended the storm, which means Ashley's scared. The sky is still pitch black, and the hydro is out. Makes it easier for people to sneak up on you."

A cold shiver crawled down Jason's arms. A knot of dread twisted in his gut. He didn't want to think that far ahead—to what was coming, or what had already happened.

Bella had gone looking for him in the darkness. Now she was missing. Maybe drugged. Maybe locked up by someone pretending to be holy—but anything but innocent.

Communication with Zane and Mark had been nearly impossible since he left. Still, Jason hoped Zane had stepped up. If anyone could maintain chaos, it was Zane. Hopefully.

They'd cracked through the lake's icy surface, giving them access to cold, drinkable water—a small but crucial win. Fuel was nearly gone. Any trip to town now meant gambling with the little they had left. Every choice felt heavier than the last.

If they kept melting snow for water and clearing debris, they might be able to turn Sunny's campground into something halfway livable. Maybe even make space for sleeping quarters—though calling them that would be generous.

"There aren't many freaks in Simcoe," James stated.

Jason gulped nervously, knowing the best fighters would be Esme and Angel. Cindy is teleporting around from place to place, while Conner could melt holes. Bryce might be of help, but he wouldn't.

"Esme should be fine," James mumbled to himself.

Jade stared at James, lips pressed into a thin line. Jason felt the static tension between them—awkward. He knew Jade had feelings for Esme. James had no clue. And now wasn't exactly the best time for complicated crushes.

"They might bring back Greyson," James said.

Jason's stomach tightened. He didn't want Greyson here. When his brother took charge, people listen, but only on Greyson's terms.

Memories of the power plant flashed in his mind: screams, fallen parts, the blackout that had left everyone completely vulnerable. Greyson's return could tip everything back into that kind of danger.

He shook his head, trying to push it down. No miracles were coming.

"I'm not stopping him," Jason said. "I've taken too many risks already. I can't handle them."

Greyson was smart. Capable. He knew how to keep people in line, knew how to make things work—but only on his own terms.

If they could finish reconstructing Sunny's campground, maybe it could be something real. A new community. Not just Simcoe versus Uden anymore. It would be divided.

"I don't want to think about it," Jason groaned, rubbing his temples.

The thought of Bella still gnawed at him. He couldn't shake off the suspicion that Eden had drugged her. Lately, Bella had been acting strange—an overprotective act that confused him. And even if she was still somewhere in town, off the radar, Jason couldn't just march in and confront her. Not now.

"So, we finish the camp, then starting hunting down for whoever's pregnant?" Jade asked, her eyebrows arched.

"Yeah," Jason answered, though the words felt heavier than they should have.

"I hope we don't get large bugs or anything," James irked.

No one wanted to deal with that. Giant bugs would mean chaos. They would probably eat people up like snacks and end up killing them all.

"Do we just head to town when we're done?" James asked.

"We'll ask around. See if anyone wants to relocate here instead of staying in Simcoe," Jason said.

Every place had been wrecked since the storm ended. Simcoe had become a graveyard—piles of garbage, collapsed houses, and snowy streets. Behind buildings, even behind the church, the snow was stained with filth and sickness. Vomit. Blood. The kind of mess that made people want to stop surviving.

"Then we warn them," Jason said, fiddling with a hole in his coat. "Tell them what's coming. If they'll listen."

They had to try. Had to warn people about whatever was coming—whatever shape the danger took. Maybe Nevaeh knew something. Maybe Emma could feel it again, the way she had before the storm. But they were scattered now, across town, maybe out of reach. Maybe out of time.

Preston stepped into the kitchen and blinked. Tumbles stood in the middle of the room, eyebrows furrowed, clutching something as if it held the answer to life. It took him a second to realize it was just a single potato.

"How do you cook a potato?" she asked, turning to him.

"Uh... just heat it up?" Preston replied, scratching his head.

