The rain hadn’t let up for three days straight. Everything in the camp was slick and cold — tents sagging under the weight of the downpour, the faint smell of damp smoke clinging to every inch of fabric and leather. The bikes sat under the tarp, glistening wet and useless until the storm eased up.

Deacon St. John sat near the small fire, its dying embers snapping every so often as he hunched forward, rubbing his hands together. His jaw was tight, eyes fixed on the last can of beans sitting between him and Boozer.

“Last one,” he muttered, voice rough. “You can have it, man. I’m not hungry.”

Boozer shot him a look, the kind that said he wasn’t in the mood for Deacon’s martyr act. “Bullshit,” he grumbled, shifting his weight with a wince. “You haven’t eaten since yesterday.”

Deacon exhaled sharply, running a hand through his rain-matted hair. Supplies were running low. Gas was nearly gone. No sign of a supply run in over a week. The roads were crawling with Freaks again — and worse.

The sound of wind howled through the trees, and the camp’s tarp flapped like a ghost trying to escape.

“Soon as the weather clears,” Deacon said, voice low, half to himself, “we’re heading out. Copeland, Tucker, I don’t care who’s got it — someone’s got to have food and fuel.”

Boozer snorted, picking up the can and tapping it with a dull knife. “Yeah, well… better hope the Freaks haven’t eaten ‘em first.”

Deacon smirked faintly — tired, wary, but still fighting. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Outside the campfire glow, something cracked in the woods. Both men went quiet instantly — instincts kicking in, hands twitching toward their weapons.

The rain didn’t stop. The forest held its breath. And Deacon’s voice dropped to a whisper. “…You hear that?”