Later, they assembled in the dining room—a luxurious banquet hall with velvet chairs and porcelain plates, silverware, enormous flat screens for entertainment, with probably every single film ever made on hard disk, a crystal chandelier hanging above the long dining table like some weird otherworldly presence. Every piece of ornamented furniture had probably cost more than a car. On a sideboard, a bunch of framed photos showed the happy Heinlein family.

  Upon entering, Madeleine took the photos and was about to toss them in the incinerator-bin.

  The moment her hand moved toward the bin, conversation died. Twelve pairs of eyes fixed on her. Like judges in a courtroom, their stares felt hot against her skin.

  "What?" she said, and tossed the photos into the bin without waiting for an answer. The bin snapped shut with a soft hiss. A short burst of flame, sounding like a faint gurgle, lasted barely a second. Then, silence.

  “Where’ve you been, Mad Maddie?” Scott said, his voice back its usual mocking descending tone.

  Why was he asking this? He just saw her.

  Maybe he didn’t want to know the answer. He just wanted a reason to call her Mad Maddie in front of everyone.

  Undermining her capability. Reducing the trust in her.

  Madeleine liked it. She made the right decision. Scott was still the bad apple.

  The how—that's what she needed to figure out. But her brain was cluttered with too many ideas, most of them stupid. Her thoughts were faster than herself.

  Food might help. Digestion slows the brain down.

  "Let's eat," she said dryly, and pressed a button on a console next to a large piece of furniture that no one had been able to identify. Then, the smell of food started to emanate from it. It smelled like truffle oil.

  A minute after, the food drawer slid open with a pneumatic hiss.

  Twelve sealed meal packs.

  Twelve.

  Everyone in the room went still. Breaths held. Madeleine didn't speak. They all looked at each other. Everyone for themselves, counting silently. Everyone coming to the same conclusion. Everyone scanning the faces around them.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Thirteen mouths. Twelve meals.

  Scott raised his eyebrows. "Guess someone's going on a diet."

  Nervous laughter rippled through the room, dying as quickly as it came.

  Madeleine bit her lip. See. It’s already happening. He’s making them laugh. He had the charisma, even though he’s a psychopath. Or maybe because he’s a psychopath.

  She stood by her decision. It felt somewhat good that whatever she felt back in the core room was probably just in her head. No doubt: he was the weed.

  “And it’s not gonna be me.” Scott was the first to snatch his food pack and a plate from a shelf next to the dispensary, taking this, he walked to the back end of the table and started to pour his food.

  Everyone was staring at the food. Some sort of truffle risotto.

  Some were looking at Crazy.

  Crazy stared at the floor, hands gripping his knees. His glasses slipped down his nose, but he didn't push them back up. He was the kid who flinched when teachers called his name. Who ate lunch alone because even the other outcasts didn't want him nearby. The kid whose homework was stolen so often he'd started making two copies. Who gave his food to the bullies so reliably, they stopped entirely bringing their own.

  Madeleine watched him. And he watched her.

  He himself knew he was the odd one out.

  Too small. Too weird. Not fast. Not strong.

  He wouldn't last long. He didn’t deserve the food.

  The ration packs sat like eleven sealed questions on the steel table.

  Silence again.

  Then Scott took his first bite, eating loudly, making sure they heard every bite.

  “Who’d have thought we’re going to sit out the apocalypse while eating like real gourmets,” he said, his mouth full.

  “Won’t let mine get cold.” Mate was the second to get up and grab hers. Then Chef. Then Lillian, Justin, then all the others. One package was left.

  Crazy didn’t move. He just stayed on his chair, looking at his fingers which he had twisted into an awkward knot.

  The only other one that was still without food was Madeleine.

  She wanted to eat. But part of her made her want Crazy to have it.

  That’s the part I need to kill.

  Otherwise, that part will kill me.

  She took the food.

  One after another, they ripped open their food packs, poured it on plates, and started to eat.

  They all avoided looking at Crazy while they were eating. Seeing one of them sitting there, hanging shoulders, empty handed… Guilt would make the food taste worse.

  Then, suddenly, Mate swung a leg over the bench and dropped beside him. "Yo," she said, cool and sideways, "Have half of mine."

  Crazy blinked through fogged glasses. His lip twitched. "Really?" he squeaked, the word barely escaping.

  And then—Scott of all people—walked over, laughing, and dropped the rest of his ration, still more than half, in front of Crazy. "Take mine too. I'm not even hungry."

  The same moment, his stomach growled loud enough for everyone to hear.

  Laughter filled the room. It was genuine.

  Crazy's face lit up like a beautiful summer morning.

  And worst of all, Scott winked at her.

  At Madeleine.

  What was that supposed to mean? Was that part of his plan to usurp her? Did he have such a plan? Did he think he was a better leader?

  He knew nothing. Without the book, he was worthless.

  Then, a terrible thought washed over Madeleine, making her head go hot.

  Scott was worthless for the mission her mother had imposed on her.

  But they knew nothing about the mission. They saw a group of survivors trying to wait out the apocalypse, not soldiers preparing for war.

  She needed them. She couldn’t do it alone.

  But… what if they decided to just stay, down here, wait it out in the bunker? After all, it was designed to last for decades under the right condition.

  With the right amount of people.

  What if they preferred staying in this little luxury paradise, instead of following her into hell?

  What if, under Scott’s guidance, they decided she was the weed?