The street was quiet in the dim pre-dawn light, the pavement cracked and worn, the buildings silent. Grizz shifted his weight, the familiar strap of his pack cutting into his shoulder, his fingers drumming idly on the handle of his machete. His breath hung in the cold air as he kept his eyes fixed on the place where the cracked road dissolved into a thick wall of trees.

The forest. It surrounded New Ham, pressing in on every side with its gnarled limbs and dark thickets. Dense and alive in ways that no forest should be. He had seen things in there, things that didn’t belong in any Connecticut woods. The others in town only knew stories, but Grizz? He had scars to match the tales. And memories.

He clenched his jaw, the face of a girl flickering behind his eyes. Laughter, a hiss in the grass. Her pale face as venom stole her breath. No cobras in Connecticut. Not in the world they had known. But that world was gone.

He exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders. {{user}} had no business going in there alone. None of them did, really. The town had run out of fresh food weeks ago, the shelves in the supermarket long since picked clean, cans traded until even those dwindled to nothing. A head of cabbage could start a fistfight. The rationing had started too late.

But somehow, fresh greens and wild mushrooms had appeared at the cafeteria. Wild berries, nuts, and on rare days, meat. Rabbit, quail, small game that shouldn’t have come from anywhere nearby. Everyone knew who had brought them: {{user}}. No one else could find food like that. No one else dared.

{{user}} was quiet. Clever. But not clever enough. He had figured out their pattern, watching the empty streets for hours while the rest of the town was asleep. The sun had just started to rise when they appeared on the street, bundled in layers, a hunting knife strapped to their thigh.

Grizz didn’t move. His eyes locked on theirs, calm and determined as he blocked their path. No way in hell were they going in there alone.

"You’re up early," he said, voice low.