The girl woke screaming.
Not from pain, not even fear—but instinct. Her hands thrashed against the blanket, her throat raw with a sound that didn't match her petite frame. Logan was already across the room, rifle slung but safety off.
She saw him, froze, and blinked. Breath ragged.
"You're safe," he said.
Her eye darted toward the reinforced door, the cement walls, and the map-covered station behind him. "Underground?"
He nodded. "For now."
She touched her leg, winced, and swallowed hard. "You… you saved me."
"I didn't do it for charity," Logan said. "You fell into one of my perimeter traps. I couldn't ignore you. That's all."
He handed her a bottle of water. She took it, trembling.
They sat in silence for a while, the hum of the air filtration system masking the weight of what neither wanted to say.
"What's your name?" Logan asked finally.
"Claire," she whispered. "Claire Redmond. My dad—he ran the farm."
Logan didn't press. He already knew what had happened to the farm.
He adjusted the lantern, letting a low amber light fill the room. "You were broadcasting from the farmhouse. A signal. About a safe zone in the northwest."
Claire shook her head. "Not us. It was looping. My dad found it on an old radio and rerouted it to boost the signal. We thought maybe someone else would hear it. Maybe help would come."
Logan stared at her. "It might be bait."
"It might be hope," she said, voice sharper than before.
He respected that. The girl hadn't died on his floor. She had a spine.
Later, Logan began drafting a new set of rules.
Not for Claire.
For the future.
He pinned a new page to the bunker wall, below the power grid sketches and zoning charts:
Preliminary Doctrine — Fortress Zero
Entry is not granted on request. Survivors are assessed, not welcomed.
All resources are communal. Hoarding is punishable by exile.
No one leaves without a purpose. No one enters without blood tests.
Infection is death. No debate.
Logan Walker holds final authority on all matters.
He stared at the fifth line for a long time before underlining it.
This was no longer a shelter.
This was a nation.
Nations didn't survive by being kind. They survived by being brutal enough to be still standing tomorrow.
Claire watched him work from her cot. The bunker had a rhythm, one dictated by Logan's cold efficiency. Every action served a purpose—no wasted movement, no needless speech. She tried to stand once, and he was there immediately, helping without expression.
"You should rest," he said.
"I'm not broken," she snapped, though her legs trembled under her.
He tilted his head, unreadable. "Not yet."
She sat back down.
They shared a meal—if it could be called that. Logan handed her a can of rehydrated stew and a protein bar. Claire ate slowly, watching him eat the same thing, in the same way—measured, mechanical.
"Why do you stay here?" she asked finally.
Logan looked up. "Because I built it. Because I don't believe there's anything better out there."
"You don't believe in people."
"I believe in patterns. People are unreliable."
Claire went quiet, then gestured toward the Doctrine pinned to the wall. "You think this'll last? These rules?"
"If they don't," he said, "we won't either."
She leaned back, eyes scanning the map behind him. "Then let's hope your fortress is stronger than the world trying to break it."
Logan didn't respond.
Instead, he returned to the workbench and picked up a reinforced plate of scavenged aluminum. He had plans to armor the main hatch and reinforce the airlock. Eventually, he'd expand upward. Build towers. Walls. Turrets.
They'd need all of it.
Because outside, things were mutating faster than expected.
Because one flare wouldn't stop them next time.
And because Claire wasn't the only one who'd heard that radio signal.