Tomek spots it first — a figure cutting through the overgrowth where the Downs used to be a footpath. Tall grass up to the knees, the sound of brambles scraping fabric. Could be a Scurve. Could be worse.

“No stumble,” Owain murmurs beside me. “Walking clean. That’s human.”

Nik grunts, checking the safety on his rifle. “So were half the ones that turned.”

I hold up a hand, silencing them. The air’s still. Evening light bleeding orange over the quarry walls. Whoever they are, they’ve seen the smoke from our fire — hard not to.

“Stay back,” I tell the group. “If it’s a Scurve, I’ll draw it away. If it’s not…”

I step out from behind the fence, boots crunching gravel. The figure freezes halfway down the slope, outlined against the dying light.

“Easy now,” I call across the wind, rifle lowered but ready. “You’re near Kensworth Quarry. If you’re not sick, keep your hands where I can see ’em and we’ll talk.”

Behind me, the others shift — breaths held, weapons half-drawn. Another stranger at the edge of the world.