The sun inched over the hills, its pale glow splintering through frost-veiled pines to illuminate the trails Killian Barnes had carved into these rugged slopes over two decades. He moved with a hunter’s grace, breath curling in the biting autumn air, eyes darting for snags—or signs. The traps weren’t just for game; they were the vilge’s lifeline, cloaking it from the Ascendancy’s relentless gaze. Open fields of cattle screamed of human presence, a fatal tell Killy had ensured his people avoided since he’d forged this sanctuary. A strange hum pulsed in the wind today, like a buried machine waking, sharp and ancient. Killy, as the vilge called him, could’ve sent the young ones—Reese, Cy, and Nora—to check the lines. They’d begged to learn, their eager footsteps and loud whispers breaking the forest’s hush, but Killy cherished the solitude, deying their lessons. Twenty years since the cities went dark, he’d sculpted this haven from raw wilderness, leading with a quiet, iron resolve. His own family was a shadow—wife and daughter lost to the chaos of The Cutoff. Now, he safeguarded the families he’d gathered, their survival his sole purpose. He paused, tugging the zipper of his jacket up a bit further, the cold gnawing at his knuckles. “Damn, it’s chilly,” he muttered, rubbing his hands, the frost’s sting sharper than any season he’d endured since the world broke.

  Killy wasn’t just the hunter hauling deer, fish, and rabbits. He was the architect of this valley, the one who’d scouted its hidden folds, mapped its secret trails, and taught the first desperate families to vanish from the Ascendancy’s reach. Twenty years ago, he’d had it all: a radiant wife, a newborn daughter, a modest home, a steady job as a logistics manager. Rare blessings in a world unraveling under outsourcing, automation, and globalism’s dangerous death throes. He’d thought he could weather the storm, save for retirement, ugh off stock market dips. Young and scrappy, he’d bet on his grit to carry him through. Now, he’d trade this life for those fleeting worries in a heartbeat. The vilge—his vilge—was his legacy, a fragile bulwark against a world that devoured the unwary. He’d started with nothing but a handful of survivors, teaching them to build homes from shipping containers, salvaged steel and wood, to trap game, to live unseen. Every snare he set, every trail he cleared, was a thread in the web keeping his people alive.

  A rustle snapped him from his thoughts. At the first trap, he knelt, brushing aside brittle, amber leaves to reveal a lean rabbit, its fur mottled with fall’s muted hues. With practiced hands, he freed the wire noose, dropped the body into his canvas sack, and reset the snare—motions refined over years of trial and error. Standing, he stifled a wince; his knees creaked in the cold, stiff from old injuries earned in the vilge’s early, desperate days. They’d loosen by the st trap, he hoped. The four-mile loop, winding through frost-kissed underbrush and past gnarled oaks, took a couple of hours if he kept a steady pace. He lingered a moment, scanning the trail for signs of disturbance—broken twigs, scuffed earth—anything that might hint at intruders or wandering scavengers. The valley’s isotion was its strength, but Killy never trusted it fully.

  He set off, boots crunching on fallen leaves, the strange hum dogging his steps. It stirred memories of nights when drones turned the sky to noon, their mechanical buzz a harbinger of death. Those hadn’t been seen in years, yet he gnced up, squinting through skeletal branches at a gray, heavy dawn. The sparse canopy offered little view, just a ttice of bare limbs against the clouds. For a moment, he considered scaling a pine for a better look, then chuckled at the thought of sap-covered clothes for nothing. “Cautious, not paranoid,” he told himself, the smirk fading as the hum lingered in his bones.

  Rounding a trail bend, a high-pitched scream pierced the air, joined by the frantic rustle of leaves. Something was caught, still alive. Killy jogged to end its suffering, boots kicking up puffs of dirt and dust. At the trap, a rabbit dangled by its hind leg, filing against a thorny bush, its eyes wild with panic. A coyote crouched nearby, lean and mangy, its amber eyes locked on the prize. Killy’s pulse surged. He’d be damned if this scavenger stole the food his people needed.