Tumbles turned toward the bulky microwave tucked into the corner of the kitchen. They may have been granted a miraculous amount of food, but cooking it wasn't either of them were good at.

"In the microwave or the oven?" she asked cautiously.

Preston glanced between the oven and the microwave. He'd never cooked a potato in his life.

The lunch ladies at Uden Academy had always cooked nasty mashed potatoes that had too much butter in them, leaving them greasy and soggy.

"The microwave is faster," he said.

Tumbles pulled open the microwave door, placed the potato inside, and closed it with a soft click. Then she climbed onto a stool, leaning in until her nose was nearly pressed to the panel of mysterious buttons and cryptic symbols.

"Which one do I press?" she asked hesitantly.

Preston stepped beside her. The microwave's buttons looked like a puzzle made of tiny pictures. Numbers, random words like "defrost," and tiny food icons that didn't help at all—fish, popcorn, even one that looked like a bowl of soup with steam lines coming off it.

He remembered the last time he used a microwave, he cooked the popcorn too long, and it burned it all black.

"Just press start?" he offered.

Tumbles jabbed the white button. Once. Twice. Five times. Nothing happened. Preston frowned. At Uden, the microwaves just worked. You pressed start, and food came out warm or soggy or both.

"It's not doing anything," she groaned, bonking her forehead against the microwave door.

"Just press anything," Preston said, pointing at the panel.

Tumbles stabbed a button that looked like a bowl with steam squiggles rising from it. The microwave beeped—then whirred to life. They both jumped back.

"It worked!" she squealed, throwing her arms up in the air.

The timer lit up in glowing green numbers as the microwave began its slow, steady hum. A sense of success filled the room—for about thirty seconds.

Preston leaned in, peering through the dark glass. Tiny wisps of steam curled from the potato. That had to mean it was cooking, right?

He remembered Andrew Zimmer saying something like that when he boiled water once.

"Why is it making popping noises?" Tumbles asked, her head tilted in confusion.

"Uh," Preston hesitated. "Maybe to tell us it's working?"

Preston didn't usually cook real food—he stuck to snack packs and things that didn't explode. Asking Greyson or Scarlett for help felt like volunteering for death. Greyson especially—he'd go full rage mode if he found out they couldn't microwave a potato.

"Is it supposed to be steaming that much?" Tumbles asked, pointing at the smoke-like tendrils leaking from the sides.

"Run!" Preston yelled, already backing away from the humming death box.

They bolted, feet slapping against the floor, diving behind the living room couch like soldiers dodging a grenade.

BOOM.

The sound was sharp, wet, and far too loud for a potato.

They peeked over the armrest, eyes wide. Smoke billowed from the microwave, curling up toward the ceiling. Potato guts were everywhere—splattered across the cabinets, dripping down the glass door, and smeared across the table in long yellow streaks.

Tumbles gasped, clutching her cheeks. "Greyson's going to kill us!"

Preston nodded grimly. "We have to throw it off the island," he said quickly. "I saw another microwave in the basement."

Back in the smoky kitchen, they covered their mouths, eyes watering.

"It's probably hot," Tumbles said, eyeing the microwave.

"No, it will be fine," Preston remarked. "Just open the sliding door."

Tumbles hurried over, hands fumbling with the stubborn lock until it gave way. She yanked the heavy sliding door open, letting in a rush of freezing air at their faces.

Preston yanked at one end of the scorched microwave. It was shockingly heavy; his arms trembled as he struggled to lift it. The metal clanged against the floor with every wobble, sending tiny showers of sparks from its scorched corners.

The cold air slapped him the second they stepped outside. Snow brushed his ankles, and although the weather had warmed slightly since the storm, the cold was still sharp enough to make his teeth clatter.

"Go left," he said, nodding toward the thick patch of trees where the ground dipped down toward the island's frozen edge.

Tumbles shuffled beside him, her grip awkward and unsteady. She kept glancing between the dark branches and the big swimming pool, its surface frozen and glowing faintly.

