The morning had been quiet.

  Hugo sat near the sorting tables, absently running his fingers along the edge of his crowbar. The caffeine pills had kept him up all night, but his body was starting to feel the weight of exhaustion. Salem perched on an overturned bin, his tail flicking, ears twitching at every stray sound. He wasn’t tense, but he wasn’t relaxed either—watchful, cautious.

  Frank stirred on the ground beside him, groaning as he stretched. “Damn, sleepin’ on this floor’s worse than gettin’ old.” He rubbed his face and looked at Hugo. “You get any rest?”

  Hugo shook his head. “Didn’t want to.”

  Frank frowned but didn’t push.

  Frank rolled his shoulders, standing. “Alright, let’s figure out our next move before—”

  A noise.

  Hugo stiffened. Salem’s ears shot up, his body lowering into a crouch.

  Frank’s rifle was in his hands in an instant. His gaze darted to Hugo, his expression sharpening. “That wasn’t just the wind.”

  Hugo moved carefully, keeping low as he crept toward the side entrance. The post office was large, but open—too many places where sound could carry. The broken ceiling panels let in dull morning light, casting long shadows across the mail sorting stations and overturned carts.

  A soft scuff of movement came from near the loading dock.

  Salem suddenly leapt down, padding toward the old service counter. He stopped, sniffing at the ground, his tail twitching erratically.

  Hugo followed him, then froze.

  Tracks.

  Not old ones.

  Boot prints.

  And beside them—an old, half-smoked cigarette still smoldering near the edge of the counter.

  Someone had been here. Recently.

  Frank let out a low curse under his breath as he reached Hugo’s side. “That’s fresh.”

  Hugo’s stomach tightened.

  This wasn’t a random encounter. They weren’t just passing through an old trail. Someone had been watching them, following them, closing in.

  “They didn’t come in guns blazing,” Hugo murmured. “They’re tracking us.”

  Frank exhaled slowly. “Which means they’re not sure exactly where we are yet. Otherwise, we’d already be dead.”

  That wasn’t comforting.

  Hugo’s mind raced. They had been careful—avoiding main roads, staying quiet, covering their tracks. And still, the Enclave had found them.

  This wasn’t random.

  They weren’t just looking.

  They knew.

  Frank stepped back, adjusting the rifle strap over his shoulder. His face was unreadable, but his jaw was tight. “We keep movin’?”

  Hugo hesitated. The smart move was to run. Keep moving, make themselves ghosts, stay one step ahead. But how long could they do that?

  The Enclave had resources. Weapons. Numbers.

  Hugo and Frank?

  They were running on borrowed time.

  A slow, heavy realization settled in Hugo’s gut.

  “They’re not going to stop.” He turned to Frank. “Even if we run, even if we make it out of the city, they’ll keep coming.”

  Frank didn’t argue. He knew it too.

  For the first time since this all started, running wasn’t an option.

  Hugo took a breath, steadying himself. “We can’t outrun them.”

  Frank’s lips pressed into a thin line. “No. We can’t.”

  The words hung in the air between them.

  There was only one thing left to do.

  They had to make a stand.

  Hugo and Frank didn’t waste time.

  The moment they found the cigarette, they knew staying in the post office was suicide. The Enclave was closing in.

  “We need higher ground,” Frank muttered as they slipped through the broken back entrance, moving cautiously into the street. “Someplace we can defend better than a damn warehouse full of windows.”

  Hugo adjusted the straps on his backpack. The extra weight slowed them down, but they couldn’t afford to leave their supplies behind. “You got anywhere in mind?”

  Frank scanned the area, his face grim. “Not yet. But we ain’t stayin’ out in the open.”

  They moved quickly, sticking to the edges of buildings as Salem darted ahead, his tail flicking sharply every time he sensed movement. The ruined city loomed around them, every alley and empty storefront a potential hiding spot for either the dead or the living.

  Then Hugo saw them. Three zombies shuffling aimlessly in the middle of the street, their heads twitching as if scenting the air. They weren’t spread out like the usual stragglers—they were blocking the only clear path forward.

  Hugo stopped short, raising a hand to signal Frank. The old man scowled, following his gaze.

  “Damn it,” Frank muttered.

  Hugo gripped his crowbar tighter, his fingers slick with sweat. They had to get through. Turning back wasn’t an option.

  Frank exhaled through his nose, pulling his hunting knife from its sheath. “We don’t shoot. We take ‘em quiet.”

  They moved in sync, each step deliberate. Salem, sensing the shift in energy, crouched low behind a rusted bike rack, watching them closely.

  Hugo made the first move, creeping up behind the nearest zombie. The smell of rot hit him first, thick and suffocating. He raised his crowbar, angling it downward before bringing it down with all his strength. The metal cracked against bone, splitting the skull clean open. The body dropped instantly, limbs twitching in its final moments.

  The second zombie groaned at the sound and turned its head, its milky eyes locking onto Hugo. Before it could react, Frank lunged from the side, driving his knife up under its jaw, burying the blade deep. A wet gurgle filled the air as the zombie collapsed.

  The third came faster than expected, its guttural growl turning into a snarl as it lunged toward Frank. Hugo stepped forward, but Frank was already moving, shoving his rifle between them to keep its snapping jaws at bay. The thing clawed wildly, its decayed fingers raking against Frank’s coat.

  Hugo swung hard, the crowbar caving in the side of its head. It collapsed, still twitching.

  Frank let out a breath, wiping the blood off his knife on his sleeve. “Well… that was messier than I wanted.”

  Hugo swallowed, nodding. They didn’t have time to dwell on it. He turned his head, scanning ahead for their next move. That’s when he saw the building.

