Chapter Text
A gentle breeze stirred particles among the remains of the old car park, lifting plastic bags that danced on the car frames. The shattered windows of the shopping centre glinted like blades in the dim light of the winter sun. In the distance, the clouds gathered ominously, as if the sky were about to collapse.
Irana walked silently, her rifle slung across her back, her steps light, as if she were floating among the rubble. Her eyes scanned the landscape routinely. It was not fear she felt, but a sharp attention born of habit.
Fives followed behind, more relaxed but equally alert. He carried his weapon low, but his gaze was high.
‘Quiet day’ he muttered, kicking a rusty tin can.’Too quiet’ he added.
Irana did not respond. She had already learned that calm in this world was never free.
And then, something moved.
In the distance, beyond the collapsed columns and black marks of an old fire, a silhouette staggered forward. Not with the clumsiness of an infected person, but with the stubbornness of someone who did not want to collapse.
‘Do you see it?’ Irana asked, raising a hand.
‘Yes... it looks human. But don't get excited yet,’ her friend replied.
She was already taking a step forward.
‘Irana, wait!’ He tried to stop her, without success.
The figure was wearing a dark jacket, carrying a rifle on his shoulder, and walking as if he were dragging not only his feet, but the entire weight of the world. The man stopped when he saw her coming, squinting against the light, and his body swayed as if he were about to fall face first.
Fives reached her just in time to pull her arm and stop her.
‘Are you crazy?!’ he shouted. ‘He could be infected!’ he added worriedly.
‘He's not,’ she said, although she didn't know why she believed that.
‘You don't know,’ Fives said.
He fell to his knees, as if he had been pushed, and put a hand on the asphalt. Blood was coming from his forehead, a clean but ugly cut. His skin looked colourless, and his lips were dry. He had silver hair and a curious tattoo on his right eye, accompanied by a healed burn on his temple. But the strangest thing was the strange light that shone in his eyes.
‘I'm clean,’ he muttered in a dry voice. ‘Just... tired,’ he added.
Fives approached slowly, keeping his rifle pointed at the ground but ready. With his other hand, he felt the man's jacket, checking his neck, arms and sides. No bites. Just hard bones under the fabric, tremors of exhaustion and a heartbeat that was still present.
‘No marks,’ he confirmed, crouching down beside him. ‘But this guy hasn't eaten in days.’ he added.
The man did not resist. He let them help him, as if he were finally allowing himself to stop. Fives put an arm around his back and held him up. Despite his thin build, he weighed as much as a sack of stones.
‘Name,’ said Irana, crouching down to look him in the eyes.
His gaze was like an icy blade: brown and dull, almost lifeless.
‘Crosshair,’ he replied.
Irana frowned.
‘What are you doing here?’ asked Fives as he helped him to his feet.
‘I survived,’ he said simply. ‘And I escaped from a horde... that's coming this way. A big one. Maybe... a thousand. Maybe more. You have seven days at most,’ he warned them.
The three of them were silent for a second. Even the birds seemed to have fallen silent.
Fives held him tighter. Irana did not take her eyes off his wounded face, nor his unblinking eyes.
‘Let's go,’ she said at last, in a low voice. ‘We'll take you to the chief,’ she informed him.
Crosshair did not respond. He just let himself be led away.
The shopping centre, now called ‘La Guardia’, looked like an old, broken castle in the dark parts of the city. Its concrete and glass structure was held together by pieces of rusty metal, patched-up fabric and the stubbornness of those who lived inside.
Where there had once been clothes shops, there were now barricades, makeshift bunk beds and guard posts. What used to be a beautiful fountain was now a dirty puddle with leaves and soap scum floating on it.
The group crossed through the main entrance, passing between the armed sentries. Some watched them with curiosity; others with indifference. No one asked any questions. In a world where the living were as dangerous as the dead, questions were no longer a common courtesy.
Fives held Crosshair by the side, helping him walk. The newcomer barely spoke, but his eyes never stopped moving, analysing everything. Irana walked beside him, her hands clenched in her coat pockets, as if her body knew something was wrong, even though her mind still refused to admit it.
‘Let's go straight to Fox,’ said Fives, lowering his voice. ‘If this guy is right, we need to get ready now,’ he commented.
‘Fox won't listen to reason,’ replied Irana without looking back. ‘But we have to try, I guess,’ she added.
They climbed a lifeless escalator, which had been turned into a corridor guarded by two armed men. The walls were covered with graffiti, warnings and old posters crossed out with red paint: ‘Authorised personnel only’, ‘The world has gone to hell’, ‘The bitten lie’.
