Chapter 19: Thanksgiving under the Oak

The silver platter didn't just slip; it shrieked against the stone hearth as Helen’s hands gave way to a sudden, violent tremor. She didn’t look at the dented metal or the grease splattering her wool rug; she looked at her palms, watching the skin twitch over bone. It was the same rhythm as the wind outside, a restless, North Georgia chill that rattled the windowpanes and clawed at the remaining leaves of the Big Oak.

"Helen?"

Maury was in the doorway before the sound of the metal had fully faded. He didn’t ask if she was okay—that was a city question, a useless question. He simply took her wrists, his calloused thumbs pressing into the pulse points until her hands stilled. 

"The turkey is twenty-four pounds," Helen said, her voice sounding like gravel being turned in a mixer. "The platter is five. I am seventy-four. The math was bound to fail eventually."

"The math is fine," Maury said, guiding her toward the velvet armchair near the fire. He picked up the platter with a grunted effort and set it on the dining table. "The math says you’ve been on your feet since four in the morning. Sit. I’ll bring the chairs out to the tree."

"Under the oak, Maury. Not near it. Under it."

"I know the drill, Helen. I’ve been your neighbor for twenty years."

"You aren't my neighbor anymore," she snapped, though there was no heat in it. She watched him through the haze of the firelight. He looked older than he had in September, the deep grooves around his mouth etched by a season of shared secrets and broken fences. "None of you are."

He paused at the door, a stack of folding chairs tucked under one arm. "No," he agreed softly. "I suppose we aren't."

Outside, Cypress Bend was bathed in a bruised purple twilight. The transition from autumn to winter wasn't a fade; it was a sharpening. The air tasted of woodsmoke and dried pine needles. Beneath the sprawling canopy of the Big Oak, a long table had been constructed from reclaimed barn wood and sawhorse legs. It looked like a spine stretching across the dead grass.

Cora was already there, snapping a cream-colored tablecloth over the wood. The fabric billowed like a sail before settling. She worked with a frantic, precise energy, her fingers moving over the silverware as if she were deactivating a bomb. Since the incident at the creek, Cora hadn't settled. She was a live wire, her eyes constantly tracking the treeline that bordered the property.

"The wind is going to knock the candles over," Cora said as Helen approached, leaning heavily on a cane she usually hid in the umbrella stand. 

"Then we’ll eat by the light of the stars," Helen replied. She looked at the table. "You’ve set twelve places. There are only nine of us."

Cora stopped, a fork frozen in mid-air. She didn't look up. "Thirteen, actually. I counted the empty ones for the people who aren't here to stay."

"Cora—"

"I’m not being morbid," Cora interrupted, finally meeting Helen's gaze. Her eyes were rimmed with red, the exhaustion of a woman who spent her nights listening for footsteps in the hallway. "I just think if we’re going to call ourselves a 'tribe,' we should acknowledge who we’re guarding the perimeter for."

"Set them," Helen said, her voice softening. "But put the extra chairs at the head. I want to see them."

By five o'clock, the others began to trickle in, emerging from the woods and the gravel drive like ghosts appearing from the mist. Lane arrived first, carrying two steaming Dutch ovens. He looked different without his tactical gear—softer in a flannel shirt, though the way he scanned the clearing before stepping into the light was a habit he’d never break. He set the pots down and immediately went to Cora, his hand lingering on the small of her back. It wasn't a romantic gesture; it was a tether.

Then came David and Sarah with the twins. The children were uncharacteristically quiet, clutching stuffed animals as if they were shields. David took the carving knife from Maury without a word, his movements mechanical. He had the look of a man who had seen the bottom of the well and found it deeper than he expected.

"The turkey is perfect," Sarah whispered to Helen, though her eyes were on her husband. "He hasn't slept, Helen. Not since the fence went up."

"None of us have, dear. That's why we’re eating outside. There’s nowhere to hide under the sky."

The feast was an absurdity of abundance in a time of scarcity. There were mashed potatoes whipped with too much butter, green beans snapped by Helen’s trembling fingers, rolls that smelled of yeast and hope, and the massive bird, mahogany-skinned and glistening. 

They sat down as the first stars punctured the canopy of the oak. The transition was jarring—from the domesticity of the meal to the raw, wild reality of the world pressing in on them. 

"We should say something," Maury said, standing at the foot of the table. He looked around at the faces—the tired, the young, the broken. "The tradition says we say what we’re thankful for. But that feels like a lie this year. I think we should say what we’re keeping."

A silence fell, heavy as the damp earth beneath them. 

