The burning wreckage of the helicopter cast an eerie glow over the ruined city. Smoke curled into the night sky, blending with the distant fires that marked civilization’s fall. Max groaned, pressing a hand to his temple where blood trickled down his face. The crash had been bad—damn bad—but he was alive. More importantly, so was she.

A soft cough drew his attention. The young woman—mid-twenties, shaken but breathing—staggered from the wreckage, wide-eyed and clutching her ribs. Her clothes were torn, smeared with ash and blood, but she was moving. That was all that mattered.

Max didn’t have time for reassurances. The moans were already starting. A low, guttural chorus rising from the streets. Shadows shuffled between burnt-out cars, drawn by the crash. Some moved fast, too fast. Mutants.

“Move,” Max ordered, gripping her arm and pulling her into a sprint. His body screamed in protest, but pain meant he was still alive. They ducked into a crumbling alley, weaving through debris, his mind working overtime. Need shelter. Need weapons. Need a plan.

A collapsed overpass loomed ahead, its underbelly dark and cavernous. Not perfect, but defensible. He shoved her inside, back against the concrete. She was breathing hard, eyes darting to him for answers.

He checked his rifle—half a mag. Not enough.

The city groaned around them, alive with the dead.

“Stay quiet,” Max muttered, scanning the streets. “We make it through the night, we might just have a chance.”