The barn stood alone at the edge of a forgotten farm, red paint peeled to raw wood by years of neglect and now accelerated by fallout winds. Thorne had spotted it from a ridge an hour before dusk—isolated, defensible backs to a thick treeline, open fields in front for sight lines. Better than another night exposed in the woods.
Vesper hadn't complained once during the day's march, but he could see the toll: limp developing in her left leg from an old bruise, breathing labored as they crested the last hill. She kept pace though, green eyes fixed ahead, long black hair tied back with a strip torn from her hoodie sleeve.
"Good spot," she said as they approached, voice breathy from exertion. Sarcasm laced it, but faint—more observation than bite.
Thorne nodded once. "Clear it first."
He moved to the main doors—half open, hanging crooked. Rifle up, he pie'd the entry slow. The interior smelled of old hay and animal rot, dust motes dancing in shafts of dying sunlight. Stalls empty, loft ladder intact. No fresh signs of occupation.
"Clear," he called low.
Vesper slipped in behind him, pulling the doors mostly shut. The barn dimmed, cooler air wrapping around them.
Thorne dropped his pack near a support beam, beginning setup. He gathered hay for insulation—dry stuff from the loft, less contaminated. Vesper watched, then mimicked, dragging armfuls to a corner stall.
"You always this prepared?" she asked, dropping her pile with a soft thud.
"Always."
She sat, rubbing her thigh absently. "Military thing?"
He didn't answer right away, focusing on the small fire he'd started in a metal bucket—smokeless as possible, using sanitizer and tightly bundled twigs. The flames caught, low and blue.
Vesper scooted closer to the warmth, hoodie gaping slightly as she leaned forward. Pale skin glowed in the firelight, bruises stark purple against it. Her curves shifted with each breath, fabric clinging damp from the day's sweat.
Thorne handed her water—purified earlier from a farm pond, boiled twice and tabbed.
"Drink."
She took it, fingers brushing his. "Thanks... sir."
The honorific slipped again, softer this time. Her eyes flicked up, holding his a beat too long.
He ignored it, checking the doors. Barred them with a heavy beam. Then perimeter—cracked the side door, scanned the fields. Twilight deepening, fog rolling in again from the woods.
"Reapers active around here?" he asked.
Vesper shuddered. "Saw signs yesterday. Burned farm a mile back. Bodies... arranged."
Thorne filed it away. Reapers liked their rituals. Made them predictable in some ways—arrogant, drawn to spectacle.
He settled across from her, back to the wall, rifle across his knees. "Sleep. I'll watch."
She curled up in the hay, long hair spilling like ink. "Wake me for second."
He nodded.
The fire crackled low. Outside, night sounds started—wind through cracks, distant owl hoot that might not be an owl. Thorne let his mind drift, vigilance automatic.
Memories came unbidden, sharper in the quiet.
The convoy ambush. Not overseas this time—stateside, days after the bombs.
They'd been rolling hard from Bragg, six Humvees loaded with whatever ammo and supplies command had left. Objective: link up with remnants in D.C., secure whatever chain of command still existed.
Reyes riding shotgun in Thorne's vehicle, cracking dark jokes about the end of the world.
"Bet the Russians are shitting themselves now. We finally went full MAD."
Thorne had grunted, eyes on the road. Highways clogged with abandoned cars, civilians waving desperate for help. They'd pushed through, orders clear: priority movement.
Then the blockade.
Not military—civilians turned militia. Hundreds, armed with hunting rifles, shotguns, whatever they'd looted. Barricades of burned vehicles across the interstate.
Command had radioed: negotiate passage.
Didn't work.
First shots came from the crowd—panic fire, someone thinking the convoy was raiders. Return fire disciplined at first. Then chaos.
Thorne's vehicle took the brunt. RPG—crude, pipe bomb maybe—slammed into the lead Humvee. Explosion flipped it, fuel igniting in a whoosh of flame.
Thorne bailed out, dragging Reyes clear. Rounds cracking overhead, zipping into dirt.
"Suppress left flank!" he'd shouted, voice calm even as adrenaline flooded.
His team responded like always—professional, lethal. Ramirez on the .240, hosing the crowd. Gutierrez laying down fire from cover.
But there were too many. Desperate people don't break easy when they think you're the last chance.
Ramirez went down first—headshot, clean through the helmet. Dropped without a sound.
