The first drops were almost polite.

  They ticked against metal and glass in scattered intervals, tapping the hoods of trucks, stippling dust into dark freckles across the asphalt. A few faces tilted up instinctively, brows furrowing. Someone swore under their breath. Someone else didn’t even slow, hammer rising and falling in the same steady rhythm.

  The rain thickened.

  It wasn’t a downpour—just a fine, persistent fall that threaded itself into everything. It slicked the hoods of vehicles. It turned dust into paste beneath boots. It darkened canvas and soaked into the rough grain of wood being dragged into place. The fire near the center hissed in irritation as droplets struck its surface, the flames shrinking lower but refusing to die.

  To Jack, it felt immediate.

  The fabric of the borrowed thermal clung to his back within seconds. Water gathered along his collarbone and slid under the neckline in thin, cold fingers. It wasn’t heavy enough to slow him, not physically—but the sensation of being pressed downward, of carrying something extra, matched the weight already sitting behind his ribs.

  He stepped aside from the path of two men dragging a length of fencing and found Martin near the outer seam where the ditch curved shallowly toward the tree line. Rain traced lines through the dirt on Martin’s jaw. His hair was already plastered flat, shirt darkened at the shoulders.

  “I’ll take watch from the cab over here facing the line,” Jack said, jerking his chin toward the truck angled along the eastern barricade. “I’m just gonna try to stay dry.”

  Martin studied him for half a second—then nodded once.

  “Keep your eyes past the second fence post,” he said. “Tree line dips there. Hard to see at night.”

  Jack nodded back.

  Behind them, three people were already hauling a tarp from the bed of a pickup. The plastic snapped in the growing rain, bright blue against the dull palette of vehicles and mud. Two others climbed onto bumpers and tied corners down to roof racks and fence posts, creating a slanted canopy over the heaviest work zone. The hammering resumed under its cover, muffled now but persistent.

  No one argued about the rain.

  It was just another factor.

  Jack moved quickly but without panic toward the truck he’d indicated—a dented silver pickup positioned nose-out toward the open road, angled slightly so its hood aligned with the weakest stretch of barricade. The driver-side door opened with a low groan of hinge. He climbed up, pulling it shut behind him.

  The cab smelled faintly of gasoline and damp cloth.

  The windshield collected droplets in erratic patterns, streaking the view into wavering lines. He reached for the wiper lever instinctively, the blades dragged once across the glass with a tired squeal, clearing a temporary swath before the rain began filling it again.

  He leaned back into the seat and rested his forearms against the steering wheel, scanning outward.

  Beyond the barricade, the road dissolved into gray-black under the rain. The ditch along the shoulder had begun to collect a shallow ribbon of water. The bodies laid out beyond the outer line darkened further, clothes plastered flat against ruined forms.

  One shifted slightly as rainwater undercut its shoulder and gravity pulled it deeper into the ditch.

  Jack’s muscles tightened anyway.

  Nothing else moved.

  Thunder did not follow.

  Just rain.

  Jack wiped at his cheek, unsure whether the wet there was from the sky or from himself. He adjusted his posture, settling deeper into the seat, eyes tracking the tree line Martin had mentioned. The dip was subtle—just a thinning where brush gave way to shadow.

  The rain blurred it further.

  For several long seconds, the only motion came from water striking earth.

  Then—farther out than he first thought—something disturbed the brush.

  Not a rush.

  Not a charge.

  A small, irregular shift in the dark beyond the second fence post.

  And then another.

  The rain settled into a steady curtain, fine enough to see through, heavy enough to feel.

  Jack had already leaned forward before he fully understood what he was seeing. Two shapes had broken from the dip in the tree line Martin had mentioned—low, fast, purposeful. Not staggering. Not drifting.

  Running.

  He shoved the door open hard enough for it to bounce against its hinge and leaned out into the rain.

  “Martin! Behind you! Look out!”

