Movement replaced threat.
Men slid from perches and did the work of living: rolling drums, hauling scrap, unbolting chain from welded hooks. A few kept their eyes on Zubair the same way a man kept eyes on a pot that boiled itself without a stove.
Or something that was about to explode.
Sera kept her gaze on the captain. "One more condition."
He smirked under the scar. "There's always one more."
"You've got stupid zombies in cages someplace near here. They drift when they smell blood. If you pen them along trade streets, put a wall between them and the market. Not mesh. Solid. You get an upwind shift at dusk and you'll lose a child to claws through chain."
Something flickered—a quick flash of respect or surprise, she didn't care which. "We learned that the first month," he replied. "We keep them for the dogs and the raiders. Not for the market."
"Good," she answered.
