Night thickened, and the embers of the fire cast long, jittery shadows up the barricades. Patrols rotated in and out, their footsteps echoing in the empty spaces between collapsed storefronts. John paced the length of the east barricade, fingers grazing the makeshift spikes and tangled wire—each knot and weld a testament to sleepless nights and fraying nerves. He nodded to the sentries—a kid too young for war, a grandmother gripping a battered baseball bat, a wiry man who hadn’t uttered a word since his wife vanished. Every face was a reminder: this was all they had.

  Behind the barricade, the city’s silence felt heavy, uneasy. Somewhere in the dark, a dog barked—sharp, frantic, a raw edge of fear cutting through the night. John froze, senses pricking. He pressed a finger to his lips. The others stilled, breath caught. The city seemed to hold its breath with them. Somewhere beyond, the mutants waited—hungry, patient.

  A faint shuffle, too heavy for a rat, scraped against the rubble. John’s grip tightened on the hammer, knuckles whitening. He crouched beside the youngest sentry—Sam, freckles dusting his pale face, fear barely masked by bravado. “If anything comes through, you run. Straight to Sir Pimp. Got it?” Sam nodded, jaw clenched tight.

  Minutes dragged. John’s mind slipped—not to the past he tried to bury, but to a future he barely dared imagine. A life where barricades weren’t needed. Where children slept without nightmares of claws and teeth. He wanted to believe in that world, even as darkness pressed in.

  A soft voice whispered behind him. “You think it’ll ever get better?” Reyes, arm wrapped in fresh bandages, eyes glinting in the firelight.

  John didn’t answer at once. He looked past Reyes, to where Mika sat on the curb, sword resting across her knees, distant but alert. He thought of Sir Pimp—silent sentinel in battered armor—and the kids huddled near the fire, trading stories like fragile currency.

  “It has to,” John said finally. “Otherwise, what’s all this for?”

  Reyes’s crooked smile flickered. “Then I’ll keep making stew. And you keep swinging that hammer.”

  A thin laugh rippled through the barricade. Fragile, but real.

  On the far edge of the block, Mika stiffened, eyes narrowing at a flicker in the darkness. She rose, silent as a shadow, and slipped into the night—watchful, wary, and, for the first time in a long while, not alone.

  —

  The hour slipped past midnight. The city’s ruins settled deeper into shadow. The fire at the heart of John Street burned low, its glow barely touching the barricades. Patrols thinned. Some dozed on their feet; others huddled close, drawing warmth from shared stories and silent promises.

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  John knelt beside a stack of tires, adjusting the angle of a metal sheet meant to deflect claws. His hands were raw, knuckles split and caked with grime. He worked on, stubborn as the city itself. Across the street, Sir Pimp leaned against a lamppost, helm tucked under his arm, eyes scanning the empty road with soldier’s patience.

  A shuffle of feet announced Mika’s return. She moved like a predator, but John had learned to sense her presence—like the air shifting just before a storm. She paused beside him, breath steady but shallow, gaze flicking to his cracked hands.

  “You should rest,” she said, voice barely more than a breath. “You look like hell.”

  John managed a crooked grin, muscles aching. “Takes one to know one.”

  For a moment, Mika’s lips twitched—the ghost of a smile. She glanced at the barricade, then down at her own scuffed gloves. “They’re getting bolder,” she murmured. “The mutants. They’re not afraid of the light anymore.”

  John’s jaw clenched, eyes narrowing. “Then we burn brighter.”

  A distant clatter echoed from the far end of the block. Both tensed, senses sharpening. Sir Pimp straightened, sliding his helm back on in one practiced motion. John beckoned Sam and the wiry man, motioning for silence.

  Shapes shifted in the gloom beyond the barricade—too many limbs, too much wrongness in their silhouettes. The stench hit first: rot, ammonia, and something metallic. Sam’s breath caught, trembling hands gripping his makeshift crossbow tight. Mika drew her sword with a soft hiss; the blade caught the dying firelight, sharp and threatening.

  John raised his hammer, voice low but steady. “Positions. Don’t break the line.”

  The mutants pressed closer, eyes wild with animal hunger. Sir Pimp lifted his battered shield, stance wide and unyielding. “On my dunzledoft,” he called, voice a calm anchor. “We hold. For John Street. For each other.”

  The barricade shuddered as the first mutant hurled itself against the metal and wood, shrieking. John swung hard; the hammer slammed into bone with a sickening crunch that echoed through the night. Sam fired a bolt, hands shaking, breath ragged. Mika moved like water—blade flashing, every strike precise and brutal, breath hitching with the effort.

  The fight was chaos: snarls, shouts, the clash of metal, the wet, sickening sound of flesh giving way. Reyes, arm still bandaged, dragged a wounded teen to safety, muttering encouragement between clenched teeth. The wiry man, silent as ever, dispatched two mutants with a crowbar, face grim and set.

  The onslaught felt endless, but slowly, the tide turned. Mutants fell, one by one, until the survivors retreated into the night, howling their frustration.

  John sank to his knees, chest heaving, sweat and blood mixing on his face. Sir Pimp leaned heavily on his sword, visor smeared with dried blood. Mika wiped her blade, breaths coming in shallow bursts, eyes scanning the dark.

  Silence returned, broken only by the whimpers of the wounded and the soft crackle of the fire. Sam stared at his shaking hands, then looked up at John.

  “Did we win?” he asked, voice thin, fragile.

  John reached out, steadying the boy’s grip on the crossbow. “Tonight, we did.”

  Above them, stars blinked through the haze—distant, cold, unbroken. For now, the barricades held.

  But beneath the surface, the city’s wounds ran deeper, and the fight was far from over.