  His voice tore across the yard just as the two blurs crossed the ditch and hit the edge of lantern light. For a split second the men under the tarp flinched, hammer dropping, shoulders twisting—

  —and the shapes skidded to a halt.

  Tails.

  Ears.

  Wet fur shining gold and brown under the flicker.

  The basset hound’s long ears flapped once as it shook its head, spraying droplets in a small halo. The golden retriever stood taller, tongue lolling, chest heaving from the sprint, tail sweeping broad arcs behind it. Both of them stared at the cluster of humans as if mildly offended by the barricade.

  Martin’s open palm was already extended before anyone had fully exhaled.

  The golden retriever approached first, head low, tail wagging harder. Martin crouched slightly, rain sliding off his brow, and let the dog press its skull into his hand. The contact seemed to anchor something in him.

  A few men came running from the perimeter with rifles raised, boots splashing through shallow water. They slowed almost immediately as recognition cut through tension.

  “Scooter!” one of them barked, voice cracking with relief more than command.

  The basset hound turned at the sound of its name and let out a sharp, eager bark before waddling toward the rifleman, ears dragging in the wet. The man dropped to one knee without thinking, rifle slung across his back, arms wrapping around the dog’s barrel-shaped torso. Scooter’s entire rear half vibrated with joy.

  “Be careful,” someone muttered from behind the tarp. “Maybe they’re infected. They might be carrying it.”

  “Nonsense,” the kneeling man shot back, already running hands along Scooter’s sides, lifting an ear, checking the neck. “This is my dog.” He tilted the basset’s head gently, scanning for wounds. “See? No bites. Who’s a good boy? You’re a survivor, aren’t you? A hunter?”

  Scooter responded by licking his chin enthusiastically.

  The golden retriever made a slow circuit of the work crew, tail brushing legs, nose testing pockets and hands. It seemed bewildered by the arrangement of vehicles but pleased by the density of people.

  Martin straightened and called toward the truck where Jack still sat half inside, half out.

  “They’re just a couple dogs! Ain’t nothing wrong with ’em! Run ’em by the dock if you have to!”

  Laughter—brief, strained but real—rippled under the tarp. The rifles lowered fully now. Someone scratched the retriever’s neck. Someone else wiped rain from their face and shook their head as if embarrassed by how tight they’d been wound.

  Jack remained where he was for a moment longer, the door open, rain tapping against the roof above him.

  That was when it reached him.

  A smell, sour and faintly metallic, trapped in the humid air of the cab.

  He shifted slightly, and it grew stronger.

  It was him.

  His socks were soaked through now. The bandages beneath had absorbed rain and sweat alike. And the damp had turned the wrapped skin into something warm and closed.

  He grimaced.

  He should see Dave again.

  He swung his legs out, landing lightly despite the tenderness, and stepped back into the rain. It soaked him instantly, matting the thermal against his spine. The dogs barely spared him a glance, too busy rediscovering old hands.

  He approached Martin, who was now scratching the retriever’s chest while Scooter leaned heavily against his owner’s shin.

  “Martin,” Jack said, voice quieter now that the immediate tension had passed. “I’m gonna go see the doc. I gotta get my feet taken care of.”

  He spotted a five-gallon bucket near the side of the truck—someone had been using it as a makeshift stool. He picked it up and flipped it upright, setting it down where rain could fall cleanly into it.

  “I’m gonna grab this. Let it collect some water. Something to rinse with.”

  Martin nodded, eyes still half on the dogs. “Yeah. Tell the doc we got some dogs here. Guess we should check ’em out. Don’t wanna take risks.”

  There was something almost boyish in the way he said it—relief disguised as caution.

  “Want me to tell him to come out here?” Jack asked.

  “Nah,” Martin replied. “We’ll bring ’em over in a minute. Just let him know we got ’em. I don’t know if he’s a vet.” He snorted lightly. “I barely know how to swing a hammer.”

  Jack gave him a sideways look at that—an odd thing to admit out loud in the middle of fortifying a perimeter—but only shrugged.

