Iyisha and Mary crouched alone in the abandoned storage building, knees pressed to the cold floor, breath shaking as they watched through the cracks in the wall.
Almost thirty raiders moved through the yard.
They were a mix of everything the world had left behind.
Some wore coats that still looked new, probably taken from people who once lived warm and safe.
Some had patched jackets, sleeves torn, fabric stained with dirt and old blood.
Others were filthy, hair matted, faces streaked with soot and grime from days or weeks without shelter.
But every single one of them carried a weapon.
Old shotguns. Rifles with taped grips. Knives tucked into belts. A tire iron held like a club. A cleaver dangling from a rope. One man had a hammer hooked to his waistband. Another slung a pistol across his chest even though the holster clearly did not fit it.
Not wanderers.
Not desperate scavengers.
Raiders.
Mary whispered, "There are so many."
