CHAPTER 1(V)
Still Grey's POV
The sun filters in faint and useless through the broken warehouse slats. It's morning, technically—but it feels like time's just dragging itself forward.
We hadn't really slept. Not like sleep was ever going to save us. Scarlett stayed by the door with that broken bat like it was a rifle. Jane used her sweater as a blanket and curled up beside Amy—who barely moved all night, shallow breaths and clenched fists. Luke tried to stay up, said he'd take the first watch. Passed out sitting against a shelf with a flashlight still on in his hand. I just leaned against the wall. Eyes open. Let the dark blink first.
Now, we stir.
Scarlett's already checking the warehouse again, silent and efficient. Jane's tying her hair back with something that looks like it used to be a shoelace. Luke groans as he sits up, rubbing his face like it owes him answers.
I stand and stretch, joints popping like they're waking up too.
"We need to move," Scarlett says, not looking at anyone in particular. "Staying here another night's not smart."
"No arguments," I mutter, peeking out through a gap in the rusted panel wall. "Sky's clear. No movement."
Luke joins me, peering out. "I saw a gas station two blocks down on our way here. Could check for supplies?"
"If it's not already picked clean," I say.
Jane adjusts Amy's jacket gently. "We'll need water. We're almost out."
"Food too," Scarlett adds.
Luke grabs the crowbar and stretches his arms. "We go quick. In and out."
He sounds more certain than yesterday. Like surviving one night flipped a switch. I won't jinx it by pointing it out.
We step outside. It's colder than I remember. Or maybe it's just the quiet.
Sticking to the side roads, we move low. Fast. The city's skeleton is showing now—burned-out cars, graffiti smeared with ash, storefronts shattered like someone was screaming with their fists. Jane stays close to Amy. Scarlett walks ahead. Luke's beside me.
"You alright?" he asks under his breath.
I shrug. "Ask me again when we're not walking toward a potential death trap."
He half-smiles. "Fair."
The gas station is still there. Mostly intact. The windows are broken, but the door's hanging loose, not off.
We pause just short of the lot. I scan the perimeter. No bodies. No movement. That doesn't mean anything.
Scarlett signals to split up—standard sweep. I go with Luke, circling to the left while the girls move toward the back.
Inside, it smells like dust and oil and something rotten. Most of the shelves are empty. We still find a few bottled waters, some canned beans, a bag of crushed protein bars under the register.
Luke grabs a half-used first-aid kit from behind the counter. "Score."
"Bandages might be expired."
"Better than nothing."
We regroup outside. Scarlett's got batteries and a lighter. Jane found some sleeping pads in the supply closet. Her face is tired but a little brighter.
"Could be worse," she says.
She's right.
Could be much worse.
We're walking back when we hear it—faint, behind us. A car engine. Distant, but not distant enough.
Everyone freezes.
Scarlett drops low behind a broken wall. I pull Jane and Amy down beside her. Luke grabs a shard of mirror from the ground and angles it toward the street.
A black SUV. Tinted. Slow.
We watch it roll by.
No markings.
No sound but the low hum of the engine.
Once it's gone, no one moves for a long minute.
Finally, Scarlett whispers, "We're not alone out here."
I nod once.
"Let's not wait to see if they're friendly."
We move fast but low, ducking between rusted-out cars and broken concrete. Luke leads us back toward the warehouse perimeter, keeping to the shadows.
"They didn't stop," he says, glancing over his shoulder, "but they saw this place. No way they missed the broken boards or the smoke trail."
"Then we don't linger," I say.
We slip through a gap in the fencing and back into the warehouse. It feels tighter now. The shadows longer. The silence more fragile.
"Pack what you can," I tell them. "Nothing heavy. Just what we need to move."
Scarlett grabs what's left of the meds and the protein bars. Luke rolls up the thin sleeping pads we used last night—Amy had curled into Jane's side near the shelves, while Scarlett sat by the door half-awake all night. I never slept. Not really.
Jane hesitates. "We barely got anything."
"We're not dying full," I mutter.
Scarlett lifts a pack. "We heading back to the city?"
"No," I say. "Too exposed. We stick to the side routes. Industrial strips. No foot traffic. No eyes."
Luke slings his bag over one shoulder. "That SUV… it didn't look scavenged. It looked maintained. Like it belonged to someone who still had order."
"That's what worries me."
I open the side door—slow, silent—and peek out.
No movement. But I feel it. Like we're not just being watched.
Tracked.
Ten blocks east, barely visible behind the smoke and steel skeletons, the black SUV slows again.
Inside, the passenger speaks into a device, voice calm and clinical.
"Warehouse breached. Subjects moved on foot. Four, possibly five."
A pause.
Then a woman's voice crackles through: distorted, clipped. "Proceed with distance. No contact until confirmation."
The passenger nods once, eyes on the street ahead. "Understood."
In the rear seat, a cooler hums. Inside, glass vials shimmer with faint blue.
Each one labeled with a date.
And a name.
Eva M. Brown.