Dawn broke with the weight of a funeral bell. Pale light seeped through the cracks in the boarded windows of John’s original safe house. Twenty survivors—men, women, and children—sat or stood in silence, clutching makeshift weapons: bats, pipes, spears tipped with sharpened rebar. The air smelled of stale coffee, fear, and too many bodies packed into too little space.

John stood at the threshold, little Benjamin—seven years old—clinging to his leg. The boy’s wide eyes darted between the gathered faces and his brother’s determined stance.

“We’re moving,” John announced softly. “The firehouse is stronger, roomier. But you can’t walk the whole way. I’ll bring a handful of you at a time.”

A murmur ran through the group. Terriq and Ian exchanged nervous glances. Natalya tightened her grip on her blade; Milo rocked on his heels. Martina steadied an injured mother’s trembling child.

“Why not everyone?” Gussa pressed, stepping forward.

John met his gaze. “Every jump drains me. If I try more than five at once, I blackout. I can’t risk collapsing in the street—then nobody gets here.” He closed his eyes, placing a hand on Benjamin’s shoulder. “First group, step up.”

Five pairs edged forward. John closed his eyes, mana pulsing beneath his skin like distant thunder. “Count with me,” he murmured. “One… two… three.”

They vanished in a ripple of light.

Moments later, their forms shimmered into view inside the firehouse’s cavernous bay. Lina, Hailie, and Michelle—who had stayed behind—rushed to catch them as they staggered into the room, pale but alive. Benjamin tumbled into Lina’s arms, tears of relief streaking his dirty cheeks.

John reappeared, chest heaving. “Next group,” he said, voice strained.

Over the next hour, he ferried the remaining fifteen—clutching hands, comforting words, a fragile hope trailing in his wake. By midmorning, twenty souls had crossed the gap from the crumbling house to this battered sanctuary.

Fortifying the Station

Inside, the firehouse thrummed with desperate energy. Lina, Michelle, and Hailie led the work:

Barricades: Heavy desks and lockers were wedged against side doors. Old chain‑link fencing, dragged from the yard, was lashed across windows.

Perimeter: Chains of metal shelving and the rusting remains of a fire engine formed chokepoints in the main bay.

Power: The backroom generator, recently salvaged, hummed to life, feeding a handful of dim bulbs that turned shadows into sentinels.

Milo and Natalya organized the new arrivals into shifts—some to shore up defenses, others to unpack rations. Ian and Terriq patrolled the courtyard, eyes sharp for the shambling shapes that drifted just out of sight. Martina and Taylor set up makeshift bunks in the upstairs dorm area, carrying wounded survivors gently to rest.

John stood by the dusty map table, Benjamin asleep on his shoulder. Gussa joined him, scanning the drawn grids of streets. “What now?” Gussa asked.

John drew a trembling line to the southwest. “Supply run. Grocer’s down the block. We need food, meds, ammo—anything left.”

The Supermarket Rescue

An hour later, John led a scavenging party: Gussa, Lina, Hailie, Michelle, and two volunteers. The streets were silent but for the scrape of distant limbs and a low, hungry moan.

The supermarket loomed ahead—plate-glass windows blown out, aisles dark, a single flicker of movement in the back. They slipped in, weapons drawn.

Fifteen survivors huddled near the loading dock—men, women, even children—faces gaunt, eyes haunted. Rusted carts and overturned shelves made crude barricades. A broken refrigerator hummed, its contents half‑melted and rotting.

“Jesus,” Michelle whispered.

John raised his voice. “We’re here to help. You’re coming with us.”

They emerged into the dusty daylight, carrying canned goods, bottled water, a few first‑aid kits, and a handful of shotgun shells discovered in a back room.

A Call from the Neighbors

As they returned, Michelle spied movement in a nearby row of boarded houses. A small group—three adults and a teenager—watched from behind a half‑covered window. They stepped into the street, arms raised.

John called, “Come on in!”

Their relief was palpable. These four had seen the firehouse’s defenses and dared to hope. They joined the growing throng inside, bringing the total population to nearly forty.

A New Dawn

That evening, the survivors gathered in the firehouse bay. Cots formed a rough circle; the generator’s hum was a lullaby against the distant moans outside. John stood beside the maps, Benjamin perched on a folding chair.

“We made it,” he said quietly. “But to survive, we need more than shelter. We need to train. We need to fight.”

Gussa stepped forward, heart pounding. “We stay. We train here—with John’s group.”

A murmur of agreement rippled around the room. Milo stood, bat tight in hand. “I’m not running anymore.”

Natalya brandished her blade. “We learn to kill what comes through that door.”

Martina raised a toast with a chipped metal cup. “To the firehouse. Our home.”

Hailie’s voice cut through the hum. “First shift tomorrow: defense drills at dawn. Weapon handling, perimeter watches.”

Michelle hefted her hatchet. “Let’s do this.”

John surveyed the faces around him—young and old, broken and determined. He placed a hand on Benjamin’s shoulder. The boy looked up, eyes wide but hopeful.

“We fight,” John said. “Together.”

Outside, the undead pressed against their barricades, an unending tide of rot and hunger. Inside, the firehouse glowed with new life—voices planning, hearts steeling, hope ignited in ash and echoes.

They were ready. And though the world had crumbled, here in the firehouse, they vowed to stand.