The Houston Quarantine Zone had a way of shrinking the world. Tens of thousands of people shoved behind fences, rationed like cattle. Voices carried. Rumors spread like smoke.
That's why, when Michael heard the low growl of an argument near the back of the ration tent, he froze mid-step. The voice cutting through the noise wasn't just familiar it was impossible to mistake.
"Listen, I'm telling you, this piece of pipe is worth more than the bread you're hoarding. You don't know what I can make out of it."
Michael's heart tightened in his chest. He hadn't heard that voice in years, not since an ugly contract overseas. But it hadn't changed. Sharp, impatient, stubborn as hell.
Crane.
Michael pushed through the crowd, Sarah and Lena close behind. And there he was Kyle Crane, taller than most, beard scruffy, eyes flashing as he argued with a scavenger holding onto a rusted pipe like it was gold.
Michael let out the smallest breath. "Son of a bitch."
Crane's head snapped around. Recognition hit fast. His scowl broke into the kind of grin only men who had nearly died together could share.
"No way," Crane barked, shoving past the scavenger. He clapped a heavy hand on Michael's shoulder. "I thought you were long gone, brother."
"Not yet," Michael muttered, but there was warmth in it. "Looks like you made it too."
"Barely," Crane admitted. "But I've got tricks. Always do."
Sarah and Lena exchanged looks. They weren't used to seeing Michael let someone this close.
Before Michael could answer, another voice cut in steady, sharp, carrying the tone of someone who'd had to command respect in rooms full of liars.
"You two going to stand there reliving the glory days, or are we going to talk about what's actually happening in here?"
Michael turned.
Alice B. Sullivan stood a few feet away, arms crossed, hair tied back messily. Her clothes were worn but practical, a reporter's bag slung over her shoulder. Even in this hell, she had that same unshakable presence the one that could slice through chaos with nothing but a question.
"Alice," Michael said quietly.
She raised a brow. "Didn't expect to see you either. But I guess the end of the world makes strange reunions."
Sarah whispered, "Who are they?"
Crane crouched to her level, grin widening. "Friends. The kind who know how to build things that go boom."
Alice rolled her eyes. "And the kind who know when someone's exaggerating."
Michael studied them both. Crane had grease stains on his hands, a pocket stuffed with scraps of wire and nails. Alice's bag bulged with notebooks and half-crushed tape recorders. They were survivors, yes but more than that, they were assets.
And in a place like this, assets were rare.
Later, at the edge of camp, the four adults sat around a dim fire while Sarah and Lena whispered with the kids nearby.
Crane leaned forward, pulling a scrap of paper from his pocket. On it were rough sketches—spiked bats, jury-rigged bombs, shock traps. Weapons made from nothing but trash.
"Been working on these since the fences went up," Crane said. "Army doesn't give a damn about keeping us supplied, so I figure we start supplying ourselves. These? They'll give us an edge when the walls break."
Michael studied the sketches. Crude, but smart. Improvised weapons, grounded in physics, designed to hurt with minimal resources. Deadly in the right hands.
Alice, meanwhile, tapped her notebook. "And I've been keeping track of the ration counts. The numbers don't add up. Either they're lying about what's coming in, or the shipments are getting bled off somewhere else. People are going to notice soon. When they do "
"Riots," Michael finished.
"Exactly." Alice's eyes flicked to Sarah and Lena. "And you don't want kids in the middle of that."
Michael leaned back, silent for a long moment. Then he looked at Crane. "How soon can you start teaching?"
Crane's grin came back, all teeth. "Tomorrow."
Alice sighed. "And I'll make sure you don't get everyone killed in the process."
Michael allowed himself the smallest nod. For the first time since the outbreak, he didn't feel entirely outnumbered.
Old faces. New ruins.
And maybe, just maybe, the beginnings of something stronger than survival.