  “Hey!” he shouted, breaking into a sprint. The coyote’s ears twitched, but it held its ground, sizing up the intruder. Killy’s boots pounded the uneven trail, each step a gamble on roots and rocks. The coyote shifted, muscles coiling, torn between the rabbit’s thrashing and Killy’s charge. It bared its teeth, a low growl rumbling, challenging him. Killy didn’t flinch. He’d faced worse—bck bears in the valley’s early years, strangers with ill intent who’d come too close, storms that nearly washed the vilge away. This was his ground, his trap, his people’s survival.

  Ten feet out, the coyote lunged, jaws snapping at the rabbit. Killy roared, dropping into a baseball slide, kicking up a cloud of dust and brittle leaves. The grit hit the coyote’s face, and it yelped, stumbling back, eyes squinting. Killy scrambled forward, heart hammering, and snatched a fallen branch, brandishing it like a club. “Go on, git!” he bellowed, advancing. The coyote growled, paws shifting, weighing its odds. Killy swung the branch, not to strike but to startle, the air hissing with the motion. The coyote hesitated, snarled once more, then bolted into the pines, its tail a fleeting shadow in the forest.

  Panting, Killy crawled to the trap. The rabbit’s struggles had weakened, its breaths shallow. He gripped it gently, snapping its neck with a practiced twist. The screams stopped. He sank back, the rush of victory tingling through him. Nature was a brutal foe, and Killy savored every win, knowing how fast it could turn. He’d built this vilge on such victories, each one a bulwark against starvation or discovery. His people relied on him—six families, a dozen loners, huddled in their salvaged homes—to keep the bance.

  Through the sparse canopy, a glint flickered, sharp and unnatural, like a signal mirror in the sky. Killy shot upright, staring at the spot. His heart thudded, memories of drones flooding back. Minutes passed, nothing. “You’re not crazy. You’re just tired,” he muttered, a refrain he leaned on more and more tely. survival was a grind—every day a fight to keep his people hidden, fed, alive. The vilge was his creation, but it was also his burden, its survival a weight he carried mainly on his own.

  Standing, Killy brushed dirt from his pants and studied the rabbit. Decent, but small, its ribs too prominent. He’d over-trapped this area, a mistake he couldn’t afford. The vilge’s food stores were thin, and winter loomed. He’d rest these snares, starting with this one. He unhooked the wire, rabbit dangling, and began loosening the noose. “Let’s get you free,” he said softly, a habit from years of talking to the game he took. Then it hit.

  A bone-deep hum vibrated through him, like a subsonic pulse rising from the earth, through his boots, out his skull. His vision blurred, the pines tilting, his stomach lurching. Nausea surged, bile burning his throat. He staggered, gripping a tree, its bark rough under his palms. This was real, not his mind pying tricks. The hum intensified, a pressure in his chest, then vanished as suddenly as it came, leaving the woods deathly still, not a bird or breeze stirring.

  The nausea clung. Saliva flooded his mouth, and Killy vomited, guts cramping, spilling what little he’d eaten onto the forest floor. He retched again, the acrid taste lingering. “What the hell was that?” he gasped, hands on knees, head spinning. Before he could guess, a thunderous crack boomed, too close, shaking the air like a cannon. Fear seized him, cold and sharp. Smoke curled over the treeline, a dark plume rising exactly where the vilge y—two miles away. His vilge.

  Killy dropped the rabbit, its body hitting the ground with a dull thud. He ran, heart pounding, boots smming the earth. Six families, a dozen loners—his people, in their cluster of mobile homes—needed him. He’d built this pce, led it through hunger, raids, and betrayal. Whatever was happening, he had to get there. The trails blurred past, branches snagging his coat, the smoke thickening in his vision. His vilge, his people, were burning.