They moved in a line like men carrying a secret. The morning smelled of metal and dry grass. Ryan kept his steps even. He felt the growth under his skin like a weight in his pocket. It was patient and quiet.
Mara led. Caleb followed close, eyes sharp. The radio tower rose like a crooked tooth. A tarp hid the dish. A black flag hung limp on a pole,a white circle with a slash. It watched the horizon.
"Anyone seen them before?" Caleb asked.
"Only scraps," Mara said. "Quick packs. They hit, then melt away."
"You said the mark looked like my old unit?" Ryan asked, calm.
Caleb nodded. "An old man at the camp said the sigil looked like yours."
Mara spat. "Old men remember patches. Patches lie. People die."
They crept toward the base. Two men moved near the dish. One had a bandage across his head. The other sat by the fire with a coat and a patch stitched to it. Smoke curled thin and smelled like roasted meat.
"Any gear?" Ryan whispered.
"Armor, radio packs," Rachel answered. She pointed. "They roast something."
Mara checked her knife. "Circle. Look without being seen."
A plank snapped underfoot. The bandaged man swung and pointed a rifle. "Who goes there?" he barked.
"Traders," Mara called. "Trade for fuel. No trouble."
"Fuel is gone," the man laughed. "You bring stories."
"Lower the flag," Mara shouted. "No one likes that mark."
The bandaged man fired a warning shot. Bullets bit the air. Caleb dropped flat. Dust hit their faces.
"Back," Mara hissed. "Pull away, now."
Ryan's boot snagged a root. He froze. The man by the fire stood and walked stiffly to the ladder. When he came into the light Ryan could see the patch on his chest. The symbol under the circle looked like an old insignia Ryan had seen in another life. The man's eyes slid to Ryan and he smiled.
"If it isn't Ryan Black," the man said. "Funny face for a ghost."
"Old marks last longer than men," the man added. "Elias Grant would remember."
The name landed cold. Ryan felt his past line up like a photograph. Mara moved forward. "You burned houses. You took radios. You left people."
"We give people a voice," the man said. "We take the means and tell them what to say."
"You call that law?" Mara spat.
"Call it survival," he said, stepping close. The coat whispered against Ryan's sleeve. "You could join. Food, radios, a place."
"Which name?" Ryan asked. "The man who followed orders and died? Or the man who learned to be small?"
The man's hand flicked. The bandaged man tightened his grip on the rifle. The moment snapped.
Mara lunged. A shot smashed a plank. Caleb rolled. The world stank of splinter and iron. Smoke curled toward the sky.
Then a voice screamed from the ridge. "Ryan! Don't!"
Elias ran down the slope, hand to his head, blood on his sleeve. He looked like a man caught between shame and a last chance. Sophie stumbled out behind a rock, her eyes wet. "Elias!" she cried.
The man with the patch laughed like a man who has rehearsed victory. "Look who showed up," he said. "Elias Grant comes to see his ghosts."
Elias dropped his hand and raised both, empty. "Put the guns down," he shouted. "This will tear people apart."
"You signed papers," the patch man said. "You built order. You set rules. You chose."
"Those rules saved lives!" Elias hissed. "They kept us from worse!"
"Saved yourselves," the patch man countered. "You kept your name."
Sophie moved as if to help Elias. Mara shoved her back. "Stay," she hissed. "If you step forward you die."
Caleb stared at Ryan. His voice was small. "What do we do?"
Ryan felt the tide under his skin like a slow rise. He could end the man with a motion no one would see. He could make the flag a memory. He could tear the patch from the man's coat and use it as kindling. He could make a thousand choices from this one clean move.
He did not.
He had rules. Patience was a tool sharper than a blade. He would not burn answers when delay bought leverage.
"Join us," the patch man said, softer now. "We have radios. We make the calls. You'll be remembered."
"Not tonight," Ryan answered. His voice was flat and small like a stone on glass.
The bandaged man barked a laugh and fired over their heads. A splinter flew near Elias's boot. Elias stumbled and coughed. Sophie flinched and pressed her hands to her mouth.
"Think of the camp," Elias said, voice thin. "They need order."
"Order costs," the patch man said. He tapped his patch. "Choose."
Ryan met his eyes and felt a memory like a cut open,the lamppost, the orders, the smell of wet concrete. He let the man test his patience and watched the man hope.
Then another sound came from the ridge. It was not a voice but a rhythm,footsteps, maybe more than one. The patch man's grin faltered.
"We didn't fire from the ridge," the bandaged man said, eyes darting. "Someone else—"
A shadow dropped near the tower base so fast it looked like a trick of light. A figure landed and stood with something glinting in their hands. The figure raised a small radio and shouted into it with a voice that slid through the valley. "Tower taken! Send men! Hold it!"
The man with the patch cursed and barked orders. His men tore the tarp and scanned the scrub. The ridge answered with another shout,voices now, many, moving.
Panic came quick, like a sudden wind. The bandaged man looked ready to run. The patch man counted his men and found them thin. He looked at Elias like a judge finding a guilty face. "You brought this on yourself," he spat.
Sophie wept low and fast. "Please," she begged Ryan. "For the camp. For the children. Do something."
Ryan thought of the child's drawing in the shelter, crooked sun taped to a wall. He thought about how Sophie had left him once to save herself. He thought of Elias signing papers and sending men to die. He felt the slow rise inside him and kept it folded.
He stepped forward, careful.
"Stay back," Mara warned.
A shout rose from the ridge, louder now. The black flag stirred.
A rifle cracked.