  “It shouldn’t be longer than twenty minutes,” he said. “Maybe thirty.”

  Martin nodded once.

  “Hey,” he added, as Scooter trotted past with renewed purpose, “on your way back, try to find anyone who’s cooking. We could use a snack over here. Maybe these dogs could, too.”

  The fire had been reduced to a low, stubborn glow under a partial metal cover to shield it from the rain. Smoke drifted flat now, hugging the yard. Beyond it, the larger tent stood steady under the weather, lantern light glowing warm inside.

  As Jack lifted the bucket again and started across the yard, he passed a pair of guards who were watching the tree line again—this time with dogs weaving happily between legs. The rain softened the edges of everything.

  The rain had deepened into something steady by the time Jack crossed the inner yard.

  Water gathered in shallow channels between the vehicles, tracing the slight tilt of the ground toward the ditch. Lantern light reflected in broken gold streaks across puddles.

  Jack moved past the fire pit and toward the row of portable toilets positioned near the fence line.

  He stopped short of them, choosing a spot along the fence where rainwater collected cleanly off a stretched tarp edge. He set the bucket down beneath the drip line and waited until it filled halfway. The water was cold, clear enough.

  He sat on the overturned bucket’s rim and untied his sneakers slowly.

  The socks peeled away damp and sour. When he unwrapped the gauze, the smell rose more clearly—warm skin kept sealed too long. Not rot. Not yet. But close enough to warn him.

  He lowered his feet into the bucket.

  The cold bit instantly, drawing a sharp breath from him. diluted blood, and loose grit spiraled into the rainwater. He rubbed at the skin with his hands, careful around the torn patches, letting the rinse carry away what it could. No soap in sight, but the water felt better than stale bandage heat.

  He flexed his toes experimentally.

  Tender. Raw. But no swelling beyond what he’d seen earlier.

  He let them soak for a minute longer before lifting them out, shaking excess water off into the mud. He wiped them dry as best he could with the inside of his shirt and then gathered the used gauze, and tossed it into a small trash can near the fence—lined with a black contractor bag, barely filled yet.

  He pulled his shoes back on without rewrapping, laces loose, and crossed back through camp toward the medical tent.

  The flap lifted easily under his hand.

  Inside, the air was warmer and smelled faintly of antiseptic and damp canvas. One cot that had been occupied earlier now sat empty, sheets folded back but not removed. The others remained where they had been—breathing steady, eyes tracking lazily, one shifting slightly under a blanket but not in distress.

  At the center table stood Dave.

  Sleeves still rolled, glasses sliding lower on his nose, pen moving steadily across a clipboard. Several medical books lay open near his elbow—text dense and clinical, margins marked with quick pencil notes. One had a bookmark of folded tape holding a page about wound infection progression. Another showed a diagram of vascular spread.

  He didn’t look up immediately when Jack entered.

  “Ah, Jack,” Dave said after a moment, voice even. “Been well, I’d assume. You don’t look sick. Don’t sound sick.”

  He flipped a page on the clipboard and made another notation before glancing up briefly.

  Rain ticked against the tent roof.

  Jack stepped closer but kept his voice low out of respect for the cots.

  “I don’t wanna bother you too much, Doc,” he said. “I just… wanted to know maybe if you had some soap. Or some more gauze for my feet. I just gave ’em a rinse. I’m just trying to—I don’t wanna become a problem.”

  Dave’s pen paused mid-stroke.

  That earned him a fuller look.

  “Let me see,” Dave said, setting the clipboard down carefully. He stepped around the table and crouched in front of Jack without ceremony. “Shoes off.”

  Jack complied.

  Dave’s hands were steady as he inspected the skin under the lantern light. He pressed gently along the arch again, checked the edges of the abrasions.

  “No swelling. No heat beyond what I’d expect,” he murmured. “You rinsed them?”

  “With rainwater.”

  Dave nodded once. “Not sterile, but better than sealing them up wet.”

