Chapter 29 · Those Crates Ain't Food

The warehouse was already burning when I heard the scream.

I was halfway across the yard, still smelling smoke from the street traps we'd lit to push Hammer back. This was different. Thicker. Coming from the supply depot we'd set up in the old grain elevator. Someone was running toward me, a woman I didn't know the name of yet, one of the drifters who'd shown up after we held the gate.

"My son," she gasped. "He's inside. He went back for—"

I didn't wait for the rest. I was already moving.

The depot doors were open. Smoke poured out black and angry, the kind that comes from chemical accelerant, not just wood. Someone had torched this on purpose. I pulled my shirt up over my mouth and pushed through.

Inside was chaos. The crates we'd stacked—medical supplies, ammunition, the last two weeks of preserved rations—were going up fast. Flames crawled up the walls. The heat hit me like a fist. I couldn't see more than a few feet.

"Kid!" I shouted. "Where are you?"

Nothing. Just the roar of fire and the crack of wood splitting.

I heard footsteps behind me. Cole.