- I didn’t know they ding that loud.

  - I just wanted to bake a cake. I’m sorry.

  - In my defense, the kitchen looked very soundproof. Spoiler: it wasn’t.

  ---

  It was an old diner. One of those chrome-plated roadside ones that still had "Pie of the Day" scribbled on a chalkboard.

  Jules hadn’t spoken much since the Jeep incident. I figured... maybe I could do something nice. To cheer her up.

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  There were boxed cake mixes in the pantry. Eggs still good. Even some ancient frosting that looked more sugar than substance.

  So I thought: Why not?

  I found a generator out back. It worked after a few love taps. The oven lit up like a dream. Jules was upstairs, resting. Maybe dreaming of better days.

  And me? I was in a tattered apron, humming off-key, feeling—dare I say—hopeful. Whipping up a cake. I know how to use an EZ Bake. What could go wrong?

  The oven worked amazingly well, despite being unused since the outbreak.

  Then it dinged.

  Loud. Sharp. Like a cursed triangle summoning hell.

  Then the groans started.

  Not mine. Not hers.

  I barely had time to grab my bag and a half-baked chocolate disaster before we were on the roof, watching at least a dozen dead guys crowd around the front window like they’d made a reservation.

  Jules didn’t even look mad. Just… tired.

  “You made cake?”

  “I wanted to surprise you.” I said to her.

  “You did.”

  She took a bite. Said it was dry.

  I called it "apocalyptic rustic."

  She didn’t laugh.