"I’m keeping the memory of my brother’s laugh," Cora said, her voice surprisingly steady. She didnt look at Lane. She looked at the empty chair at the end of the table. "I’m keeping it so I remember what it sounds like when the world isn't trying to tear us apart."

"I’m keeping the keys to my shop," Lane said. "Even if the power never comes back. I’m keeping the idea of building things instead of just boarding them up."

When it came to David, he didn't speak for a long time. He held a piece of bread, crushing it between his fingers until it was a ball of dough. "I’m keeping my aim," he said, his voice flat. "Because that’s what keeps them safe."

Sarah reached over and covered his hand with hers. "I’m keeping the morning," she whispered. "Every time the sun comes up and we’re all still in our beds... I’m keeping that as a win."

Helen watched them. She saw the way they leaned toward each other, an unconscious physical tilt toward the center. They weren't individuals anymore. When one person reached for the salt, another moved the water pitcher out of the way before the request was even made. They were a single organism, a nervous system spread across four hundred acres of Georgia clay.

"I’m keeping the oak," Helen said, drawing every eye to her. She tapped her cane against the massive, gnarled roots that buckled the ground beneath the table. "This tree was here before the civil war. It was here during the Great Depression. It seen families starve and it's seen them feast. It survives because its roots don't just go down—they go out. They tangle with the hickory and the pine. They hold the earth together so the hill doesn't slide into the creek."

She leaned forward, the candlelight dancing in the cataracts of her eyes. "Look at each other. You aren't neighbors. Neighbors are people who wave over a fence and complain about the grass being too long. You are a tribe. You are the only thing standing between the people at this table and the dark outside that treeline."

The meal began in earnest then, the clatter of silverware and the low hum of conversation providing a temporary buffer against the silence of the woods. But the tension remained, a low-frequency vibration. 

Halfway through the meal, a branch snapped in the woods—a sharp, tectonic crack that echoed off the hills.

In an instant, the "tribe" vanished, replaced by the "defenders." Lane was on his feet, his hand instinctively reaching for the small of his back. David’s fork dropped, his eyes blowing wide as he pivoted toward the sound. Maury stood, his heavy shoulders squared. Even the twins froze, their bread rolls suspended halfway to their mouths.

They stayed like that for ten seconds, fifteen. The wind sighed through the oak. An owl hooted in the distance. 

"Deer," Lane said, his voice a low exhale. He didn't sit back down immediately. He scanned the dark for another minute, his body a coiled spring.

"Sit down, Lane," Helen said gently. "If they were coming, they wouldn't use the front door."

"They don't have doors out here, Helen," Lane muttered, but he sat. The rhythm of the meal was broken, replaced by a frantic sort of consumption. They ate as if the food might disappear, as if the calories were fuel for a fight that was already overdue.

"What happens when the winter really hits?" Cora asked, picking at a piece of turkey. "When the roads are blocked by more than just trees? When the stores in town are completely empty?"

"We survive," Maury said. "We have the larder. We have the well. We have the wood."

"And we have the list," David added, looking at Lane. 

Helen frowned. "The list?"

Lane and David exchanged a glance. It was a look of shared burden, the kind soldiers share when discussing the cost of the mission.

"We made a list of the properties within a five-mile radius," Lane explained, his voice dropping an octave. "Who’s still there. Who’s gone. Who’s... a problem. We’ve been running patrols, Helen. Small ones. Usually while you’re asleep."

Helen felt a coldness that had nothing to do with the November air. "You’re scouting your neighbors?"

"We’re scouting threats," David corrected. "There’s a group over by the old quarry. They aren't like us. They’re stripping houses. Not for food, Helen. For anything they can trade. We saw them two nights ago."

"You didn't tell me," she said, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.

"You have enough to carry," Maury said, placing his hand over hers. His grip was firm, a reminder that he was part of this new, hard-edged reality. "We decided that we handle the perimeter. You handle the heart."

Helen looked around the table. She saw the secrets tucked into the corners of their mouths. She saw the way David’s knuckles were scarred from work he hadn't mentioned. She saw the hollowness in Cora’s cheeks. 

They were turning into something else. Something necessary, perhaps, but something tragic. The "tribe" wasn't just about support; it was about the wall they were building around themselves, stone by cold stone.

"Is this who we are now?" Helen asked, her voice trembling. "Soliders in a war with no name?"

"We’re whatever we have to be to make sure the twins grow up," Lane said. He looked at the two children, who were now leaning against Sarah, their eyes drooping. "If that means we’re soldiers, then we’re soldiers. If it means we’re scavengers, then we’ll do that too."

