The sun—what passed for it in this poisoned sky—hung low and bloated on the horizon, bleeding toxic orange through the perpetual haze. Thorne had been moving for hours, putting deliberate distance between himself and the bunker, and the suburb where the Reapers had left their offering.
His boots crunched steadily over ash-covered asphalt, the sound muffled but rhythmic. Every few minutes he paused, listening. The wind carried distant echoes sometimes—gunshots popping like firecrackers, or a scream cut short—but nothing close. Good. Close meant decisions, and decisions burned calories he couldn't spare.
The plate carrier felt heavier with each mile, mag pouches shifting against his chest. He adjusted the sling on his M4 without breaking stride, muscle memory from a thousand patrols. The suppressor added front weight, but it was worth it. Noise discipline was life in this world.
*One-twenty rounds 5.56. Forty-five 9-mil. Don't waste them.*
He'd already cataloged the day's gains from the house: the peaches, spam, crackers, ibuprofen, sanitizer. Small wins, but wins nonetheless. Eden's Reach was a long way west—through rad zones that would cook you slow if you weren't careful, past whatever gangs had carved out territory, over mountains that might as well be another planet now. Supplies weren't just nice to have. They were the difference between arriving and becoming another body cooling in the street.
Thorne angled toward what looked like a strip mall ahead, half-collapsed but with a few storefronts still standing. A faded sign swung crookedly from one pole: "QuickMart – Beer, Lotto, Snacks." The glass front was shattered, of course. Everything with potential value had been hit weeks ago, maybe months. But people missed things. People got sloppy.
He approached from the side, using a burned-out sedan for cover. Pie'd the corner slow, muzzle tracking. No movement inside that he could see. No fresh tracks in the ash leading in or out. Still, he waited a full minute, counting heartbeats.
Nothing.
Thorne slipped through the broken doorframe, glass crunching under his boots like thin ice. The interior was dim, emergency lights long dead, but enough hazy daylight filtered through the gaps to navigate. Shelves lay toppled like dominoes, contents scattered: crushed cereal boxes, spilled bags of chips turned to moldy paste, empty liquor bottles glinting in the dust.
He moved aisle by aisle, methodical. Protein first. Calories dense and long-lasting.
The canned goods section had been ransacked hard, but he found a few treasures shoved behind a fallen display: two cans of tuna in oil, one dented can of chicken breast. Jackpot. He added them to his pack quietly, the metal clinking softly against the others.
In the back, near the coolers—now just warm metal tombs—he scored batteries. AA, four-pack, still sealed. Good for the flashlight if he needed it. And in a forgotten corner behind the pharmacy counter, a small miracle: a blister pack of antibiotics. Amoxicillin, half full. Expiration date passed, but in this world, passed was better than nothing.
*Infection kills slower than bullets, but it kills sure.*
He was pocketing the pills when he heard it.
Voices. Low, male. Two, maybe three. Coming from the stockroom door at the rear.
Thorne froze, body going statue-still. He eased behind the pharmacy counter, dropping to one knee, rifle up. The voices grew clearer—arguing over something. Cigarettes, by the sound of it. One guy complaining about the last pack being crushed.
Looters. Not Reapers—too casual, no chant. Just opportunists, probably armed light.
He weighed options. Back out quiet? Possible, but they'd hear the glass eventually. Wait them out? Risky if they decided to sweep the front. Engage? Only if no choice.
The stockroom door creaked open.
Two men stepped out, both mid-thirties, scruffy beards and mismatched clothes. One carried a pump shotgun loose in his hands, the other an old revolver tucked in his waistband. No tactical gear—just scavenged jackets and backpacks already bulging.
They moved into the main area, kicking debris, still bickering.
"Fuckin' told you, man. Place is picked clean."
"Shut up and look. There's always something."
Thorne watched them through the sight picture, finger indexed along the lower receiver. They were sloppy—shotgun guy sweeping too wide, revolver guy not even watching his partner's back. Amateurs.
They split up without a word, one heading toward the coolers, the other toward the front aisles—toward Thorne's position.
*Shit.*
He eased back deeper into shadow, using a toppled shelf for cover. The looter with the revolver approached the pharmacy counter, muttering to himself. Thorne could smell him now—stale sweat and cheap tobacco.
The man rounded the counter, eyes on the floor for dropped pills or whatever. He didn't see Thorne until it was too late.
