The building's entrance no longer resembled anything close to a lobby.
The storm's wind had shattered the entire east-facing wall of windows weeks ago, and the group had long since adapted, guiding the boat through the jagged opening rather than any door, water sloshing over splintered glass and twisted frame as they eased inside.
They'd barely cleared the threshold before the shouting started.
"That's them! That's the boat!"
A dozen people had gathered near the flooded interior stairwell, drawn by the sound of the motor, faces gaunt with the particular hollowed-out desperation that three weeks of rationing and rising water had carved into nearly everyone left in the building. Some held makeshift weapons — a broken chair leg, a length of pipe — though none of it looked like it belonged to people who actually intended to use it, more like the last, brittle posturing of people too exhausted to feel anything except cornered.
