Life inside the quarantine zone settled into a rhythm that was as fragile as spun glass. Whistles in the morning. Rations at noon. Patrols circling like vultures from dusk till dawn. The general's men kept things orderly on the surface, but Michael knew order was just another mask for fear.
So when he and Kyle slipped away one evening, ducking into the half-collapsed skeleton of a parking structure near their section, it wasn't for a walk.
Kyle shut the tarp behind them, muting the sound of the camp. He crouched, pulling a ragged backpack into the dim light. "Been collecting scraps. Soldiers don't pay much attention to what we take, long as it looks useless."
Inside were bent nails, strips of barbed wire, broken glass bottles, two metal pipes no longer than Michael's forearm, and a half-empty roll of duct tape.
Michael's eyes narrowed. "This is enough."
Kyle grinned. "Enough for what? A trip down memory lane?"
Michael shook his head, already pulling the pipe toward him. "Enough to build something useful. Something that might buy us a second when the cage breaks."
They worked in silence at first. Michael wrapped the pipe in layers of tape for grip, then twisted the barbed wire around its length until it bristled with jagged edges. Kyle hammered nails through a piece of cracked wood, bending them over with a rock until they jutted like teeth.
The rhythm of it carried Michael back missions in burned-out cities, watching men improvise weapons out of desperation, then seeing those same weapons save their lives a week later. He remembered a Croatian fighter who'd laughed while wrapping chains around a crowbar, saying, It doesn't have to look pretty, brother. It only has to kill once.
Kyle broke the silence. "You think they'll notice?"
"Not if we're smart," Michael said. "These won't stand out. A pipe with wire looks like scrap. Nails in wood look like firewood gone wrong. As long as we don't swing them in the open, no one cares."
Kyle smirked. "Always thinking ahead."
Michael's voice stayed level. "Always preparing. That's the difference."
By the end of the night, they had three barbed bats, a handful of crude spike bombs bottles filled with shrapnel and black powder scraped from discarded fireworks and two smoke bombs made from scavenged chemicals. Nothing flashy, nothing to draw eyes.
Kyle tested the weight of the barbed bat, swinging it once in the dark. The air hissed around the wire. "Not bad. Brings back memories of breaking heads in Harran."
Michael gave him a sharp look. "Keep it quiet. The less the girls know about details, the better."
"Sarah's sharp," Kyle replied. "She'll figure out something's cooking."
"She doesn't need to. Not yet. Let them hold on to normal as long as they can."
The next day, they hid the weapons beneath loose bricks in the parking structure. Nobody searched that far. The soldiers were too busy pacing the perimeter, too busy shouting at the lines of civilians still pressing against the gates, begging to be let in.
Michael felt the weight of the hidden stash settle over him like a quiet promise. Not hope. Not salvation. Just a margin. A fraction of a chance, waiting for the day when steel and smoke would matter more than rules.
That night, Sarah asked him why he seemed calmer. She sat beside him, Lena asleep against her lap, the floodlights throwing long shadows over their tarp shelter.
Michael only said, "Because preparation is the only thing stronger than fear."
He didn't tell her what lay hidden under those bricks. Not yet.