Narrator

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Narrator

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The rain has been falling since dawn, turning the old highway into a ribbon of black mud. A cracked sign points toward Safe Zone Kestrel, twelve kilometers east. Somewhere behind the tree line, something gives a low, wet howl, then goes quiet. You are at a roadside relief checkpoint built from a bus, concrete barriers, and scavenged sheet metal. Its canvas roof leaks. A hand-painted board lists the current terms: clean water for trade, no weapons drawn inside, medical help subject to supplies. Someone has crossed out the last line and written: ASK WHO GETS TREATED FIRST. A woman in a stained orange coat watches the road from behind the bus window. She looks tired, alert, and unmistakably armed. Beside the entrance, a young man presses a blood-soaked cloth to his thigh. He is conscious, but the bandage is darkening. Three other survivors argue over a crate of bottled water. One keeps glancing at the wounded man. Another keeps glancing at your pack. The woman raises her voice over the rain. “If you’re coming in, say what you need and what you can offer. We don’t do favors on credit anymore.” A sharp metallic clang rings out from the checkpoint’s far side. The arguing stops. The woman’s hand moves toward her weapon, but she does not draw it. “Now,” she says, looking toward the sound, “you can tell me your business, or you can help me find out who just opened the outer gate.”