Episode 11: We Don't Let Go

The first thing I remember is the sound my arm made when it hit the flagpole.

Not the pain. Not the screaming.

Just the sound.

A soft thunk, like someone dropping a roast onto tile.

That’s how we got out of the school.

That’s how I became something else.

Not brave. Not strong. Just the kid who tied his arm to the flagpole so the cannibals would chase the wrong Mateo.

And it worked.

Not all of them made it.

But enough did.

Enough to matter.

We called ourselves the Underdogs because that’s what we were—scared kids who were supposed to die first.

And we didn’t.

Now I’m Mateo. Just Mateo. No last name. No titles. No left arm.

Just the founder. The father.

One of the Three Kings. A title held by the leaders of the three largest gangs.

(Which sounds cooler than it is. It means there are three of us who kill the least people to keep the most alive. That’s what counts as power now.)

They call our headquarters the Pound. It used to be a fire station. Now it’s steel and scars and a mural of a dog with bared teeth and wings.

People think we’re a gang.

We’re not.

We’re a promise.

A promise that if you make it to us—bleeding, limping, screaming—we won’t turn you away. Not if you’re sick. Not if you’re scared. Not if your body’s chewed on and your mind’s gone soft.

If you get here, you get to try again.

That’s why I built Unit 12.

The rescue unit.

We go out. We bring them home. Or we don’t come back.

Simple math. Hard blood.

I’m watching them load up now. Kaitlin’s limping from last time. Jules is too quiet. Marla’s missing.

We’ve already lost too many.

“You’re not going out,” says Jules. My second-in-command. The one who still thinks I’m made of something solid.

I shrug.

“I never do.”

But we both know it’s a lie.

Sometimes I go out at night. Alone. No flag. No name. Just a hoodie and a blade. I bring back medicine. Information. Sometimes bodies.

You have to see the outside to remember why you built the inside.

Jules steps closer. She’s angry. Not the loud kind. The kind that simmers.

“You can’t save everyone,” she says.

I look out at the wall. The kids painting it. The girl with two dads and one hand. The boy who doesn’t talk but always sets the table. The baby named after a dog because it was the only word she knew.

“I’m not trying to save everyone,” I say. “Just them.”

Jules doesn’t argue. She’s seen me fight. Seen me bleed. Seen me hold a boy as he turned and tell him he was still human while his mouth filled with teeth that weren’t his.

She leaves.

Then the knock comes.

Soft. Three times.

Like death’s pretending to be polite.

I open the door myself. Not because I’m brave. Because I have to be sure.

It’s a runner. One of ours. She’s shaking.

“He’s here,” she says.

“Who?”

Her eyes are wide. Voice all air.

“The Ghost Marine took Marla.”

Of course.

Of course.

We’ve been hearing rumors for months. A soldier with no unit. No mercy. He has a militia. Not cannibals. Worse. Organized. Trained. Clean. They take over zones like it’s a war they’ve already won.

They say he only fights to kill.

They say no one survives when he does.

I close the door.

The inside feels smaller now.

“What do we do?” Jules asks.

Everyone’s looking at me. Like I’m still the one with the answers. Like the guy who cut his arm off at sixteen has a plan for military occupation.

I don’t.

But I know this:

They trust me because I never ran. Because I stayed. Because I bled on the flagpole and said: This way out.

I built this place from bones and panic and kindness that hurts.

And I won’t let it fall.

Not to monsters.

Not to myths.

Not to marines.

“We take her back” I say.

Jules nods.

Someone starts boarding up windows. Someone else counts bullets. The mural outside gets painted over in black, but the wings stay.

Because even if this is the end—

Even if the Ghost Marine brings hell—

We don’t run.

We don’t bow.

We don’t let go of one of our own.