  He stood and moved to the supply tote, rummaging with efficient familiarity. He produced a small bar of plain soap—nearly new—and a roll of fresh gauze.

  “Use this,” he said, placing the soap into Jack’s hand. “Clean them properly. Light scrub. Don’t overdo it. You start tearing at healing tissue, you’ll slow yourself down.”

  He tore a length of gauze free and handed it over as well.

  “You’re not a problem,” Dave added, almost absently.

  He turned back toward the table but hesitated, eyes shifting briefly toward the radio sitting near the maps in the larger tent beyond the canvas wall.

  “Anything interesting happen out there?” he asked without looking directly at Jack.

  Jack shifted his weight slightly under Dave’s steady gaze and rubbed the back of his neck.

  “Oh—yeah. I forgot to mention. Couple of dogs showed up. They wanted you to take a look at ’em. Said they didn’t know if you had vet skills or not.”

  If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  The corner of Dave’s mouth twitched faintly.

  “Dogs,” he repeated, as if testing the word against the rest of the night.

  “Martin said he’d bring them by in a little bit. Just a heads up. They seem healthy. Just… dogs.”

  Dave gave a short nod. “I can look. Basic check. If they’re not actively bleeding or foaming, that’s about as far as my degree goes.” He reached into a plastic crate near the cot and pulled out a small sealed pack. “And yes. Socks.”

  He handed Jack a folded pair—thicker than the last, still dry.

  “Don’t seal your feet wet,” Dave added. “And if you start feeling feverish, dizzy, anything off from baseline, you come straight back.”

  “Yeah,” Jack said. “I will.”

  He stepped back out into the rain with the soap tucked into one hand and the gauze and socks under his arm.

  The yard had settled into a rhythm.

  Rain hit tarp. Hammer tapped wood. Someone laughed quietly near the dogs. A lantern flickered, then steadied again. The barricade looked less frantic now—reinforced not by panic, but by repetition.

  Jack returned to his earlier spot by the fence, flipping the bucket to empty the cloudy water before setting it upright again beneath the tarp edge. He ducked into a smaller open-sided tent nearby—little more than a stretched canopy meant to cover tools—and crouched there, out of the direct rain.

  The bucket filled quickly.

  He lathered the soap between his palms, the scent clean and faintly medicinal. This time he scrubbed carefully, working foam across the torn skin with deliberate patience. Dirt loosened, lifting away in pale ribbons. He winced once but didn’t stop.

  He rinsed thoroughly, letting rainwater spill over his ankles and drip from his heels into the dirt below.

  When he finished, he dried them as best he could, wrapped fresh gauze with firmer hands than before, then pulled on the new socks. The fabric felt almost indulgent. Clean. Structured.

  Shoes laced. Tight enough to hold. Loose enough to not choke circulation.

  He stood beneath the canopy and let his gaze wander.

  Thirty. Maybe forty people scattered across the yard. Some under tarp. Some along the fence. Some near vehicles adjusting straps or checking latches. No one idle. Even those with rifles walked slow perimeter arcs, scanning without being told.

  Self-appointed? Maybe.

  Or guided.

  His eyes found Edith’s larger tent.

  Lantern light glowed steady through the canvas. Shadows moved inside—two shapes, then one, then stillness. The radio’s antenna cast a thin, angular silhouette against the fabric.

  Extraction is still coming, he told himself.

  At least we’re not alone in this. At least I’m not alone.

  The thought sat briefly, warm and stabilizing.

  Then it shifted.

  He saw, in memory, the truck. The open door. The people who had shouted for him to get in. The ones who had offered help without negotiation. And the moment later—when he had opened another door and left others behind because he’d calculated survival faster than courage.

  The weight of it crept up his spine.

  He cut the thought short when he noticed the bucket brimming.

  He dumped the excess, rinsed his hands once more, and stepped back into the yard.

  The fire drew him next.