When they reached the rocky ledge, Preston took a deep breath. His heart was pounding so loud he thought it might burst out of his chest. "On three," he said.

"Okay," she said nervously.

"One... two... three!"

They heaved. The microwave crashed onto the rocks with a crunch of metal and plastic, then tumbled into icy water.

"Now, we find the second microwave!" he panicked, already turning to dash back inside.

Back inside, the smoke had thinned, but the potato massacre was impossible to ignore. The walls were smears of sticky yellow mashed potato stuck in lumps and globs.

Tumbles wrinkled her nose. "Shouldn't we clean that?"

"We'll do it later," he replied, already half way down the stairs.

As they descended into the dim basement, the house seemed to stretch endlessly, twisting like a maze. He paused, scanning the many rooms, trying to figure out where to go next.

"Go that way," he instructed, pointing left.

Preston looked through some bedrooms that River had never shown before, each filled with an array of furniture and decor.

He peeked inside a large pantry, which was stocked with more food on the many shelves. Among them were cases of protein shakes in vanilla and chocolate flavours.

As he rummaged around a couple more boxes, he found a box with a picture of a microwave on it. He opened it and discovered a brand-new microwave inside, untouched and unburned.

"Found it!" Preston's grinned.

He attempted to slide the heavy box across the floor towards the hallway, but it wasn't working. He leaned into the box and pushed with all his strength, until the box finally made its way into the hallway.

Suddenly, Tumbles came running toward him, her eyes wide. "It's going to eat us!" she screamed.

Preston spun around and froze. The enemy: a small, round robot vacuum cleaner, its brushes spinning furiously. It wasn't even cleaning—it was chasing her.

Tumbles clung to his arm, trembling. The vacuum's motor whined, growing louder every spin.

"Run!" Preston shouted.

They bolted down the hallway, heartbeats pounding in sync with the whirring machine.

At the last second, they dove into an empty bedroom and slammed the door behind them. The thudding of the vacuum against the door rattled the walls.

"How did it start?" he panicked.

Tumbles looked up from the floor. "I fell, then hit it with my hand. Then it turned on!"

They then heard a series of sharp bangs as the vacuum cleaner attacked the closed door. It kept doing it multiple times, that he swore it was going to break the door down.

Being killed by Ashley seemed normal, but not by a vacuum cleaner. This would certainly be an interesting death.

"The potato," Tumbles gasped. "We have to clean it."

Preston creaked open the white door, looking back and forth to see the vacuum had finally moved. They rushed back to the microwave and started pushing the box up the stairs.

When they reached the top, Tumbles left him to push it. "Okay, I'll try and clean it," she said.

He pushed the microwave past the fancy dining room. Finally setting it down against the fridge, he turned his attention back to Tumbles, who was already using napkins to clean up the potato that had exploded on the wall.

"We might get away with this," Preston whispered.

They wiped up what they could, but the damage was obvious. A black scorch mark still lingered where the old microwave had been sat, impossible to hide.

"We're screwed either way," Tumbles murmured.

"Well, we blame it on the vacuum," Preston said.

Just then, they heard footsteps upstairs. Panic surged through them as they exchanged frantic looks. "Run!" Preston exclaimed.

The two of them rushed out of the kitchen, their hearts racing as they went down into the basement. They both screamed as they saw the vacuum approaching them. As they rushed into a different room, he slammed the door.

"Look busy," Preston whispered.

They both flung themselves towards the towering bookshelf against the wall. They began frantically pulling books off the shelf in an effort to look occupied. He grabbed a large atlas that had different maps of different countries that he hadn't heard of before.

"I don't want to get yelled at," Tumbles panicked.

"We say the microwave blew up by itself," Preston whispered.

He already knew they were going to get yelled at by Greyson. He told them not to set anything on fire, which he thought would be impossible.

Suddenly, Preston's attention was drawn to the thumping of the basement staircase. The sound grew louder, and he could feel his heart racing in response.

