It had been months since Peter, Will, and Bruce began rebuilding the old warehouse stronghold. Under Peter's leadership and with regular support from Dean's fortress, their group had evolved from a fractured band of survivors into a functioning community. The once-derelict warehouse was now surrounded by metal barricades, lookout towers made from salvaged scaffolding, and a fortified gate welded from bus doors and rebar. Patrol shifts were organized, greenhouses made from glass shards and plastic sheets had begun sprouting vegetables, and the sound of children laughing returned to the echoing halls.
Every week, the familiar rumble of the fortress Humvee arrived like clockwork, carrying supplies, ammo, and fresh updates from Dean's side. Trust between the two camps grew strong—two pillars of hope in a crumbled world.
Then one afternoon, the skies broke their silence.
Thup-thup-thup-thup.
The sound of chopper blades cutting through the air sent heads spinning upward. Three military-looking helicopters flew overhead, casting long shadows across the city ruins. As they passed, small white rectangles fluttered down like snow.
Its flyers - The survivors rushed to grab them, reading the message printed in bold red letters:
SAFE HAVEN — SANCTUARY CITY
Protected Zones. Running Water. Electricity.Medical Experts.
A Cure is Near Completion.
Join Us — Coordinates Attached. Transportation Available.
Gasps and murmurs spread through Peter's camp like wildfire. Was it real? Was it a trap?
Peter hurried to the radio room, voice sharp with urgency.
"Dean, this is Peter. Did you see the flyers?"
The reply came after a crackle of static.
"Yeah. I saw them."
"I'm bringing my people to the fortress tomorrow. We need to talk face-to-face. This might be too risky to discuss on air."
Dean's voice hardened. "Copy that. I'll be waiting."
Peter hung up, turned to Bruce and Jerome, and said, "Pack what you need. We leave at dawn."
Meanwhile, at the fortress, Dean stood by the balcony overlooking the inner courtyard. Teens practiced their aim at makeshift ranges, and adults carried supply crates into the bunker storerooms. His mind wasn't in the present, though. It drifted—searching the recesses of his memory for a clue.
It all felt familiar, yet… wrong.
His fingers tightened around the balcony railing.
"This didn't happen before."
He shut his eyes and tried to recall the timeline before he was thrown back into the past. Nothing in his memory mentioned helicopters sending flyers or a potential cure . Then a thought hit him hard.
This isn't the same world.
His actions had changed too much. Saving people, killing the Senator, Malcom and John , empowering Peter—it had all rippled outward. Maybe a cure will came . Or maybe—
It was bait.
A trap made to look like salvation.
Night fell fast. Lanterns lit up the halls of the fortress like stars scattered through darkness. Dean found Marcus sitting near the fire pit, sharpening a blade. He sat beside him in silence for a moment.
"What do you think of the flyers?" Dean finally asked.
Marcus didn't look up. "Maybe they're real. Maybe not. Could be a trap, could be the miracle we need. But nowadays…" He smirked. "I don't believe anything unless it's standing right in front of me. What about you?"
Dean chuckled, nodding. "Same here."
"You thinking of checking it out?"
"Maybe," Dean said, leaning back. "But not tomorrow. Tomorrow's for plans."
Marcus grinned. "You know me, boss. I follow orders. Just don't send me into another suicide mission unless we're bringing marshmallows."
Dean snorted. "No promises."
The next day, just before dawn, a rusty buggy sputtered into the fortress gates, trailing smoke and kicking up dust. Peter was at the wheel, Jerome beside him, Bruce and Will in the back.
They were waved in immediately.
Inside the command room, Dean welcomed them with nods and coffee brewed from dandelion roots. The flyers were laid out across the table.
Jerome, squinting at one, muttered, "You really think there's a cure?"
Dean leaned forward. "I don't know. But it smells off. All of this. Who's flying those helicopters? Fuel ain't easy to come by. Coordinated drops like this—someone's organized. That either means power… or something worse."
Peter nodded slowly. "We've seen false promises before. But my people… they want to believe in something again."
Dean's eyes narrowed. "And that's exactly what worries me."
Jerome leaned back. "If this is a trap, how do we find out without risking everyone?"
Dean looked at Peter. "We send someone to scout. Small group. Quiet. We verify the location first before anyone else goes. Until then—no one moves."
Peter agreed. "That's smart. I'll pick the people. We'll make sure it's not another Malcom and John situation."
Dean gave a slow nod, staring once again at the flyers. The word "CURE" burned into his eyes like a brand.
Something was coming. And whether it was salvation or destruction, they'd find out soon enough.