  Someone had rigged a metal grate low over coals shielded by hubcaps and sheet metal to keep the rain from drowning it. A heavy pot sat centered over the heat, lid slightly askew to vent steam. The smell reached him before he saw the contents fully—broth, something starchy, something fatty.

  His stomach tightened and growled audibly.

  A man stood over the pot with a long spoon, sleeves rolled, face slick with rain and smoke. He stirred methodically, testing thickness.

  “Smells good,” Jack said as he approached.

  The man glanced up, assessing him quickly before returning his attention to the pot.

  “Better than nothing,” he replied. “Canned potatoes. Some beans. Bit of smoked sausage we found in a cooler earlier. Not fancy.”

  Steam curled upward, carrying salt and fat into the damp air. Someone nearby passed him a stack of mismatched plastic bowls. Another person was tearing open a sleeve of crackers with their teeth.

  Jack hovered just close enough to feel the heat from the coals.

  “Martin said you might have enough for a snack,” Jack added. “Maybe something for the dogs too.”

  The cook snorted softly. “Dogs’ll always get a plate from me.”

  He lifted the lid fully, releasing a thicker plume of steam.

  The cook didn’t hesitate.

  “Here,” he said, already reaching for a metal thermos. He ladled soup into it with careful efficiency, steam coiling into the rain-heavy air. The lid twisted on tight with a firm turn of his wrist. From the cooler at his feet he pulled a small bag of jerky and pressed it into Jack’s arm as well. “Set them up with this. If they don’t want to come over themselves, this’ll hold ’em.”

  Jack shifted the awkward weight between elbow and palm.

  “Thanks,” he said. “Name’s Jack, by the way.”

  The cook wiped his hand on a rag and offered it without fuss. “Tom.”

  Their hands met—firm, warm despite the rain. For a moment, it felt almost ordinary. A name exchanged. A handshake over food.

  Human.

  Then the yelling started.

  Not a scream of terror.

  Not the sharp crack of immediate danger.

  A voice breaking under pressure.

  It carried through canvas and rain alike.

  “I want to know when it’s coming!”

  The words tore from the medical tent with enough force to cut through conversation across the yard. Hammering stopped. The dogs’ ears perked. A few heads turned instinctively toward the sound.

  Inside, Dave’s voice answered—lower, controlled.

  “Take a breath. You need to slow down—”

  “I don’t want to slow down!” the man barked back. There was the scrape of a cot shifting hard across dirt. “You told me they’re coming. You said they were mobilizing. When?”

  Jack was already moving, thermos and jerky tucked tight against his ribs. Tom followed two steps behind. Others converged without speaking—rifles slung, tools set aside. No one rushed, but no one ignored it either.

  They reached the tent flap just as the man’s voice cracked again.

  “My family is back there,” he said, words tumbling now, breath unsteady. “They were at the house. I couldn’t get there. I tried. I— I had to run. But the Army’s got to help, right? You saw what those things did. You saw it. My daughter—”

  His voice broke on the word.

  Inside, one of the other patients shifted uncomfortably. Dave stood between the agitated man and the tent opening, hands open but not restraining.

  “Your blood pressure is spiking,” Dave said, calm but firmer now. “You’re not helping yourself. We’re working off the information we have.”

  “What information?” the man snapped. “From who? I heard it earlier. I heard you talking about extraction. What does that even mean?

  The crowd outside thickened.

  Rain tapped against canvas like static.

  Then Edith stepped through it.

  She didn’t rush. She didn’t raise her voice.

  She simply moved through the gathered bodies, parting them without touching anyone, and entered the tent.

  The air shifted when she did.

  “Let him speak,” she said quietly to Dave.

  Dave stepped aside, not in surrender but in trust.

  The man on the cot was half-standing now, IV line tugging at his wrist, chest heaving. His face was gray with exhaustion but flushed with panic.

  “You,” he said, pointing at Edith with shaking fingers. “You said they’re mobilizing. You said they’re setting up corridors. That they’d be sweeping through. When? When are they coming?”

