"We need to Leave"

Posted on Wed Apr 8th, 2026 @ 10:42am by New York Survivor Amythyst

756 words; about a 4 minute read

Mission: Safe Harbor
Location: Safe Harbour House
Timeline: Thursday, 30 September 2010 Time: about 9pm

Amy stood on the chair by the table so they could all see her.

The house wasn’t properly lit — just the lantern, turned low. Shadows clung to the walls. Outside, the wind had dropped, and in its place was something worse— Stillness. Around her, sleepy children — woken by whispers, by footsteps, by the shift in the air — rubbed their eyes and clutched blankets.

No one spoke. They’d seen her face. Amy didn’t shout. She didn’t need to. The quiet came fast. Her hands were clasped together, knuckles pale, but her voice — when it came — was steady. Low. Controlled.

“We have a situation,” she said. That got their full attention. Amy scanned them — every face. “Adults been sighted.” A ripple. Fear, instant and sharp. “Boat. Offshore,” she continued. “Not close enough to land yet. But not far enough to ignore.”

She let that sit — just long enough. “We don’t have time to wait and see if they mean harm or peace.”

A small voice: “The bad ones?”

Amy met their eyes. “Yes.” No softening that truth. “We are leaving Safe Harbour. Tonight.” That landed harder than anything else. Murmurs broke — quiet, panicked, confused.

Amy lifted one hand. “Hey. Hey—listen.” The room pulled back in. “I need you to hear all of this.” She crouched slightly, bringing herself closer to their level — grounding them before the plan. “This is not a panic run. This is a quiet move. We do this right, and we disappear before they even know we were here.”

That steadied them. Just a little.

“We are making one trip. One. What goes with us is what we carry and what fits on the boats.” Her eyes moved across them, locking in understanding. “No coming back. Not for toys. Not for clothes. Not for anything we forget.”

A pause. Softening — just enough. “That’s hard. I know it is. But we take what matters.” She stood again, reaching behind her and pulling forward the stack of packs and sleeping rolls. “Everyone gets one pack. One sleeping bag.” She started handing them out — quieter now, moving between them.

No rush. No chaos. Just purpose. “Your pack stays with you. Always. Even on the boats.” She adjusted straps, tightened buckles, steadied shaking hands. “Inside — spare clothes, something warm, hygiene kit if you have it… and one personal item. Just one.” She met a few eyes as she said it. “One.”

Then, “The rest of the space is for survival.” She stepped back, letting them feel the weight. “If we get separated… if something goes wrong… this is what you rely on.”

Now she shifted — from reassurance to command. “Food team,” she said quietly, pointing. “Pantry supplies. Only what we can move fast and quietly. No glass if we can avoid it.”

“Water team — containers, filters, purification tabs. Fill what we can before we move.”

“Animal team — we move them last, right before we leave. Quietly. No noise, no rushing. Chickens crated. Cows haltered and ready.”

Her jaw tightened for just a second. “We are not leaving them behind.”

She continued. “Tools and shelter next. Tents. Tarps. Axes. Anything we need to survive away from here.” A glance toward the dark windows.

“Clothing after that. Warm layers first. Nights are colder inland.” Then she paused. And this time, the truth came through softer. “This is our home.” The words hung there. "For now.” A breath. “We’re going somewhere better. Somewhere safer. But getting there means we leave this behind.”

She let them feel it — but not drown in it. “Home isn’t the house. It’s us. We stay together, we’re still home.”

Outside, somewhere in the distance— A faint, hollow sound. Not loud.
But wrong. Amy heard it. So did a few of the older ones. Her voice dropped even lower.

“We pack quietly,” she said. “No shouting. No running. No lights near the windows.”

Now it was clear. This wasn’t preparation. This was escape. “If you don’t know what to take, ask. If you’re scared, stay with someone. Nobody moves alone.” Amy took a steadying breath. “I’ll move between teams,” she said. “We load smart. We load balanced. No wasted space.”

She looked around one last time. Counting. Always counting. Then, softer — just for them: “We’ve survived worse than this.”

A beat. “And we’re going to survive this too.” She turned toward the door. “Start with survival piles,” she said quietly. “Food. Water. Medical.”

A final glance back. “Let’s go.”

TBC

 

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