The rain in the Dead Zones didn't fall; it vibrated.
It was a constant, grey hum that muffled the sound of the world's end.
Min-Seo wiped the condensation from her eyes, her breath hitching in her chest.
She was twenty-eight, her chef's whites stained with rust and old blood, and she was staring at a miracle that looked like a nightmare.
High above, lashed to the iron lattice of a railway signal pylon, two bundles wrapped in heavy wool swayed in the wind.
Below them, two figures were tied to the base of the pole with climbing rope.
They were grey-skinned, their jaws slack, their eyes milky with the Stasis. They were the children's parents.
Even in death, they had tethered themselves to the earth to serve as a gruesome, snapping barrier.
The babies—a boy and a girl—weren't crying anymore. They were just shivering.
Min-Seo gripped her carbon-steel chef's knife. Her knuckles were white. To get to the climbing harness, she had to step into the reach of the things that used to be a mother and a father.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, the rain swallowed her voice.
She moved.
It wasn't a graceful kill; it was desperate and messy.
She hacked at the ropes, dodging the lunging teeth of the tethered shadows. When the parents finally slumped, she climbed. Her fingers bled against the cold iron. She reached the harness, sliced the primary strap, and caught the double-bundle against her chest.
She slid down, landing hard in the mud. She had two lives in her arms and a hundred miles of graveyard in front of her.
Then, the light came.
Twin beams of searing white cut through the rain.
A heavy, armored engine roared, the sound of a beast that shouldn't exist. A black camper van, reinforced with steel plating and solar arrays, skidded to a halt ten feet away.
The door creaked open.
A man stepped out.
He wore a tactical vest and carried a short-barreled rifle like it was part of his own body. His eyes were hard, tired, and utterly devoid of hope.
"Move," the man growled.
Min-Seo didn't ask who he was.
She didn't ask where they were going.
She looked at the infants, then at the man.
She stepped into the warmth of the van, and the door slammed shut, sealing out the world.