  Edith met his gaze evenly.

  “They are mobilizing,” she said. Her voice did not waver. “Units are repositioning. This isn’t a single-point incident. It’s widespread. That takes coordination.”

  “That’s not an answer!” he shouted.

  The other patients shifted again, eyes darting between them.

  “My daughter is eight,” he pressed. “Eight. She’s alone.”

  The words hung in the space like a blade.

  Edith stepped closer—not looming, not aggressive. Controlled.

  “Listen to me,” she said. “If we leave this position without support, we risk losing everyone here. You included. We hold. We wait for confirmed corridors.”

  “You don’t know that!” he barked. “You don’t know anything.

  Rain intensified briefly overhead, drumming against the tarp.

  Edith’s jaw tightened by a fraction.

  “We received acknowledgment earlier,” she said. “Communications are intermittent. That’s expected in a situation like this.”

  “From who?” he demanded.

  Outside the tent, Jack could feel the crowd leaning in without meaning to. Martin had come up behind him, dogs weaving between legs, sensing tension without understanding it.

  Silence crept in around the edges.

  Edith held his gaze for a long moment.

  “We are not alone in this,” she said finally. “And we are not abandoning anyone.”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  The words landed heavy.

  Behind her, the radio in the larger command tent crackled faintly—just a whisper of white noise shifting frequencies.

  Edith didn’t turn toward it.

  Instead, she said, evenly:

  “If there is doubt about the line, we can verify it. Publicly. You want confirmation? We can attempt contact again.”

  A murmur rippled through the gathered people.

  The man’s chest rose and fell rapidly. “Yes,” he said. “Yes. Do it.”

  Rainwater ran down the seams of the tent.

  It took a second for anyone to notice.

  The rain had been a constant presence—tapping, hissing, filling gaps in silence. When it stopped, it didn’t announce itself. It simply withdrew.

  The last drops fell from tarp edges in irregular plinks.

  Then nothing.

  No patter on canvas. No hiss against metal.

  Just breath.

  The silence rolled outward from the tent like a pressure change. People shifted, looking up instinctively, as if the sky itself had leaned in to listen.

  Inside, the agitated man stood rigid, IV line trembling slightly between his fingers. Dave hovered near but did not intervene. Edith held her posture, composed.

  “You want confirmation,” she said evenly.

  “Yes,” the man answered. His voice was hoarse now, less explosive, more desperate. “I want to hear something real.”

  Edith gave a small nod, as if the request were reasonable.

  “Then we’ll attempt contact.”

  She turned and stepped back out of the medical tent. The gathered crowd parted again, this time more tightly packed. Jack moved with them—not leading, not resisting—simply carried by the gravitational pull of the moment.

  The dogs had fallen quiet, tails lowered, sensing the shift.

  The yard felt larger without rain.

  Edith crossed to the central tent and ducked inside. Several followed, crowding the flap but not fully entering. Jack found himself near the opening, thermos still tucked under one arm, forgotten.

  Inside, the folding table waited—maps, grease pencil, compass.

  And the radio.

  It sat squat and functional, its casing scuffed but intact. Antenna angled toward the tent seam. A faint hum underlaid the silence, as if the device had been waiting too.

  Edith knelt beside it without hesitation.

  “I’ve been cycling frequencies,” she said calmly, fingers already adjusting the dial. “Some channels are dead. Some are saturated. This one has been consistent.”

  The man from the cot stood near the entrance now, pale but upright, eyes fixed on her hands.

  Edith turned the volume up.

  Static swelled into the space.

  White noise, layered and uneven.

  She fine-tuned the dial with small, deliberate movements.

  The static thinned.

  Then—

  A voice.

  Tinny. Distant. Distorted slightly by repetition.

  “—Emergency Broadcast System. This is a federal advisory. Remain indoors. Avoid contact with infected individuals. Military units are mobilizing to establish containment corridors. Do not attempt to travel unless instructed. Assistance is en route. Repeat—assistance is en route—”

  The message looped, fading briefly into static before restarting at the same cadence.

