The dawn light crept weakly over the broken rooftops, painting the cracked streets in pale gray. The house that had sheltered them was quiet, but thick with tension. Too small, too fragile — it wasn’t a base. It was a cage.

John stood by the boarded-up window, arms crossed as the others gathered in the cramped living room. The air smelled of dust, sweat, and fear.

“We can’t stay here,” John said, breaking the heavy silence.

Michelle, seated near the door with a hatchet resting on her lap, gave a weary nod. “It’s too tight. No space to move, no way to defend ourselves if a horde hits us.”

Lina leaned against the kitchen counter, her face drawn but sharp. “The fire station,” she suggested. “Solid walls. Secure. There’s a generator, maybe intact.”

Hailie, sitting low with one earbud still dangling from her ear, spoke softly. “It’s built to survive worse than this. That’s where we should be.”

John glanced around the room — Milo, Natalya, Terriq, Ian, Martina, Gussa, and the others. Too many people. Too few weapons. “Four of us go,” he said. “The rest hold the house down. Keep the doors bolted. Watch each other’s backs.”

“I’ll keep ‘em breathing,” Milo promised, lifting his old bat, its grip patched with cloth tape.

“Same,” Natalya grunted, flexing the grip on her makeshift machete.

John nodded. “Me, Lina, Hailie, and Michelle. We find weapons first, then clear and secure the station.”

They moved fast, slipping through the streets while the undead still wandered aimlessly in scattered clusters. The city felt like a sunken world — crumbled buildings, shattered glass, burned-out cars, and the distant, rotten groans of the dead. The air itself tasted like old smoke.

An abandoned police cruiser sat lopsided near a dead intersection, half-swallowed by the curb. John signaled the others, and they circled in.

“Quick and quiet,” he muttered.

John forced the trunk open, and a grin flickered across his face.

“Bingo.”

Inside were scattered weapons: a shotgun, a small box of shells, two pistols, a battered taser, and a rusted crowbar.

Michelle reached for the shotgun like it was oxygen. Hailie took a pistol and the taser. Lina claimed the second pistol, sliding extra shells into her pocket. John hefted the crowbar, testing its weight with grim satisfaction.

“It’s not much,” Michelle said.

“It’s enough,” John replied. “Let’s move.”

The fire station loomed at the end of the block — a sturdy two-story structure with its garage doors hanging half-open, like the mouth of something ancient and waiting. No lights. No sound.

They crept in, weapons raised.

Two infected staggered near the entrance. Lina’s blades flashed — one dropped before it could even snarl. Hailie’s pistol coughed once, and the other collapsed in a heap.

The inside was stale, shadows clinging to the walls. Blood smears led down the hallways. Broken radios littered the office desks. The kitchen was a mess of dried food and overturned chairs.

Room by room, they cleared it. No more undead, but the memory of violence hung heavy.

John finally exhaled. “Good bones,” he muttered. “We’ll make it work.”

Lina found the generator in the back. After a tense few minutes, she coaxed it to life — a rumbling cough, then a steady hum. Light flickered in the main hall.

By nightfall, the station was fortified. Barricades on the doors, supply shelves raided, sightlines cleared. It wasn’t perfect, but it was a start.

John stepped outside, raising the small battered radio.

“Base here. Fire station secure. Ready for evac at first light.”

A burst of static. Then Milo’s voice. “Copy that. We’ll move at dawn.”

John lowered the radio, tension settling in his shoulders. Beside him, Lina watched the dark horizon.

“We’ll hold this one,” she said. “We’ll build something here.”

The four of them stood in the doorway as the sky turned bruised purple and ash-gray clouds drifted over the broken city.

Tomorrow, they would bring everyone home.

And begin the next fight.