Thorne rose like a ghost, muzzle already aligned. The suppressed M4 coughed once—*thump*—center mass. The looter staggered back, eyes wide, revolver half-drawn. Second round to the head. He dropped without a sound, body crumpling against the counter, blood already pooling dark on the tile.
Brass tinkled softly as it hit the floor—two casings, warm.
The shotgun guy heard it, of course. Even suppressed, it wasn't silent.
"The fuck was that?"
Footsteps pounding now, coming fast.
Thorne transitioned smooth, pie'ing the corner. The second looter burst into view, shotgun up but not shouldered properly—panic fire.
Thorne double-tapped. *Thump-thump.*
Both rounds hit center chest. The shotgun boomed once, wild, pellets shredding a shelf overhead in a spray of splinters and dust. The looter went down hard, shotgun clattering away.
Thorne advanced, clearing angles. No third. Just these two idiots.
He checked pulses out of habit—none—then began the post-fight ritual.
Ammo count: one-ten 5.56 now. Forty-five 9-mil untouched.
He policed his brass—couldn't reload it here, but leaving it was sloppy. Searched the bodies quick and efficient.
Shotgun guy had twelve shells—birdshot, not ideal but better than nothing. Revolver guy had six rounds .38 special and—better—a half-full box of 5.56 in his pack. Loose rounds, mixed headstamps, but ammo was ammo. Thorne added them carefully.
Both had lighters, a crumpled pack of smokes with three left, and a small bag of jerky that looked homemade. He took the jerky and lighters. Left the smokes.
*Cache extra mags when you can. Reload drills save seconds. Seconds save lives.*
The words echoed from some long-ago instructor, voice gravelly over the range PA system. Thorne could almost smell the gun oil and hot brass from those days.
He was finishing up when he heard engines.
Distant, but growing louder. Motorcycles, by the sound—high-revving two-strokes.
Thorne ghosted to the shattered front window, staying low. Through the haze, he saw them: four riders on dirt bikes, kicking up ash plumes as they approached the strip mall. Patches on their jackets—black with some kind of white emblem. Not Reapers. These moved disciplined, staggered formation.
Enclave.
He'd heard rumors about them too—remnants of some pre-war private military outfit, or maybe actual government holdouts. Hoarded tech, weapons, fuel. Bartered sometimes, but on their terms. Ruthless about territory.
One bike peeled off toward the QuickMart, the others circling wide like they were securing the area.
Thorne backed away from the window, moving silent toward the stockroom. The door hung open—he slipped through, finding a rear exit that led to a loading dock. He eased it open just enough to slip out, then closed it behind him.
The bikes were pulling up front now, engines idling down. Voices carried—clipped, professional.
"Two bodies. Fresh. Suppressed rounds."
"Tracks?"
"Wind's covering 'em fast. Probably one shooter. Pro work."
Thorne didn't wait for more. He moved off across the back lot, using dumpsters and abandoned delivery trucks for cover. The Enclave weren't screaming for blood—they were assessing. But if they decided to pursue...
He kept low and fast until he was three blocks away, then slowed to a deliberate pace again.
The sun was almost gone now, the haze turning everything bruise-purple. Night would bring cold—sharp, bone-deep cold without cloud cover to trap heat.
He needed shelter.
A standalone house on the edge of the commercial zone looked promising—windows intact, door still closed. No fresh tracks. Thorne approached careful, cleared it room by room.
Empty. Signs of past occupants—a half-eaten MRE on the kitchen counter, blood stains long dried in the upstairs bedroom—but no bodies. Whoever had been here had moved on.
He barricaded the front and back doors with furniture, then set up in the living room. Poncho liner for insulation, pack as pillow. Rifle across his lap.
Fire tonight? Risky—smoke could draw eyes. But the cold was worse.
He used the multi-tool striker and hand sanitizer on some scavenged newspaper and chair splinters. Small flame, shielded in the fireplace. Boiled water from a collected rain barrel outside—twice, like always.
While it heated, he ate: half the jerky, some crackers. Saved the rest.
*Paracord—fifty feet. Lashing shelter, snares for food, tourniquet in a pinch. Never cut it short.*
The fire crackled low, throwing shadows on the walls. For a moment, Thorne let himself look at the map.
Reyes' blood had flaked off mostly, but the route was still there—west through what used to be Kansas, then Colorado. Eden's Reach marked in faded ink near the mountains.
He folded it away again.
Outside, the wind picked up, howling around the eaves like something hungry.
Thorne checked the doors one last time, then settled in for watch.
Tomorrow, more miles.
Always more miles.