The next morning, they buried the dead.
The riverbank was frozen stiff, so every shovelful of dirt felt like breaking stone. Hands blistered. Shovels bent. At one point Kyle slammed his against the ground and it snapped in two. He didn't curse. He just kept digging with the blade alone.
Blankets became coffins. Names were whispered, some loud, some only mouthed. Others had no names left to give.
Sarah pressed a wildflower into the dirt above one grave. She didn't speak, just stood there until Lena gently pulled her back. Maria helped lower one of her own scouts into the ground, her jaw set so hard it looked like it might crack. Tommy muttered something under his breath that the wind carried away.
By the time the last grave was filled, no one had the strength to stand tall. They lingered in the cold, staring at the stones, as if waiting for the dead to answer.
Back inside the dam, no one touched their food. No one picked up tools. The fire in the turbine hall burned low, and the silence pressed down until it hurt.
Michael stood finally. He didn't want to. He was just as tired, just as angry. But every face had turned toward him without asking.
His voice was rough, unpolished. "We put friends in the ground today. Tomorrow it could be more of us. Raiders won't stop. Infected won't stop. And now we've seen… whatever the hell those things were out there."
No one spoke. Someone sobbed once, sharp and broken.
Michael rubbed a hand over his face. "I'm not gonna tell you it'll get easier. It won't. But running won't save us either. We fight. We build. We hold."
He glanced at the fire. Shadows cut across his face, making the scars deeper. "This dam, this town… it's not just walls. It's all of us. Every nail hammered, every grave dug. That's what keeps us here. Not me. Not Tommy. Not Maria. Us."
His words weren't pretty, but they didn't need to be. They were true.
Kyle muttered, voice hoarse, "Damn right." Someone clapped. Then another. It wasn't loud. It wasn't joyful. But it was real.
Michael sat down again, chest heavy. He didn't feel like a leader. He felt like a man trying not to drown. But for now, it was enough.
Later, the leaders met at the makeshift table.
The crates from the Firefly base sat stacked against the wall, sealed and gathering dust. Microscopes with cracked glass. Binders full of notes. Vials no one dared open.
Alice broke the silence. "They knew it was changing. The Fireflies saw this coming."
Kyle spat on the floor. "And they ran."
Maria's eyes were hard. "So do we burn it, or keep it?"
Michael looked at the crates, then at the tired faces around him. "We lock it away. Not for us. Not now. But if one day we find someone who can make sense of it… they'll need this. Until then, we focus on what we can control."
Tommy gave a quiet nod. Maria didn't argue.
The decision was made.
That night, the hall was full of people again. They didn't talk about cures. They talked about patrol shifts, patching the walls, stretching food. Small things. Necessary things.
Michael watched them. Sarah leaned against Lena, her eyes half-closed. Kyle poked the fire with a stick, jaw tight but alive. Tommy sat with his arms crossed, steady and watchful.
The graves waited outside. The storm would come again. But for tonight, they were together.
And together, they would endure.