The smoke hung in the air long after they left the intersection behind. It clung to their clothes, filled their lungs, burned their eyes. Michael led the way down a narrow service road that cut between rows of low warehouses, his eyes scanning every corner, every shadow. Sarah walked a step behind him, bow gripped tight, her face pale but set. Lena brought up the rear, her shotgun angled low, fingers twitching every time the wind carried a sound too close.
They hadn't spoken much since slipping away from the soldiers' last stand. Words felt heavy, too loud. The only noise was the crunch of broken glass under their boots and the distant echo of gunfire carried by the breeze.
By midday, they'd put miles between themselves and the smoke. The city was still far ahead, the skyline jagged and broken in the distance. Michael stopped at the edge of a dry drainage ditch and crouched low, motioning the others to follow.
"Water break," he said quietly.
Sarah sat beside him, taking the canteen he offered. She drank carefully, small sips like he'd taught her. Lena leaned against the concrete wall of the ditch, brushing her hair back with a hand that trembled despite her efforts to steady it.
"They're all dead," she muttered. "Those soldiers. All of them. Didn't matter they had rifles or training. Didn't matter at all."
Michael unscrewed the cap from his own canteen, staring into the water like it might hold an answer. "That's how it works. Panic. Noise. Draws them in. Doesn't matter how many men you've got when the horde gets that big. The only fight that counts is the one you walk away from."
Sarah's eyes stayed fixed on him. "So that's it? We just leave people to die?"
Michael met her stare. He didn't flinch. "We save who we can. But if you throw your life away trying to save everyone, you don't save anyone. Not yourself. Not the people who count on you."
Sarah dropped her gaze, chewing on her lip. She didn't like it, he could see that. But she was listening. That mattered.
They rested for maybe ten minutes before moving again. The sun was hot on their backs now, burning away the morning chill, and the air smelled of rot. They passed houses with doors hanging open, curtains fluttering in windows, toys scattered on porches. It looked like people had been ripped out of their lives mid-step.
Inside one, Michael found a kitchen cabinet with three dented cans of peaches. He slipped them into his pack without comment. Sarah spotted a backpack under a bed and dragged it out, dust puffing around her. Inside was a pack of cards, two shirts, and a jar of peanut butter. She smiled faintly, almost like a kid again, holding it up.
"Good find," Michael said. "Put it in the pack. That's calories we can use."
Her grin faltered, but she did as he said.
Later, when the sun dipped lower, they stopped inside another house to rest their feet. Sarah sat by the window, turning the deck of cards over in her hands. Lena cleaned her shotgun with shaking fingers.
Michael knelt on the floor, unwrapping a ragged bundle from his pack. Inside were nails, scrap metal, and a few empty cans. He worked quietly, threading wire, filling one can with powder, setting nails in careful rows.
Sarah leaned closer. "Another spike bomb?"
"Yeah."
"Why not just bullets?" she asked.
Michael kept working, his voice even. "Because bullets run out. Because sometimes the enemy doesn't expect fire or shrapnel. Because sometimes scaring them buys more time than killing them. You use what you've got, however you've got it. That's the only way you live."
Sarah nodded slowly, absorbing the lesson.
By the time the sun began to sink, they reached the edge of the suburbs. Beyond the row of leaning houses, they could see the skeleton of Houston's skyline against the orange sky. A handful of the taller buildings still stood, but many were scarred with fire and smoke. The city was too far to hear clearly, but Michael thought he caught the faint sound of chaos on the wind distant sirens, maybe screams, maybe both.
Sarah's voice was barely above a whisper. "It looks… dead."
"It is," Michael said. "But people will cling to it. Always do. Cities draw survivors like moths. Shelter, supplies, false hope."
"False?" Lena asked.
He glanced at her. "Cities fall first. Too many people, too many mouths, too much noise. If there's a quarantine zone like the broadcast said, it'll be on the outskirts, not the heart."
They camped in a half-finished apartment block that night. The air smelled of dust and burnt wood. Michael rigged a line of cans along the stairwell as a trip alarm and set his rifle across his knees as he sat against the wall.
Sarah lay on the floor beside him, staring at the ceiling. "How many days has it been?" she asked softly.
Michael thought about it. The start felt like a blur sirens, screams, fire, blood. "Days," he said finally. "Doesn't matter the number. World's different now. You count in chances, not hours."
Sarah turned her head to look at him. "Do you think we'll make it?"
Michael's eyes stayed on the shadows beyond the doorway. "We'll make it as long as we don't make mistakes. As long as we stay quiet. Careful. Smart."
"And if we don't?"
"Then we end up like those soldiers," he said simply.
Sarah didn't answer. But later, when he thought she'd fallen asleep, he heard her whispering to herself. Maybe a prayer. Maybe just words to keep the dark at bay.
Michael didn't close his eyes that night. He knew the closer they got to Houston, the worse it would be. He could feel it in his bones, the way animals smell a storm before it breaks.
The broadcast said there was a quarantine zone. Maybe there was. Maybe it was already gone.
Either way, they had no choice but to find out.