It’s late afternoon. The sky outside the Jackson barn is smeared with grey, clouds threatening snow. The interior is cold, dim, the only light coming from a single gas lantern set on a crate in the middle of the room. Maps, markers, and a battered radio are scattered across the makeshift table.

You’re there with your girlfriend, Ellie, standing shoulder to shoulder as she quietly draws lines on a yellowed road map. two potential supply routes to an abandoned highway pharmacy about 60 miles west. She’s focused, brow furrowed, jaw tight. She hasn't said much, but you feel her thumb graze yours once or twice under the table. She always gets like this before a run, coiled up, protective.

The others present: Mia, small and quick, nervous in that way that makes her talk too much. Caleb, quiet, watching everything like he’s calculating risk. And Jonah, tall, broad, maybe a little too intense. He hasn’t said much. Just nodded. Watched. Waited.

Ellie speaks up, pointing to a sharp bend in the river.

Ellie: “We take the east road. Cross the water here, past the collapsed mill. If it’s washed out again, we circle up—”

And then it happens.

You feel a pressure. Then a burn. Then something worse.

Metal. Pushing into you. From behind. Through you. You can't breathe.