Thorne advanced under cover, dropping threats methodically. Double taps. Controlled bursts.
*One-twenty rounds then. Same as now.*
Gutierrez took shrapnel in the leg—femoral bleed. Thorne applied tourniquet, dragged him behind a wrecked sedan. "Hold pressure!"
But the crowd surged, emboldened by numbers.
Reyes took rounds shielding a wounded private—chest hits, kevlar caught most but one punched through.
Thorne covered their retreat, ammo dwindling. Picked off leaders—guys shouting orders, waving people forward.
The team fell back vehicle by vehicle, but the mob flanked.
Last stand around the trailing Humvee. Back to back, fire disciplined till it wasn't.
One by one.
Thorne held Reyes as the light faded, convoy burning around them. Sirens in the distance—maybe help, maybe more chaos.
Reyes pressed the map into his hand, blood slicking the paper.
"Eden's... Reach... go..."
Then nothing.
Thorne blinked back to the barn. Fire burned lower. Vesper slept, breathing steady.
He added a twig, watching flames catch.
The ambush had taught him finality. No heroes. No last stands that mattered. Just survival.
And now, west.
A sound snapped him alert—outside, faint but wrong. Crunch of gravel under boot.
Not wind.
Thorne killed the fire with dirt, moving silent to the side door. Cracked it.
Figures in the field—five, maybe six. Moving staggered, professional enough. Moonlight glinted on weapons.
Reapers. Red scythe patches visible even in the dark.
They'd found the barn.
Thorne eased the door shut, barring it quiet. Moved to the main doors—same.
"Vesper," he whispered sharp.
She woke instant, eyes wide. "What?"
"Company. Reapers. Six tangos. Stay low."
Her face paled, but she nodded, scooting back into shadow.
Thorne took position behind a stall wall, rifle up. Pie'd angles.
The side door rattled first—testing.
Then banging. Voices low, chanting starting.
They'd try breach.
Thorne waited.
The main doors shuddered under impact—someone ramming with shoulder or tool.
Wood splintered.
He let them commit.
First one through—big guy with machete. Thorne double-tapped suppressed. *Thump-thump.* Center mass, head. Dropped silent.
Brass tinkled soft.
Second followed fast, rifle up. Thorne transitioned, burst to chest. Wet pops as rounds impacted.
The chant faltered outside.
Third and fourth rushed together—shotgun and AK.
Thorne pie'd the corner, muzzle flashes strobing the barn. Suppressed coughs answered the roar.
Shotgun guy crumpled, pellets shredding hay overhead.
AK guy got off a burst—wild, sparks on beam. Thorne's return fire shredded him, arterial spray dark in the dim.
Ammo: ninety rounds 5.56 now. Thirty-five 9-mil if needed.
Two left outside—he heard them scrambling.
One tried the loft window—ladder creak.
Thorne moved fast, stacking on the ladder. As the head appeared, he fired upward—three rounds. Body tumbled back out.
Last one bolted—running for the field.
Thorne tracked, exhaled, squeezed. Single round. Tango dropped fifty meters out.
Silence.
Thorne cleared the barn again—methodical, angles checked. Bodies down, no movement.
He dragged them out one by one, away from the door. Blood sticky on gloves, metallic smell thick.
Vesper emerged from shadow, pale and shaking.
"Sir... don't let them..."
She pressed against him sudden, body warm and soft through torn clothes. Curves molded close, trembling.
Thorne held still, one arm around her waist automatic—steadying.
"It's over."
She broke then—sobs muffled against his chest rig. "That coulda been me... why's the world like this? We should've... stopped them before. Morally. Helped people."
Thorne's voice low, dom tone cutting through. "Cry later. Survive now. Morals get you killed. Boil water twice—fallout bugs don't care about right or wrong."
Internal: *Her need tests my leadership. Humanity's luxury we can't afford.*
She pulled back slightly, green eyes wet but fierce. "You make it sound easy."
"It's not. But it's necessary."
The barn stank of blood and cordite now. Thorne cleaned up—policed brass, searched bodies.
Scored: ammo mixed but usable, a decent knife, canned food. Lighters. Rope—paracord equivalent.
Vesper helped silent, wiping tears.
As dawn grayed the sky, Thorne barred the doors again.
"Sleep," he said. "I'll watch."
She curled near him this time, closer.
The bodies outside would draw scavengers.
But they were alive.
For now.