Chapter 49 — Supplies Nearly Exhausted
Four hours of rest meant nothing to a body wrung dry from battle—
a blink, a breath, and exhaustion came crashing back.
Bloodshot eyes still burned in Hank's sockets, sharp and alert despite the fatigue he could no longer hide.
He lowered his head carefully.
Clem was still asleep on his lap, her breathing finally calm, her tiny hand having relaxed its hold on his tactical vest.
Hank shifted bit by bit, slow enough not to wake her.
He laid her gently on the ground, retrieved a thin jacket from the RV, and draped it over her stomach so she wouldn't catch a chill.
When he stood up, his spine cracked in a chain of soft snaps. Every limb felt bruised and heavy, but sleep had restored at least a sliver of strength.
He emptied his assault pack and began reorganizing everything inside, counting each item precisely.
After resupply from the vehicle cache, his gear was now:
P226 pistol — full magazine + 5 spare mags
Total: 120 rounds of 9mm
M590 shotgun — loaded + 2 full tactical shell bandoliers
Total: 69 shells
Combat knife
The hand axe was lost back at the motel
Inside the pack remained:
1 stun grenade
a dozen loose 9mm rounds
6 loose 12-gauge shells
Everything else—every spare bullet they had hauled and hoarded—was gone.
One night.
One blood moon.
And their hard-earned stockpile had been bled dry.
Hank exhaled silently and walked to the riverbank, splashing icy water onto his face. The shock was sharp, but it helped.
On top of the RV, Carley kept her post, rifle at the ready. Even from below, her posture looked stiff, strained, and sleepless.
"Carley," Hank called—not loudly, but firmly. "Your turn's up. Go get some sleep."
Carley's head turned slowly. Her face was pale, the result of hours of tension without blinking. She rubbed her eyes, climbed down from the roof with sluggish movements.
"There was something moving in the west tree line," she murmured, pointing with her chin. "Sounded like something pushing through the brush. Too far to see clearly. Then it stopped."
"I got it," Hank nodded. "Go rest."
Carley hesitated for half a second—just enough to show her mind was still locked on the night before—then nodded back and headed toward the RV.
On the other side of the camp, Hank didn't need to wake anyone.
Kenny and Lee opened their eyes at almost the exact same moment.
Four hours of sleep could never make up for what they'd been through—
but hellish nights had taught them how to switch states fast.
Their eyes were unfocused, their movements sluggish.
Pillow lines were still pressed across their faces.
Kenny scrubbed his face hard, shaking his head to clear the fog.
Lee stretched, joints cracking painfully in the still morning air.
They saw Hank already standing upright in the middle of camp, quietly exchanging intel with Carley.
That straight back, that flat expression—
as if the man who led the charge last night, who carved a path through hell for all of them, wasn't him at all.
As if he didn't need rest.
As if he was a machine built only for war.
Kenny stepped up beside him. He opened his mouth—
—but nothing came out except a long, heavy breath.
He clapped Hank's shoulder firmly.
"Our turn. Go lie down."
His voice was hoarse from sleep and something else that wasn't easy to name—
Respect.
And yes… a little bit of heartache.
They were tired.
But the man in front of them carried the weight that should've crushed all of them.
Lee walked over too, eyes full of complicated emotions.
A thousand words pressed behind his teeth, only one sentence made it out:
"You've done more than enough, officer. Leave the rest to us."
Hank didn't argue. He just nodded, pointed toward the vehicles.
"Check the cars. Oil, coolant, tires. Keep it quiet."
And then he walked back to Clem, sat down, leaned against the cool metal of the RV…
closed his eyes—
—and was asleep before the next breath.
Kenny and Lee exchanged a look.
Both saw the same thing reflected in the other's eyes.
"Jesus… is he made of iron?" Kenny muttered, picking up his shotgun. "My whole damn spine feels like it's about to fall apart, and he's over there acting like none of it happened."
Lee checked the magazine on his Glock, sighed softly.
"He's not fine. He just doesn't have the luxury of falling apart."
He stared toward the sleeping man, voice dropping even lower.
"We get to say we're tired. He doesn't.
Since the day we met him… has he ever backed off?
Frontline, first watch, first through the door—every time."
Lee stopped there. He didn't need to say the rest.
Kenny understood.
He wiped his face hard and when he lifted his head again, the fatigue in his eyes had been replaced with something firm—responsibility.
"Alright. Enough talk. Hank carried the hardest load already. If the two of us can't even handle standing guard and fixing a couple of busted engines…"
"Then we deserve to get eaten. Work."
They didn't speak again after that.
Kenny climbed back on top of the RV, shotgun across his lap, eyes locked on the western treeline Carley had mentioned.
Lee headed for the pickup first. The moment he lifted the hood—
a wave of heat and burnt oil slapped him in the face.
The dipstick showed oil nearly gone.
The radiator was leaking—only mud kept it from spraying everywhere.
He knelt to check the tires—
deep gashes, frayed treads… one tire even exposed its internal cords.
Kenny called down quietly:
"How bad?"
Lee didn't look up.
"Worse than we thought. Oil's almost gone. Radiator's failing. Tires are close to blowing. Long-distance driving isn't happening."
Kenny slid off the RV to check the motorhome—
and the news there wasn't any better.
Oil dangerously low.
Suspension groaning.
Front bumper twisted enough to affect steering.
"Goddammit," he whispered, staring at the two mangled metal beasts.
"These things aren't cars anymore. They're rolling coffins."
Lee closed the hood quietly. His eyes drifted toward Hank—sleeping in the shade, Clem curled against his side.
He knew what was coming.
And that when Hank woke up,
most of the burden of solving this next nightmare would fall
right back on his shoulders.
All they could do was handle everything they were able to handle first—
so that when he opened his eyes,
he'd have just a little less to carry.
Sunlight baked the earth.
The river murmured nearby.
The camp fell silent again—
full of anxiety for the future,
and an unspoken, desperate dependence
on the man who slept—finally, briefly—among them.