The Festival

Dawn broke softly over the compound, the first rays of sun gilding the makeshift towers and the walls patched together with scavenged metal. In the courtyard, people moved with a subdued purpose, still swept up in the afterglow of the successful harvest. The previous day's small feast of fresh produce had ignited hope in everyone, from the once-suspicious Tamsin to the newcomers trying to earn their place. Even Harriet's group had seen more friendly smiles than wary glances, a small sign that the settlement's trust might be growing stronger.

Leila stepped out of her quarters, pressing a hand over her tired eyes. She had slept fitfully—torn between satisfaction over the farmland breakthrough and a nagging wariness that sabotage or infiltration might still be lurking in the wings. But the crisp morning air helped clear her mind as she made her usual rounds, ensuring watchers were swapped out and verifying the farmland was still undisturbed.

She found Mark in the courtyard, hunched over a rough wooden table covered in faded maps and scribbled notes. The donkey from the outpost build milled about nearby, occasionally snorting at a bucket of feed. As she approached, Mark looked up, the lines of worry on his face briefly replaced by something akin to excitement.

"Leila," he greeted, pushing a hand through his hair. "I've been thinking… about a festival."

That drew her up short. "A festival?"

He gestured to the farmland. "We have a little surplus for once. People's morale is up. I thought… maybe a small harvest festival or something like it could bind everyone together. Show Tamsin's group and Harriet's people that we're still one community. Let them mingle in a better environment, celebrate the yield."

Leila folded her arms. A festival felt almost frivolous in the face of infiltration threats and the looming possibility of Jace returning. But the memory of how excited everyone had been sampling the new produce made her pause. Could something as simple as a festival unify them further, or was it a risk?

She glanced at Mark's notes. He'd sketched rudimentary plans: a layout of the courtyard with a central fire pit, space for makeshift stalls of food, maybe even some music if they could scrounge instruments. She swallowed down a flicker of cynicism. "You really think this will help?"

Mark's eyes met hers, earnest. "Morale's everything. If we're all suspicious and scared, we'll break from the inside—exactly what Jace wants. But if we band together and remember we can enjoy life, even a little, we stand stronger. I know it sounds… naive, but maybe we need a little naivety right now."

After a beat of silence, Leila nodded slowly. "Alright. Let's do it. But keep it small, contained. I don't want us letting our guard down completely."

A rare smile spread across Mark's face. "Small and contained, got it."

Within hours, the entire compound buzzed with talk of the festival. People murmured in hushed excitement, speculating about the evening's events—music, dancing, maybe fresh cooked meals using the new yield. Some orchard workers offered to set up a row of wooden crates as seating. Darren pitched in to rig extra torches for lighting, ensuring watchers would still be posted even if the courtyard turned into a mini celebration spot.

Fiona appeared, eyes bright. "I'll coordinate a small potluck," she announced, bounding up to Leila with a grin. "We still have leftover produce, and Harriet's group knows some recipes that might stretch what we've got." Her excitement was infectious, reminding Leila of a gentler time before the apocalypse.

Tamsin, meanwhile, stood at the edge of the courtyard with a mix of reluctance and curiosity. She eventually approached Leila, arms crossed as usual. "I suppose this is Mark's idea, right?"

Leila inclined her head. "He thinks it'll unify us, maybe ease the suspicion. We'll maintain watchers, Tamsin—I'm not letting infiltration slip by."

A pause, then Tamsin exhaled, nodding. "Fine. A festival. But if Harriet's group tries anything…"

Leila's patience wavered, but she kept her tone level. "They've contributed to our farmland success. Let's give them a chance."

Tamsin's lips pressed tight, but for once, she didn't argue.

By late afternoon, the compound's courtyard took on a strange new life. Survivors moved tables into a rough circle around the central fire pit. Old tarps were strung overhead between battered poles, forming a patchy canopy in case the weather turned. Torches were set up around the perimeter, ensuring watchers on the walls retained clear sight lines.

Leila helped Fiona and Harriet lay out simple food displays—wooden bowls of roasted vegetables, small pastries using the orchard's leftover fruit. The donkey was tethered safely at the orchard gate, away from the bustle, munching contentedly. At Harriet's suggestion, a few large pots simmered over low fires, exuding tantalizing aromas that drifted throughout the compound, coaxing even the most skeptical folks out of hiding.

Darren pitched in with the finishing touches on a small raised platform at the courtyard's edge. "We can stand up here for announcements, maybe even have someone strum a guitar if we can find one," he said with a hint of nostalgia.

Leila watched as Tamsin's faction hovered in corners, still eyeing Harriet's group. Yet, the promise of a shared meal and communal event kept tensions at bay. For now. One small victory at a time, she thought.

As twilight fell, torches were lit, bathing the courtyard in a warm glow. Survivors filed in, curious and hesitant smiles replacing the usual guarded glances. A hush of anticipation gathered, broken by occasional laughter or soft conversation. Tables laden with modest dishes lined one side of the courtyard—roasted squash, vegetable stew, a few battered containers of old spices that Harriet's people insisted improved flavor.

Fiona encouraged people to take seats on overturned crates or at the makeshift benches. Mark stepped onto the small platform, clearing his throat for attention.

"Everyone," he began, raising his voice just enough to carry over the ambient chatter. "I know we've been on edge—fear of infiltration, sabotage, and the possibility of Jace looming out there. But tonight, we have something worth celebrating: a real harvest, a step toward self-sufficiency, and a reminder we can still share more than fear."

A soft round of applause rippled through the crowd. Even Tamsin clapped lightly, though she maintained a stoic expression.

Mark gestured at the tables. "Help yourselves. Eat. Talk. We'll keep watchers on the walls, so no one's letting their guard down. But let's enjoy this small respite together."

He stepped down, a sheepish grin crossing his face as people lined up to sample the new dishes.

Once plates were filled and survivors settled into small groups, a rare, gentle camaraderie permeated the courtyard. Harriet's group tentatively shared tips on cooking or compost layering, orchard workers swapped stories of the day's expansions. Tamsin's watchers lingered with watchful eyes, but even they indulged in second servings of stew.

An older survivor named Maeve—once a music teacher before the apocalypse—produced a battered guitar she'd salvaged. She ran her fingers over the strings, tuning it with careful precision, then began strumming a wistful tune. The sound was so unexpected, so reminiscent of the old world, that it hushed the courtyard.

Fiona, bustling between the tables to refill cups, paused to listen, tears glistening in her eyes. Others formed small clusters, swaying lightly to the gentle rhythm. In that moment, the flickering torches and the faint guitar chords washed away the apocalypse, if only briefly, returning them to a simpler time of gatherings and community.