The moon had risen full and pale, casting long, skeletal shadows of the oak branches across the table. The leftovers were starting to congeal, the steam no longer rising from the bowls. 

"I want to show you something," Helen said, pushing herself up with her cane. She led them away from the table, toward the trunk of the Big Oak. 

She pointed to a spot about five feet up the trunk, where the bark was thick and craggy. Buried deep within the wood, almost entirely overgrown, was a rusted piece of iron. It was a hitching ring, dating back a century or more.

"The tree grew around it," Helen said, running her hand over the cold metal. "It didn't reject the iron. It swallowed it. It made the metal part of its strength. That’s what’s happening to us. Salt, iron, blood—it’s all being folded into the wood."

She looked at Lane, then David, then Cora. 

"The world outside is going to try to chop us down. They’re going to try to burn us out. But as long as we grow together, we’re the hardest thing in these woods."

As if punctuated by her words, the wind picked up, a sudden, violent gust that sent the cloth of the table snapping and extinguished every single candle in a single breath.

Darkness swarmed over them. 

The silence that followed was absolute. No one moved. No one breathed. For a heartbeat, they were just shadows in the night, indistinguishable from the trees.

Then, David’s hand found the flashlight on his belt. The beam cut through the dark, illuminating the faces of the group. They looked pale, startled, but they were all looking at the same point—the driveway.

Far off, at the very edge of the property where the gravel met the main road, a pair of headlights flickered on. 

They weren't the warm, yellow lights of a neighbor’s truck. They were the harsh, blue-white glare of an LED bar, slicing through the mist like a blade. The engine idled—a heavy, low-end rumble that vibrated in their chests.

Lane’s hand was already on his pistol. David was moving the twins behind the trunk of the oak. Maury stepped in front of Helen, his body a shield.

The headlights didn't move. They stayed there, watching, two artificial eyes peering into their sanctuary.

"They found the gate," Lane whispered, the click of his safety being disengaged sounding like a gunshot in the still air.

"Who?" Cora asked, her voice thin and sharp.

"The Quarry group," David said. "I recognize the truck. It’s the one with the modified cage on the back."

The truck revved its engine—a deliberate, mocking sound—and then, as quickly as they had appeared, the lights cut out.

The darkness returned, but it was no longer empty. It was occupied. The woods, which had felt like a fortress just moments ago, now felt like a cage.

"They aren't coming in tonight," Lane said, his eyes never leaving the spot where the lights had been. "They’re just letting us know they know we’re here."

"They know we have food," Cora whispered, looking at the half-eaten feast on the table. "They can smell the turkey. They can smell the hope."

Helen leaned against the rough bark of the oak, her fingers finding the buried iron ring. Her hand was no longer shaking. A cold, iron-hard clarity had settled over her. She looked at her tribe—her broken, beautiful, terrified tribe.

"Maury, take the women and the children to the cellar," Helen commanded. Her voice had lost its fragility. It was the voice of the tree itself—ancient and unyielding.

"Helen, come with us," Sarah pleaded, reaching for her.

"No," Helen said, eyes fixed on the dark road. "I’m staying here. I’ve lived in this house for fifty years, and I’ve sat under this tree for sixty. I am not hiding in a hole like a frightened rabbit while trash prowls my driveway."

"Helen, be reasonable—" Maury began.

"Reason went out with the power, Maury! Now, take them. Lane, David... get your rifles."

Lane didn't argue. He just nodded, his face turning into a mask of stone. David hesitated, looking at Sarah, but then he saw the look in Helen’s eyes. It was a fire he hadn't seen before, a terrifying, righteous blaze.

As the others retreated toward the house, their footsteps hurrying over the dead leaves, Helen stood alone beneath the oak. The wind whipped her white hair around her face, and the cold seeped into her joints, but she didn't move.

She reached out and picked up a heavy silver carving knife from the table. The weight of it felt good in her hand. It was an heirloom, passed down through three generations of women who had survived wars, droughts, and the slow rot of time.

In the distance, she heard the faint, metallic clank of the gate being rattled. 

The tribe had finished their dinner. Now, it was time to see if the roots would hold.

Helen didn't go inside. She sat back down in her chair at the head of the table, the silver knife resting on the white linen, and waited for the guests who hadn't been invited.

The North Georgia wind howled through the branches of the Big Oak, and for the first time in her life, Helen realized she wasn’t waiting for the end of the world—she was waiting for the start of the fight.