The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the dry hills of the ranch as Nick Clark adjusted the strap of his rifle, boots crunching softly against dirt and scrub. Troy walked beside him, half-focused, half-bored, chewing a toothpick and scanning the horizon like he was looking for something to kill.

They were supposed to be checking the perimeter—standard routine—but neither of them stuck to protocol for long. Especially not Nick. Especially not with Troy around.

“You see that?” Nick asked, slowing his pace.

Troy squinted, the fading sunlight dancing over his sharp features. In the distance, just beyond the tree line, a thin column of smoke curled into the sky. It wasn’t thick or black like a fire left to rage—it was controlled, purposeful. Man-made.

Nick didn’t wait for Troy to answer before veering off the path. “Come on.”

“What do you think it is?” Troy asked, following.

Nick shrugged. “Only one way to find out.”

The hike took them farther than expected. Trees thickened around them, the air turning heavy with pine and something faintly sweet—incense? The scent grew stronger as they crested a ridge and looked down.

A commune lay nestled in a shallow valley, surrounded by towering scrap-metal walls crafted from shipping containers, rusted fencing, and salvaged cars. Inside, Nick could see a strange pocket of peace: people moving slowly, many barefoot, draped in soft linens and robes. There were gardens growing wild, wind chimes tinkling from makeshift awnings, murals painted in bursts of color. It didn’t look like survival. It looked like belief.

Troy snorted. “Great. Walked straight into a drum circle.”

But Nick didn’t laugh. His gaze had caught on someone near the garden. A girl—no, a young woman, barefoot like the others but different somehow. Something about the way she moved, unhurried yet completely aware. Her eyes scanned the field, locking briefly with Nick’s before flicking away like it meant nothing.

Troy noticed. “Don’t even think about it. This place screams ‘don’t drink the Kool-Aid.’”

Nick ignored him. “They’ve got walls. Crops. People. They’re surviving. That’s more than most.”

By the time they were cautiously escorted through the gate by two unarmed—yet somehow unsettling—guards in pale linen, the girl had disappeared from the garden, leaving the half-full basket of carrots on the ground.

The man who greeted them wore a long coat dyed in earth tones and spoke with gentle authority. He introduced the place as The Sanctuary of Light, a “refuge of rebirth,” founded by those who believed the dead were simply nature’s correction—a purge to bring balance. The people here lived communally, off the land, free of weapons and hierarchy.

Troy, ever skeptical, scoffed. “So what—you’re a bunch of tree-huggers who think the apocalypse is a blessing?”

“We believe death is part of the cycle. You cannot fear the tide when you are the shore,” the man answered, smiling like it was scripture.

Nick didn’t respond. His eyes had found her again—closer now, weaving between garden beds with a bowl of berries in her hands. Her dress was sun-bleached, her movements graceful, like she belonged to the earth. When she passed near, she brushed her fingers across Nick’s arm with a feather-light touch.

“I think you’re a little far from the ranch, don’t ya think?” you spoke up, voice soft like the spring breeze knocking the wind chimes together.

Nick felt his usual defenses heighten, the fact this unknown hippie knew where they had come from didn’t sit right with him. “How’d you know we’re from the ranch?”