  The old fire station stood just down the street. The lower half of the brick exterior was scorched black from an old fire, but the second floor and rooftop access remained intact. The front entrance had long since collapsed, buried under debris, but a rusted side door near the back looked accessible. More importantly, the upper windows were narrow, the kind that would be impossible for anyone to climb through.

  Hugo pointed. “That’s it.”

  Frank followed his gaze, nodding after a moment. “Yeah… that’ll do.”

  They moved quickly, sticking close to the walls as they approached the side entrance. The door was ajar, but not enough to tell if anything had taken up residence inside.

  Frank motioned for Hugo to hold. He pressed a hand against the doorframe and listened.

  Silence.

  Didn’t mean it was empty.

  Frank nudged the door open, slipping inside first, rifle at the ready. Hugo followed, gripping his crowbar. The air inside was stale, thick with the scent of old smoke and damp concrete. The ceiling above had partially collapsed in places, exposing metal framework and wooden beams. A faded sign near the entrance still read Station 12 – Fire and Rescue.

  Dust coated the abandoned desks and chairs, papers scattered like a storm had ripped through. An old dispatch radio sat on the counter, long dead. The garage bay doors were sealed shut, leaving only the stairs leading to the second floor as the next point of entry.

  Then Hugo heard it.

  A slow, dragging shuffle from somewhere upstairs.

  Frank looked at him, expression grim. “We clear it.”

  Hugo nodded, adjusting his grip.

  They took the stairs cautiously, each step sending a faint creak through the hollow space. The second floor opened into an old dormitory—rows of metal bunk beds, overturned lockers, and broken personal belongings.

  A shadow shifted at the far end of the room.

  A zombie lurched from behind an overturned locker, its body thin, half-burned, its jaw barely hanging onto its face.

  Frank didn’t hesitate. He threw his weight forward, knocking it off balance before Hugo slammed his crowbar into its head. The impact sent it crashing into the side of a bunk bed, limbs twitching before it went still.

  A guttural groan sounded from behind them.

  Hugo twisted just in time to see two more figures shuffling out of a side office, drawn by the noise.

  Frank grabbed a nearby metal chair and swung it hard, slamming it into the first zombie’s knees. It collapsed with a sickening crunch.

  Hugo took the opening, bringing his crowbar down hard, the tip piercing straight through the thing’s eye socket. The second zombie staggered forward, arms outstretched, but Frank finished it with a precise thrust of his knife through the temple.

  Silence.

  Frank exhaled. “That’s should be it.”

  Hugo scanned the room, his breath steadying. It felt… defensible. A place they could hold.

  As his heart rate slowed, his gaze landed on something at the far end of the room, half-buried beneath old equipment. He stepped over a few fallen chairs, kneeling down.

  A firefighter’s axe.

  The blade was worn but still sharp as hell, its handle sturdy, reinforced with steel. He picked it up, testing the weight.

  “Now that,” Frank said, eyeing it, “is a proper weapon.”

  Hugo smirked. “Better than a crowbar.”

  As he stood, something else caught his eye. An emergency supply locker near the stairwell. Most of it had been raided, but inside, shoved in the back, was a flare gun.

  Hugo pulled it out, flipping it open. Two flares left.

  Frank glanced at it. “Not a gun, but it’ll still burn someone’s face off if you hit ‘em right.”

  Hugo shut the chamber with a click and stuffed it into his bag.

  They had weapons. They had a defensible position.

  Now they had to make sure they could hold it.

  Frank rolled his shoulders, looking over the room. “Alright. Let’s get to work. If they’re trackin’ us, they’ll be here before long.”

  Hugo tightened his grip on the axe, staring out the narrow window into the ruins beyond.

  The fire station was quiet, but the weight of impending violence settled over them like a storm waiting to break.

  Frank and Hugo moved quickly, turning their temporary shelter into a fortress. They had no illusions—this wasn’t going to be a permanent home. It was a battleground.

  Hugo dragged an old steel locker across the stairwell entrance, wedging it tight against the railing. “This should slow them down if they try to rush up,” he muttered.

  Frank nodded, stacking a second locker behind it. “Won’t stop ‘em, but it’ll make ‘em work for it.”

  They moved through the second floor, blocking off any unnecessary exits, flipping over bunks to create barriers, and making use of whatever scraps of furniture they could find. The front entrance was already clogged with debris, which worked in their favor. The only real access points were the back entrance and the second-floor windows.

  Frank gave a satisfied grunt as he secured a final piece of furniture against a doorway. “Ain’t perfect, but it’ll funnel them where we want.”

  Hugo took a moment to glance outside through one of the narrow upper windows. The city was silent—too silent. He couldn’t shake the feeling that they were being watched, that the Enclave was out there, waiting for the right moment to strike.

  Salem perched on a fallen chair, his tail flicking as he observed their frantic preparations. His yellow eyes followed Hugo as he moved, almost expectantly.

  Hugo went through their gear one last time.

  Frank’s rifle had twenty rounds left. Every shot had to count.

  The firefighter’s axe was heavy, reliable, deadly in close quarters.

  The flare gun had two shots. If used right, it could blind or burn someone in a fight.

  The crowbar remained a solid backup weapon, sturdy and familiar in Hugo’s hands.

  The shotgun was still empty, nothing but an intimidation tool.

  The box of nine-millimeter rounds was useless without a gun to fire them.

  Frank studied the weapons with a frown. “Wish we had more firepower.”

  Hugo shrugged. “We make do.”

  Frank chuckled dryly. “Ain’t got much of a choice, do we?”