Riku stepped outside, M4 slung across his chest, and let the shutter fall back into place behind him. The street was still pale and washed out, dawn turning the ruins into shapes without color. He scanned left, then right. Nothing moved.
The Rezvani sat where he'd left it, nose pointed toward the main road. Dust clung to the hood, and flecks of dried blood were still on the bumper. The vehicle looked like it had fought a war alongside him—which, in a way, it had.
Riku crouched by the front tire first, fingers brushing the tread. Still good. No punctures. He moved around to the back, scanning the wheel wells, making sure nothing had been tampered with during the night. Zombies weren't clever, but men were. And men had already proved themselves worse.
He popped the rear door halfway, rifle steady in his other hand. Inside, the gear was still where he'd left it: a blanket, a spare mag pouch, a half-empty water jug strapped down. Nothing disturbed. He closed it again, softly.