What had once been a technology shop was now the makeshift office of the shelter's commander: Fox. He had his own ‘office,’ with sheet metal walls and plastic hanging from the ceiling like heavy curtains. A desk salvaged from a furniture store, two metal chairs, and a vertical red flag with an intricate white design hung on the wall, a symbol of enforced order amid the chaos.
Dogma opened the curtain with a serious expression.
‘He's in,’ he said, without greeting them. ‘And he's not in a good mood,’ he added.
The soldier looked like he had come straight out of a mould factory: straight, clean and without a wrinkle in his patched jersey. He looked at Crosshair as if he already knew he wasn't going to like him.
‘Is he ever?’ Irana muttered as they entered.
Fox looked up from some crumpled papers. He had a default frown, a poorly trimmed beard, some grey hairs on his sideburns, scars on his left cheek, and the kind of expression that said, ‘I don't have time for bullshit,’ even though he always managed to waste it by repressing people.
‘Who the hell is this?’ he growled without getting up. ‘And why are you bringing him here as if he's important?’ he added.
Irana spoke before Fives could.
‘It's Crosshair. We found him patrolling the perimeter. He has critical information,’ she warned.
Fox snorted, uninterested.
‘Critical? What kind? Does he know where to find chocolate or toilet paper?’ he sneered without humour.
‘A horde is coming,’ said Crosshair, raising his voice for the first time since they entered.
Silence fell like a hammer.
Fox finally looked at him, more annoyed than alarmed.
‘A horde? Sure. How big, in your opinion?’ he asked cockily.
‘At least a thousand. They're advancing on the south motorway. In a week, maybe less, they'll be here. They're not stopping. If you don't reinforce the defences, this place is going to fall,’ he warned.
Dogma blinked. Fives crossed his arms, uncomfortable. Irana held Fox's gaze, as if she could force him to react logically.
But Fox let out a dry laugh.
‘What are you? An expert in numbers? A cartographer of blues?’ he replied.
Crosshair looked at him as if assessing whether he was worth wasting time on.
‘Sniper'. Survivor. Observer. I've seen what's coming. You haven't,’ he replied with just the right words.
Fox stood up slowly, crossing the desk. He had that way of walking that men who believe they have the right to decide for others use.
‘And you expect me to believe that? That a group of blues decided to march like an organised army, just because you show up and say so?’ he said dismissively.
‘I'm not expecting anything,’ Crosshair replied, almost spitting out the words. ‘I'm just warning you. Do what you want with that,’ he added.
Fox let out a short, hollow laugh, as if he were enjoying the moment.
‘Do you know what happens when people start to believe that a horde is coming?’ he asked, pacing in front of them. "They run. They steal. They kill for cans of food and bottles of water. Order disappears. And you know what happens next? I have to collect the bodies," he said threateningly.
He stopped in front of Crosshair and looked down at him.
‘Look, your story, whether it's true or not, jeopardises the peace of this place. I won't allow that rumour to spread like wildfire.’ He looked away with a hard expression.
‘Then get ready to die in an organised manner,’ Crosshair muttered.
Fox smiled humourlessly, as if he liked that response more than he should have.
‘Dogma,’ he said without looking away. ‘Take him to the cells. Give him something to eat; we don't want him to die. But no one is to see or hear him,’ he ordered.
‘What?’ Irana jumped up. ‘That doesn't make sense! We should reinforce the entrance, warn the advance group!’ she added.
Fox turned to her with disturbing speed.
‘And you? Are you questioning my leadership, Irana?’ he asked.
Fives stepped forward, as if by reflex. Fox pointed at him without changing his tone.
‘And you're no different. Now, pay attention, both of you,’ he said with an expression of superiority.
The silence grew thick.
‘If any of you repeat this story... if the slightest mention of a “horde” leaks to “The Guard”... I'll lock you up with him. Or worse. Is that clear?’ he warned them.
Dogma nodded without saying a word, stiff as a statue. Fox didn't have to raise his voice; he radiated the strength of someone who had already made up his mind before the others even opened their mouths.
Irana swallowed hard. Fives clenched his teeth.
‘Very clear,’ they said in unison.
Fox returned to his chair, as if the matter were closed.
‘Right, now get out. And don't bring him back without my permission,’ he clarified.
Crosshair said nothing as they led him away, but when Dogma pushed him towards the back corridor, he turned his head slightly, just enough to hear Irana.
‘I knew you wouldn't believe him,’ she murmured, looking at him one last time.
Although she didn't know him, she felt that this stranger was telling the truth.
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