"We're going to die," Tumbles started mumbling.

"Come out, you two!" Greyson snapped sharply from the stairs.

Preston slowly opened the door while clutching the atlas in his hand. Tumbles hesitated before slowly following close behind. However, as soon as they stepped into the hallway, their anxiety intensified. It was just Greyson they had to worry about; looming behind was the unexpected menace—the vacuum cleaner.

"Hit it with your book!" Preston shouted.

Tumbles swung her book at the vacuum, but that didn't work. If anything, it made it go faster around the floor. She tried hitting it again, but it would not stop at all.

They ran up the stairs, books clenched in their chests. Suddenly, an unseen force slammed into them, sending them sprawling across the polished hardwood. The thud echoed off the walls as books tumbled in all directions.

"There's a killer vacuum in the basement," Tumbles groaned from the floor.

Greyson loomed over them with narrowed eyes. "That's what you two have been screaming about?"

"It's going to eat us! We tried hitting it with a book, but it won't turn off," Tumbles rambled.

"Vacuum cleaners don't eat people," Greyson snapped.

Preston caught a glimpse out of the corner of his eye and saw the vacuum cleaner had carefully made its way upstairs. He widened his eyes as Tumbles stared at it in a panic. It made blue lights shine out as Greyson knitted his eyebrows together.

"What the hell?" Scarlett said, standing outside the smoky kitchen.

Preston watched the vacuum cleaner float in the air until it slammed directly into the wall. All its pieces were smashed to bits when the battery finally died.

"Now the bigger issue," Greyson spat as he pointed at the new microwave. "How on earth did you blow up the microwave?"

"Well..." he started but he didn't know what else to say.

"Where's the old microwave?" Greyson demanded.

Preston looked at Tumbles, who was looking down at the ground, shaking nervously with her lip curled.

"We threw it off the island!" Tumbles admitted.

"Show me," Greyson growled.

Preston slid open the heavy sliding door, straining against its weight until it finally moved to the side. As they stepped out into the cold air, there was a strange sight in the sky.

"What's that?" Tumbles pointed out toward the bubble, with one small area flashing white.

"Maybe someone's trying to break in," Preston said.

If someone was trying to break in, it would probably be whoever was still left on the outside. He assumed everyone died when they locked them in this place.

"Wasn't there one that already appeared but went away?" Tumbles asked.

"They couldn't break in if they tried," Scarlett muttered.

The white light then stopped, and it turned pitch black again.

"Could be someone's power," Greyson said.

"Probably nothing to worry about," Preston murmured.

Tumbles nodded slowly, her eyes still locked on where the strange light had been. Taking a step forward, he watched her stumble to the frozen ground.

Preston had heard about the terror coming and wondered if that had been it. Scarlett turned back to the cottage, walking inside, while Greyson still peered out into the icy lake.

"I can beat this terror," Greyson mumbled.

Preston knew Greyson could, but they knew it was someone strong like Divina or ugly Ashley.

"They'll need me eventually," Greyson snarled, walking back inside.

"I don't want to go back," Tumbles whined.

Preston didn't either, but either way they had no way of transportation. There was no way for them to go sailing back or actually get help.

"Greyson won't give us a choice," he stated.

"Scarlett might be able to stop him," Tumbles said.

Greyson may be in love with Scarlett, but he wouldn't waste an opportunity for leadership. He assumed Simcoe might fall into chaos if the right leadership wasn't there to guide them.

"She can't always stop him," Preston muttered. "Let's just hope someone can control it while both high ranks are away."

The two walked back inside, but from a far distance away, four people loaded onto a luxurious boat. They didn't want to be making this trip, especially with the disarray happening in town. Everyone needed someone who could stand up to whatever was coming.

Preston and Tumbles' dynamic makes me laugh. When they blew up the microwave, I couldn't stop laughing.

Were you surprised about Eden being involved with gang activity?
-Lexi