The abandoned town appeared out of the darkness like a corpse.
Buildings with shattered windows. Streetlights that hadn't worked in years. A water tower leaning at thirty degrees, ready to fall.
And everywhere—vehicles. Parked along the main street. Hidden in alleys. Crammed behind the skeleton of a grocery store.
Alex counted twenty-three before he stopped.
"More inside," Sarah said. She'd killed the headlights a quarter mile back. Now they crept forward in darkness, the RV's engine barely above a whisper.
"Forty-seven total," Alex said. "System doesn't lie."
"System also doesn't care if we die."
Fair point.
He pulled up his map. The gold crate marker pulsed at the center of town—probably the old bank, if the layout was right. Around it, dots. Dozens of them. Some stationary. Some moving.
Some already fighting.
A gunshot echoed through the streets. Then another. Then screaming.
"They're not waiting," Sarah said.
"They never do."
---
Alex parked the RV behind a collapsed wall. The brick would hide them from the main road. Not perfect, but good enough.
"Stay with the vehicle," he said.
"No."
"Sarah—"
"I didn't crawl through a riverbed and fix your death trap's wiring to sit in a parking lot while you have all the fun."
He looked at her. She looked back. Neither blinked.
"Fine," he said. "But you follow my lead."
"Or what?"
"Or I remind you that you still need my help fixing your tow truck."
She glared. But she didn't argue.
They moved through the back alleys. Dark. Tight. The smell of rot and gasoline hung in the air.
Alex kept his tire iron low. Sarah carried a pipe wrench—not a weapon, exactly, but heavy enough to do damage.
A body lay in the alley ahead.
Alex stopped. Crouched.
The man was young. Maybe twenty. His eyes were open. His throat was cut.
"First kill of the night," Sarah whispered. "Won't be the last."
Alex stepped over the body and kept moving.
---
The bank was two stories. Brick. The windows were boarded up, but the front door hung open.
Inside, the gold crate glowed.
It was beautiful. Taller than the blue crates. Wider. The metal seemed to breathe, pulsing with warm light.
And around it, fifteen people.
They weren't fighting. They were talking.
Alex pressed himself against the wall of the building across the street. Sarah crouched beside him.
"That's not a fight," she whispered. "That's a negotiation."
"Or a trap."
Fifteen people. Different vehicles. Different crews. And none of them were shooting.
Why?
Alex scanned the group. Looked for weapons. Looked for leaders.
He found both.
A woman in the center. Tall. Gray hair pulled back. She wore a leather jacket and carried a shotgun like she'd used it before.
Around her, three men. Armed. Watchful.
The leader, Alex thought.
And then he saw the second group.
Off to the side. Four people. Matching jackets. Patches on the shoulders.
A crew. Organized.
The woman with the shotgun was saying something. Alex couldn't hear the words, but he could read the body language.
She was making a deal.
"Split it," Sarah murmured. "They're going to split the crate."
"Fifteen ways?"
"However many ways. Doesn't matter. If they agree, the crate's gone. We get nothing."
Alex watched.
The woman with the shotgun extended her hand. One of the jacket-wearing crew shook it.
Deal.
Then—
A gunshot.
The woman with the shotgun fell.
---
Chaos.
The crew in jackets scattered. Other survivors dove for cover. Someone screamed. Someone else returned fire.
Alex grabbed Sarah's arm and pulled her back into the alley.
"What the hell—"
"Sniper," he said. "On the roof."
He'd seen the muzzle flash. Second floor of the building across from the bank. Too high for a pistol. Too accurate for luck.
Another shot. Another body.
"Someone's breaking up the party," Sarah said.
"Someone's making sure no one gets that crate."
Alex looked at the bank. The gold crate still glowed. Still sat in the center of the room.
And now, there was no one guarding it.
"We're not going in there," Sarah said.
"No."
"Alex."
"I said no." He pulled her deeper into the alley. "We're not stupid. We're not desperate. And we're not dead yet."
"Then what are we doing?"
He pointed to the building with the sniper.
"We're finding out who's on that roof."
---
The building was a hotel. Old. Three stories. The stairs were gone—collapsed years ago.
But the fire escape was still there.
Alex climbed first. The metal groaned under his weight. Rust flaked off in red clouds.
Sarah followed. Her pipe wrench banged against the railing. He winced.
"Quiet," he hissed.
"I'm quiet."
"You're a stampede."
She didn't answer. But the next step was softer.
The roof was flat. Tar paper cracked and peeling. And in the corner, prone behind an AC unit—
A figure.
Alex couldn't see the face. Just the shape. A rifle. A scope. A steady hand.
The sniper fired again. Another scream from the street below.
Alex moved.
He didn't think. Thinking was slow. Thinking got you killed.
He crossed the roof in five silent steps. The tire iron came down on the rifle barrel—not the person, just the weapon.
Crack.
The rifle twisted. The sniper cursed—a woman's voice, low and sharp—and rolled away.
Alex raised the tire iron again.
"Don't," Sarah said.
He stopped.
The sniper sat up. Pushed back her hood.
Young. Maybe twenty-two. Dark hair. Dark eyes. And a face that looked like she hadn't slept in a week.
"You're not with them," she said. Not a question.
"No," Alex said. "We're not."
"Then get out of my way."
"You just killed three people."
"They were going to split the crate. Share it. Like it was nothing." Her voice cracked. "Gold crates don't come every day. When they do, you take. You don't share."
Sarah stepped closer. "Who are you?"
The woman looked at her. At Alex. At the tire iron still raised.
"Someone who needs that crate more than you do."
"Everyone needs it," Alex said. "That doesn't make killing right."
"Right?" The woman laughed—a hollow, broken sound. "There's no right anymore. There's just survive. And I'm better at it than most."
She stood up. Slow. Hands visible.
The rifle was broken. The scope was cracked. She was unarmed.
"You want the crate?" she said. "Go get it. But don't expect me to apologize for clearing the field."
Alex lowered the tire iron.
"Name," he said.
"What?"
"Your name. What do we call you?"
She hesitated. Then: "Jade."
"Jade," Alex repeated. "How long have you been out here?"
"Long enough to know that trust gets you killed."
"And how's that working out for you?"
She didn't answer.
Alex looked at Sarah. Sarah shrugged—your call—and stepped back.
"Gold crate's still there," Alex said. "But if you go back to that roof, someone else will put a bullet in you."
"I can take care of myself."
"Clearly." He pointed at the broken rifle. "That's sarcasm."
Jade's jaw tightened. But she didn't argue.
"Come with us," Alex said.
Both women stared at him.
"What?" Sarah said.
"Come with us. We have an RV. Food. Fuel. A mechanic." He nodded at Sarah. "You have skills we need."
"I'm a sniper," Jade said. "Not a team player."
"You're alive. That's enough for now."
She looked at him for a long moment. The gunfire in the street was dying down. The gold crate still glowed in the bank below.
"One condition," Jade said.
"Name it."
"I don't trust you. I won't pretend to. The second this goes bad, I'm gone."
Alex nodded. "Fair."
"And I get the first watch."
"Also fair."
Sarah sighed. "Great. Another stray. The RV's getting crowded."
Jade picked up her broken rifle. Sling it over her shoulder.
"Lead the way," she said.
---
They didn't get the gold crate.
By the time they circled back to the bank, it was gone. Someone had slipped in during the chaos. The glow was dead. The room was empty.
But Alex didn't care.
He had a mechanic. He had a sniper. And he had a mystery RV with secrets written in a dead man's journal.
Three days ago, he was alone.
Now he wasn't.
Progress, he thought.
And on this road, progress was everything.