A sharp crack shattered the stillness.
Everyone froze.
The knock had come from the roof.
Zara's heart lurched. She sat upright as another thud followed—softer this time. Then a third. Something bouncing, not footsteps.
"A rock," Winter muttered. His hand was already on his rifle.
He crept closer, nodding once to Mike, who flanked the door while Winter approached the nearest boarded window. The others stirred—murmurs, rustling fabric, the slow rise of panic.
"Don't open it," Mike hissed. "Could be a trap."
"I'm not stupid," Winter replied tightly.
He pried a slat just enough to see through. Gun barrel first.
Zara crouched beside him, heart in her throat.
Outside, a group—three figures—stood in the ashen dawn. Mud-caked, bone-thin. Not soldiers. Survivors. One held something small against their chest.
A voice called through the wind. "We're unarmed! We've got a kid. Please—we heard your engine."
The group inside bristled.