  No variation.

  No response to input.

  Just repetition.

  But it was something.

  Outside the tent, shoulders loosened slightly. A few exchanged glances that bordered on relief. Someone muttered, “See?”

  The agitated man swallowed hard, eyes wet but fixed.

  “They’re mobilizing,” he whispered.

  Edith let the loop play through once more before lowering the volume slightly—not cutting it off entirely.

  “This is being transmitted on multiple bands,” she said. “It means command infrastructure is still active. It means coordination is happening.”

  “It’s a recording,” the man said weakly.

  “Yes,” Edith replied without flinching. “Because live channels are overwhelmed. Because civilian frequencies are saturated with panic traffic. Because you don’t waste bandwidth when you’re deploying assets across multiple counties.”

  Her tone never rose. Never sharpened.

  “The absence of direct response doesn’t mean absence of structure.

  Silence followed.

  The words weren’t comforting exactly—but they were ordered. Logical. Structured.

  The loop restarted again.

  “—Remain indoors. Avoid contact with infected individuals. Military units are mobilizing—”

  Jack stood at the edge of the tent and felt the crowd breathe as one.

  Some faces softened. Some hardened.

  The man from the cot lowered himself slowly back down, hands trembling less than before.

  “My daughter…” he murmured.

  “We hold until corridors are confirmed,” Edith said. “If extraction sweeps this region, they’ll prioritize defensible clusters. That’s us.”

  Her eyes moved across the gathered faces—not pleading. Not defensive.

  Anchoring.

  Outside, the sky had gone fully dark.

  No rain.

  No wind.

  Just the faint hum of the radio, repeating the same promise over and over into the night.

  The crowd dissolved slowly.

  Not all at once—more like tension releasing from a clenched fist. A few lingered near the command tent, eyes still on Edith. Others drifted back toward half-finished tasks. Someone resumed hammering. Someone else adjusted a tarp line that had sagged in the rain.

  The radio continued its loop at a lower volume, bleeding faintly into the yard.

  “—Military units are mobilizing—”

  Jack watched as the hunter—the man who had shouted Scooter’s name—guided both dogs toward the medical tent. The golden retriever walked at his side, head level, tail slower now. Scooter trotted slightly ahead, nose busy, oblivious to the weight that had just settled over the camp.

  Dave stepped out to meet them, already wiping his hands on a cloth.

  Jack glanced down at his own arms and blinked.

  Right.

  The thermos.

  The jerky.

  Martin.

  He shifted the load and headed back toward the perimeter, boots crunching lightly over damp gravel. The rain had left the ground dark and reflective, but without the steady patter the night felt exposed.

  Martin was back under the tarp, one hand braced against a section of fence while another man tightened wire. He looked up when Jack approached.

  “There you are,” Martin said.

  Jack handed him the thermos first, then the jerky. “From Tom. Said it’ll hold you over.”

  Martin popped the lid and let steam curl into his face. “Bless that man,” he muttered, passing it to the worker beside him. The jerky bag was torn open almost immediately, pieces handed around without ceremony.

  Jack lingered, watching them chew, swallow, get back to work.

  “What was all that about?” he asked finally.

  The question came out softer than he meant it to.

  Martin wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and leaned back against the truck bed.

  “You didn’t?” he asked, not mocking—just curious.

  Jack shrugged slightly. “I mean… I get it. But…”

  Martin studied him for a moment.

  “Some people don’t break until they stop moving,” he said. “When you’re running, building, fixing—your head doesn’t have time to catch up. That guy’s been laid up since he got here. Nothing to do but think.”

  He gestured vaguely toward the medical tent.

  “And thinkin’ in this kind of quiet?” Martin added. “That’s dangerous.”

  Jack looked out past the barricade.

  The road was a dark ribbon now. No rain. No movement. Just the faint glow of lantern light reflecting off metal and glass.

