CH 9: Quiet Exit
They left before sunrise.
No pie. No goodbyes. Just silence, dew-covered grass, and the scent of lemon still clinging faintly to their sleeves.
Carl was the first to step off the gravel. His backpack creaked under the weight of the radio, a flashlight, and one emergency packet of tuna Ellie had insisted on keeping.
She walked behind him, one hand wrapped around the dino plush, the other dragging her lemon-scented robe behind her like a prisoner's chain. Toby walked in the rear, hunched over his notebook, writing as they walked.
"You sure the dog didn't follow us?" Carl asked quietly.
"No eyes on us. No barks either. But Muffin gave me a look. Like... betrayal." Toby glanced back over his shoulder. "It hurt."
Ellie snorted. "Maybe she'll find new owners. Ones who don't chant about citrus."
The woods stretched out ahead of them, mist rolling low and thin through the trees like some early-morning ghost had spilled their coffee. Their destination: Nana's hill.
Their goal: never smell lemon again.
---
Twelve Hours Earlier
The Lemon Path Camp had been deceptively pleasant. There were string lights, hand-churned butter, and a potluck where someone made lasagna with dandelions. Carl had thought, just briefly, that maybe people had found a way to be normal again.
Then came the pamphlets.
"Zest Your Best." "Cleanse the Mind, Clean the Body." "Zest. Clarity. Harmony."
The tea was lemon. The water had lemon. The beds were infused with "aromatherapeutic zest oil."
Carl knew the moment Ellie made her face—half disgust, half betrayal—that they wouldn't stay long.
But leaving a group like that? Quietly? Without bringing the wrath of the Zest Watchers down on them? That was tricky.
Especially after Carl had turned down a second robe and Toby had started asking questions like:
"Why do your bees only pollinate lemon trees?"
"Why does your newsletter have no editor?"
And the one that really caused a stir:
"Did you register this community with the proper zoning laws?"
That was when Carl began quietly packing.
---
Back in the woods, the trio followed the shallow riverbed, stepping on stones where possible, wiping their footprints from the wet soil. Every few minutes, Ellie would turn and whisper, "Still nothing?"
Toby would nod. "No trails. No movement. Just forest."
Carl didn't trust that. He didn't trust any place that made him chant.
"Remember the lemon incense?" he muttered. "Made me sneeze every five seconds. How was that 'cleansing'?"
"They said it opened your sinuses to the truth," Toby answered. "I think mine just got angry."
Ellie kicked a stick off the trail. "The lemon robe had glitter. Why would you put glitter on survival robes?"
"To reflect inner light?" Toby offered.
Carl groaned. "Glitter's a tactical hazard. It's like leaving a trail of shame."
They moved faster now, the ridge coming into view—steep, forested, and safe. Nana's home wasn't paradise, but it didn't smell like lemon oil and denial.
---
Just as they approached the final bend toward the hill, a rustling in the bushes froze them.
Toby raised his notebook like a shield.
Carl grabbed the nearest stick. Not a mop, but it'd do.
A figure emerged—hooded, soft-footed, humming something suspiciously melodic.
"Lemons bless the morning rise…"
Carl's blood ran cold.
The cult. Or at least one of them. Probably a scout. Possibly armed with zest.
Carl motioned silently. Toby and Ellie slid behind a tree. Carl dropped low, moved in a circle, and flanked the figure.
He raised the stick.
Then sneezed.
The cultist turned.
"Peace, traveler! Have you found your zest today?"
Carl gripped the stick harder. "Nope. Lost it. Maybe in 2008."
The cultist's eyes narrowed. "You were at the fire circle, weren't you? The one who resisted the foot scrub."
Carl blinked. "Sorry, what?"
Before the conversation could go from absurd to horrifying, Ellie stepped out with a dino plush raised like a weapon.
"Back off. We're done with lemon."
The cultist took one step forward.
Toby pulled something from his coat.
A lemon.
He threw it. It hit the cultist's forehead with a soft thud.
They staggered.
Then ran.
Carl stared. "Where did you get a lemon?"
Toby shrugged. "Souvenir."
---
At the base of the ridge, they stopped to breathe.
"Do you think more are coming?" Ellie asked.
"Not if they value their foreheads," Carl muttered.
"We should change routes," Toby said. "Cultists use paths. We'll take the old deer track."
"Won't that take longer?"
"Yes," Toby said. "But less chanting."
Fair.
---
Up the Ridge
The deer track wound tight and narrow, forcing them into a single-file line. Leaves clung to their sleeves.
Burrs stuck to their socks. At one point, Carl walked face-first into a spiderweb and did a full-body panic dance.
Ellie rated it a six.
Toby wrote it down.
The road appeared in the distance—Nana's gravel stretch, winding up through the trees like an ancient trail to safety.
"We made it," Ellie whispered, visibly relaxing.
Carl didn't.
Something in the air had shifted.
The birds were quieter.
Too quiet.
He motioned them to stop. Squinting, he crouched and pointed. Down the hill, almost at the forest's edge, two figures moved. Not lemon cultists. Something else.
One dragged a shovel.
The other—taller, silent, face obscured by a gas mask—was poking at a tree stump with what looked like a cattle prod.
"Those aren't zombies," Toby said.
"No," Carl murmured. "Worse. Organized people."
"Should we hide?" Ellie asked.
"Too late."
The figure in the mask turned, slowly, deliberately. From this distance, Carl could make out the writing on their vest:
> DEPARTMENT OF EMERGENCY FIELD RECOVERY
Carl muttered, "The government's still active?"
