Ethan shoveled the last of the beans into his mouth, the dented can scraping against the gym's bleacher where he sat. Mia perched beside him, sipping from her water bottle, her axe resting across her knees. The fire pit crackled in the center, casting jagged shadows over the survivors—twenty or so, hunched over blankets or murmuring in tight clusters. Cal leaned against a wall, sharpening his pole with a piece of broken glass, while Tara and Ben sorted through a pile of scavenged goods: a flashlight with no batteries, a cracked thermos, a handful of nails.
Riley paced near the barricade, machete slung over her shoulder, barking orders to the lanky man with the spear. "Check the east wall, Pete. Last quake loosened a board." Pete nodded, jogging off with his broomstick weapon.
Ethan set the empty can down, wiping his hands on his jeans. The gym's warmth had settled into his bones, the [Endurance] boost keeping exhaustion at bay, but the faint tremors underfoot—echoes of the sinkhole—kept him alert. [Predator Sense] picked up skitters beyond the walls, distant but persistent. The quiet wouldn't hold.
Riley stopped pacing, turning to Ethan's group. "You're fed. Time to earn it. We need scouts—west side, past the sinkhole. Rumor's there's a clear path out of the city."
Cal looked up from his pole, glass pausing mid-scrape. "Rumor's not a plan. What's the catch?"
"No catch," Riley said, resting a hand on her machete. "Monsters thinned out there last night. Could be a fluke, could be a way through. We don't know 'cause no one's checked."
Tara snorted, tossing the thermos aside. "And your last scouts didn't come back. Pass."
"They didn't listen," Riley shot back. "Went loud, got sloppy. You move smart, you've got a shot."
Ethan stood, gripping the shovel. "What's west? Buildings, roads—what are we looking for?"
"Old train yard," Riley said, pointing past the barricade. "Tracks run out of town. If they're clear, we've got a route. If not, we're stuck."
Mia shifted, setting her bottle down. "How far?"
"Half a mile," Riley replied. "Past the sinkhole, through the athletic fields. Back by dawn if you're quick."
Ben clutched his wrench, shifting closer to Tara. "And if we say no?"
"You're out," Riley said, voice flat. "Food's for contributors. No freeloaders."
Cal smirked, standing to join Ethan. "Guess we're in. Beats starving."
Ethan nodded, glancing at Mia. "You're staying. Safer here."
"No chance," she said, grabbing her axe and standing beside him. "I'm not sitting this out."
Riley raised an eyebrow but didn't argue. "Three's enough. Tara, Ben—your call."
Tara grabbed her bat, shrugging. "Fine. Kid stays."
Ben slumped onto the bleacher, wrench dropping to his lap. "I'll… guard the stuff."
"Done," Riley said, tossing Ethan a whistle carved from wood. "Signal if you find the yard. Two blasts for clear, one for trouble. Don't blow it unless you're sure."
Ethan tucked the whistle into his pocket, hefting the shovel. "Let's move."
They crossed the gym, Pete pulling a table aside to open the barricade's west gap. The night air rushed in, cold and briny, carrying the faint clatter of loose debris. The sinkhole's rim glowed faintly in the distance, its depths still churning. Ethan led Mia, Cal, and Tara out, sticking to the gym's shadow as they skirted the athletic fields.
The fields stretched wide, turf torn up in patches, bleachers collapsed into twisted metal. A scoreboard hung crooked, its glass face shattered, numbers frozen at some forgotten game. [Perception] caught the glint of a discarded javelin half-buried in the dirt. Ethan pried it free, handing it to Cal. "Swap the pole. Sharper."
Cal tested the javelin's weight, nodding, and tossed the pole aside. "Good call."
They moved west, weaving through the wreckage, the train yard's silhouette faint against the horizon—rusted cars and tracks barely visible. [Predator Sense] pinged—a flutter of wings overhead, a screech too high to be human. Tara gripped her bat tighter, but nothing dove from the sky. Not yet.
The fields ended at a chain-link fence, its posts bent but standing, the yard just beyond. Ethan pushed a loose section aside, holding it for Mia and the others. The ground here was firmer, gravel crunching underfoot, the air sharp with rust and oil. Train cars sat abandoned, some upright, others tipped like fallen giants.
"Looks quiet," Mia said, axe ready as she scanned the tracks.
"Too quiet," Cal muttered, javelin poised.
Ethan stepped forward, shovel scraping the gravel. [Predator Sense] hummed—no heartbeats, no skitters, just the wind whistling through the cars. He reached for the whistle, ready to signal, when the ground pulsed—not a quake, but a rhythm, like footsteps. Big ones.
"Back," he hissed, pulling Mia behind a train car. Cal and Tara ducked low, weapons up. The rhythm grew, gravel crunching, until a shadow loomed from the yard's north end—a bear, massive, its short snout snuffling the air.
Ethan held his breath, shovel steady. The yard wasn't clear—not yet.