  “I just…” Jack hesitated. “I don’t know why I haven’t.”

  Martin gave a short exhale through his nose.

  “Who says you haven’t?” he said.

  Jack didn’t answer that.

  He watched one of the men dip a plastic cup into the thermos and hand it off. The steam rose briefly, then vanished into the night air.

  How are they still sitting here like this? he wondered.

  How are any of us?

  The image of the man in the tent flashed through him—voice cracking, hands shaking, demanding a timeline that didn’t exist. Jack felt something in his chest tighten, not from panic but from proximity.

  If he had stopped earlier—if he had frozen when the door split, if he had tried to argue with the world instead of run—

  He would be dead.

  Or worse.

  One of those things in the road, rising wrong and hungry.

  What good would it do now to unravel?

  He flexed his toes inside his shoes. The clean gauze felt firm. Structured.

  Martin nudged him lightly with an elbow.

  “You’re still here,” Martin said. “That’s what you do with it.”

  Jack nodded once.

  Behind them, the radio’s loop drifted faintly across camp again.

  “—Remain indoors. Assistance is en route—”

  The words sounded thinner in open air.

  Martin twisted the thermos lid back on and handed it back to Jack.

  Jack weighed the thermos in his hands, feeling the slosh of what remained inside. Steam no longer curled from the lid. The warmth was fading.

  He glanced toward the cab again, toward the darkened windshield and the narrow strip of road it framed.

  “It’s a bit comfier in the cab still,” he said to Martin. “I think I’ll spend the night in there, if you don’t mind. I’ll keep watch.”

  Martin nodded once without looking up from the wire he was twisting tight.

  “Yeah,” Jack added. “I don’t feel sleepy yet. If I start getting there, I’ll let you know so someone can take my position.”

  “Good,” Martin replied. “Rotate before you fade. No heroes.”

  Jack gave a faint half-smile at that and turned toward the truck.

  The yard felt steadier now.

  The radio loop still murmured from the command tent, softer now.

  Jack climbed into the cab and shut the door with a controlled click.

  The interior smelled faintly of damp upholstery and old gasoline. He set the thermos in the cup holder and leaned back into the seat. The windshield framed the barricade and the dip in the tree line beyond. Lantern glow shimmered across wet asphalt.

  He adjusted the rearview mirror slightly, angling it to catch a wider slice of the yard behind him.

  Then he settled.

  Boots propped lightly against the floorboard. Hands resting on the steering wheel.

  Eyes scanning.

  Outside, the camp breathed.

  Inside the command tent, the lantern light glowed steady.

  And within that light, Edith stood alone beside the radio.

  She adjusted the dial once more—not to the loop frequency, but to a neighboring band. Static hissed in her ear through a small earpiece wire that disappeared into her collar.

  She pressed the transmit switch.

  “Staff Sergeant Edith Mores,” she said clearly, voice clipped and professional. “Squad Leader, First Squad, Bravo Company. MOS Eleven Bravo, Infantry. Grid reference Delta-Seven-Two. Establishing defensive hold with civilian cluster. Requesting confirmation of extraction corridor status.”

  Static filled the silence after she released the switch.

  She tilted her head slightly, as if listening to something faint.

  “Yes, sir,” she said after a pause. “Understood. We have approximately forty civilians. Mixed conditions. Two canines, no visible infection. Supplies moderate.”

  Nothing answered her.

  Outside the tent, no one heard the silence inside her ear.

  She pressed transmit again.

  “Negative on hostile overrun at this time. Perimeter stable. Awaiting further instruction.”

  A longer pause.

  She nodded once to no one.

  “Copy that.”

  Her fingers rested on the radio’s casing for a second.

  Static crackled.

  She shifted frequencies once more and let the emergency loop bleed faintly into the background again—just enough to be audible if someone stood close.

  Then she spoke once more into the silent channel.

  “We’ll hold position,” she said quietly. “We’ll hold.”