Toby's goggles flicked. "That's not standard military. Their uniforms are patched together. Homemade insignias. Could be rogue operators. Cleaners. Or worse—recruiters."
"What do they recruit?" Ellie asked.
"Anyone dumb enough to be out here without lemon oil."
"Too soon," Carl grunted.
They ducked.
"I vote we go around," Ellie said.
"Seconded," Toby said.
Carl hesitated. "Let's stick close to the ridge, use the trees as cover. Nana's house is two hills away."
They moved, creeping between tree trunks and dense underbrush. Birds scattered ahead of them, a few squirrels darted to safety, and at one point, Carl tripped over a buried gnome statue half-covered in moss. It wore a traffic cone for a hat.
The path narrowed the farther they went. Fallen logs blocked parts of it. Brambles clung to their sleeves. A large, rusted sign half-buried in vines read:
> Camp Cobalt – Emergency Preparedness Zone
Toby snapped a picture with his pocket camera. "That was a thing?"
Carl muttered, "Probably closed before I was born."
A rustle snapped them to attention.
"Stay low," Carl whispered, pulling them behind a tangle of honeysuckle.
A small group moved nearby—maybe six, maybe eight—lean figures in scrap armor. Crossbows. Makeshift weapons. One wore a sandwich board that read: REPENT FOR PIE CRIMES.
Ellie mouthed: "What the actual–"
Carl shook his head. They waited. Breath tight. The group passed, muttering about "raspberry betrayals" and "cherry heresy."
Once they were gone, Carl exhaled. "Apocalypse has layers."
"Dessert-themed ones," Toby said.
"Let's move."
---
They finally reached the rise above Nana's house by late afternoon.
From the top of the hill, her garden came into view—tidy rows of tomatoes, cabbages, and something purple and mysterious. The scarecrow stood guard at the edge, wearing a traffic vest and holding a plastic spoon like a wand.
They approached with caution.
"Think she'll be mad?" Ellie asked.
"We ditched a cult," Carl said. "I think she'll bake us cookies."
The front door creaked open.
Nana stood in the doorway, arms crossed. Her "Don't Make Me Use My Rolling Pin" apron was on, and her glare could melt steel.
"You smell like lemon and guilt," she said.
Carl stepped forward. "Long story. Short version: We escaped the world's weirdest tea party."
Nana nodded slowly. "Inside. All of you. I have disinfectant."
---
After they showered off the cult's citrus remnants and were scrubbed within an inch of their lives, Nana served dinner: grilled cheese, tomato soup, and fresh apple slices.
Toby picked at his crust. "We almost joined a fruit-themed religion."
Nana raised an eyebrow. "You almost got yourself citrus-pickled."
Carl sipped his soup. "Weirdest thing was they were nice. Too nice. Like 'sing while stirring oatmeal' nice."
Ellie added, "One guy said lemons contain soul frequencies. Whatever that means."
Nana stood, walked to the fridge, and returned with a napkin. On it were scribbled lines in black marker.
NANA'S NEW RULES – Addendum 2
1. No cults. Not even the fruity ones.
2. If they chant while gardening, leave.
3. Never trust food that smells too good.
4. Don't follow anything printed in Comic Sans.
5. Pie is never a personality.
Ellie taped it to the fridge next to the "In Case of Goose Apocalypse" chart.
Carl stretched. "Feels good to be home."
Nana refilled his lemonade glass. "It's lime."
He took a sip. "Lime's the rebellious cousin of lemon. I'll allow it."
---
Later that night, Carl stood on the porch watching the stars blink above the treetops. The crickets had returned. A breeze rustled the wind chimes, soft and metallic.
Ellie joined him with a flashlight and her plush dino. She leaned on the railing.
"Do you think they'll come after us?"
"The lemon people?" Carl asked.
"Yeah. Or the guys with the signboards."
Carl exhaled. "If they do, Nana will probably throw a rake at them."
They stood quietly for a while.
Then Toby emerged, carrying a glass jar. Inside it glowed faintly.
"Fireflies," he said. "I caught seven. Might be eight, but one is shy."
Ellie beamed. "Let's make a nightlight."
---
The trio gathered in the living room. Nana had turned off the main lights, letting the fireflies glow while they played Uno by lantern.
Carl lost three games in a row.
Toby insisted the cards held encrypted messages from the Department of Agriculture.
Ellie declared herself undefeated and wore a blanket cape.
"I hereby declare this couch a sovereign nation," she said.
Carl saluted. "Long live Couchlandia."
Nana entered with a tray of cookies and lemonade popsicles. "If anyone spills crumbs on my rug, I will revoke your sovereignty."
They all sat straighter.
Carl munched a cookie. "So tomorrow—what's the plan?"
Nana considered. "We reinforce the chicken coop. Inventory the canned goods. Then maybe signal Station Ember again."
Carl blinked. "You got the radio working?"
"It was dusty," Nana said. "Not dead."
Toby leaned forward. "Do you think Station Ember is real?"
Nana didn't answer.
Carl stared at the glowing jar. "If it is… what then?"
No one had an answer.
But in that moment, with the fireflies glowing, cookies crumbling, and Nana looking like she could wrestle a lemon tree with one hand, it didn't matter.
They were safe.
And in the apocalypse, that was everything.
---
End of Chapter 8 - Node Point Detour
> "Some escapes are loud. Others smell faintly like citrus and end with grilled cheese."
---