Don ran.
Not the clean sprint of a track or a corridor—but the ugly kind. Boots hit dirt that wouldn't stay still, his stride adjusting on instinct as the forest tore itself apart around him.
He vaulted a fallen pine that still steamed where its roots had been ripped free, landed hard, rolled once to bleed momentum, then pushed back up without breaking pace.
Ahead, the ground split open in jagged seams, some narrow enough to clear, others wide enough to swallow a vehicle.
He chose without slowing—long steps, short leaps, one hand brushing a shattered trunk for balance as the earth shifted again beneath him.
Debris littered everything. Shredded tents. Twisted metal ribs from collapsed structures. A transport crate lay on its side, cracked open, medical supplies spilled and crushed into the mud.
Don cleared another fissure, boots skidding on loose gravel at the edge before catching grip. He didn't look back.
