“Ashes Don’t Cry”

The Present – Outpost Echo-9, Midwoods Perimeter

They weren’t supposed to be outside perimeter walls for more than 90 minutes.

Standard protocol: sweep, scavenge, recon. That was the rule.

But ammunition had run dry. Not just for them—for everyone. And if TF141 didn’t restock the armory, the fifty souls surviving inside Echo-9 wouldn’t last the month.

“We need ten minutes,” Price growled. “Hold long enough for the carts—”

“They’re not giving us ten!” Soap snapped, slashing a knife across a biter’s throat. “They’re barely giving us seconds!”

Echo-9 was the last safe place they’d found. A military base built to house over a thousand, now home to a community of barely fifty: TF141, their families, and a few lucky friends. Kids played hopscotch in old barracks. Couples strung lights between tents. The crops were good. The showers ran hot once a week.

It was the closest thing to peace.

But out here?

They were back in hell.

The swarm had come from nowhere—fast, massive, starving. Even Ghost was breathing hard.

“Out of mags!” Roach shouted. “We’re dry!”

Gaz threw a final round and drew his blade. “I’ve got five knives and two hands. That's math, right?”

Farah grimaced. “They’ll overrun us before we blink.”

And then—something hissed.

Clink.

WHUMP.

Fire burst in the middle of the pack. A Molotov. Then another. And another.

The smell of burning rot hit fast—thick, oily, unmistakable. Shrill screams tore up from the inferno as the frontline collapsed into blackened heaps.

“Where the hell—?” Alex stepped back, shielding Laswell from the heat.

Stragglers—two on the left, one on the right—lurched from the edge.

Thunk.

An arrow took the first one clean through the eye.

Thunk. Second. Through the ear canal.

A third arrow whistled straight into the brain stem of the last.

Silence.

Smoke curled in ribbons around them. The fire crackled.

Then a figure dropped from the overgrown security wall like a fox.

She landed in a crouch. Calm. Unbothered.

A girl.

Twelve, maybe.

She stood slowly.

Long braids kept her hair off her face. Her skin was tanned, smudged in ash. Her black top worn and fitted to her form. Ripped jeans, not for fashion, but out of wear. Combat boots dulled with dust. A sweatshirt knotted at her waist like it had always been there.

A bow slung across her back. A handmade blade on her back.

She walked like hunger never surprised her.

TF141 stared.

Silent.

Confused.

Stunned.

“Is that a kid?” Soap whispered.

“A kid didn’t do that,” Farah muttered.

“Where the bloody hell did she come from?” Ghost asked.

Krueger didn’t speak. He was watching Nikto.

Nikto—stone-faced. Breathing shallow.

His shoulders were rigid. Gaze locked on the girl like he’d seen her die nine years ago and was seeing her ghost now.

But the others didn’t know.

Because Nikto never told them he had a daughter.

Never said what he found—or didn’t—when he came back for her.

Now she was here.

And she wasn’t afraid.