The cart shrieked along the shattered monorail as if desperate to outrun the sky.

  Wind tore at Ralphie’s hair, drying sweat to salt. The ruined city flashed by—collapsed rooftops, twisted antennae, metal sheets snapping like flags. Drone searchlights still pierced the haze, white cones hunting for movement.

  Nigel’s grip clenched the throttle while the other hand anchored Ralphie’s shoulder, as though touch alone could tether them to earth.

  “Hold on,” he said.

  “I am,” Ralphie lied.

  His fingers were numb, and the rail beneath their boots vibrated with life.

  The tracks warbled and the cart lurched. The wheels squealed in protest. Ralphie’s stomach rose to his throat.

  For one horrible second, he thought they were going to fly off the line and vanish between the buildings like a thrown toy.

  Nigel jerked the manual brake, keeping them upright. Sparks fanned behind them, vivid as shooting stars. The cart shrieked in protest, slowing just before the brink.

  “Nigel—”

  “I’ve got it,” Nigel said through his teeth.

  Ralphie tried not to look back. Not to see the pale swarm on the viaduct. The missile turned the lobby to rubble and ash.

  A drone clipped the edge of the track above them—too close. It corrected in a sharp, insectile arc and dropped lower, machine intent narrowing to a point.

  Nigel swore. “They’re still on us.”

  The cart’s battery droned lower, straining. The tiny maintenance engine wasn’t built for daring. It was made for routine work and uneventful days.

  Nothing in Ralphie’s life was predictable anymore.

  Ahead, the line dipped to a half-collapsed platform and a tunnel choked with rubble. Beyond, rails vanished in darkness—an old service route, if Nigel remembered the maps.

  “If we can get into that tunnel,” Nigel said, breathless, “their optics won’t—”

  A burst of light snapped across the track in front of them—a drone fired, not at their cart, but directly at the rail ahead. A section exploded in a shower of concrete and rebar, creating a gap large enough to threaten disaster.

  Ralphie’s mouth went cold. “Nigel!”

  Nigel’s eyes flicked—calculating, desperate. “Jumping.”

  “What?!”

  Nigel shoved the throttle to its limits.

  The cart surged.

  Ralphie’s body forgot how to breathe. The ruined platform rushed at them, the broken track yawning beyond it. For a heartbeat, the world was only wind and metal and Nigel’s grip crushing his shoulder.

  Then the cart hit the platform’s lip and launched.

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  Ralphie screamed without sound.

  They cleared the gap by inches. The wheels struck the far rail with a savage clang that rattled Ralphie’s teeth. The cart fishtailed, skidding—

  Nigel hauled the brake lever hard.

  The cart screamed. Fought. Finally, it straightened—still moving, still alive.

  Ralphie’s laugh came out strangled, halfway to sobbing. “We’re—”

  “We’re not done,” Nigel said.

  They found the perimeter just before true dark.

  Lanterns burned low and guarded. Fences woven with scrap metal and barbed wire marked a settlement carved from stubbornness.

  “Hold!” a voice called from the trees.

  Ralphie froze so hard his bones hurt.

  Shapes emerged—people, not machines. Rifles lifted, then steadied when Nigel threw up his hands.

  “Don’t shoot! We’re human!”

  A flashlight beam swept them. It lingered on Ralphie’s face, searching every pore.

  Then she stepped forward.

  Tall. Broad-shouldered. European accent. Jacket half-zipped over a bandaged torso. One arm stiff at her side.

  Blanka.

  She looked thinner than Ralphie remembered. Pale beneath the grime. A faint tremor passed through her shoulders before she stilled it.

  “Nigel?” she said, testing the word.

  Nigel’s shoulders sagged with relief—and something like dread.

  “It’s me. You shouldn’t be out here.”

  “I will decide that,” she replied evenly.

  One of the guards murmured, “You’re not supposed to be on patrol, Blanka.”

  She silenced him with a look.

  Her gaze moved to Ralphie. Took in the shaking hands. The hollow eyes. Something softened in her expression—but only for a moment.

  “You’re late,” she told Nigel.

  It wasn’t accusation. Just fact.

  A distant thunder rolled.

  Blanka’s head snapped toward the sound. Her posture changed—wounded commander replaced by hardened tactician.

  “Defensive positions,” she ordered. “Now.”

  No hesitation. The camp obeyed.

  Something moved in the trees—too fast. Too silent.

  Not a drone.

  A shape leapt between branches. Two bright eyes flashed in lantern light.

  Then another.

  Blanka swore in her native tongue and raised her weapon with her good arm.

  The first creature hit the line like a living battering ram.

  Ralphie saw fur—but wrong. Limbs too long. Spine bending in ways that made his stomach twist.

  A guard fired. Another screamed.

  Blanka stepped forward, fearless despite the bandage beneath her jacket. She fired twice, precise and controlled.

  The creature recoiled.

  Then it lunged.

  Nigel shouted, “Blanka!”

  She pivoted—but too slow.

  The thing slammed into her injured side. Her breath left her in a sharp, violent gasp. Blood soaked fresh through the bandage.

  She did not fall.

  Instead, she drove her elbow into the creature’s skull and fired point-blank into its throat.

  The second beast hesitated.

  “Advance!” she barked.

  The guards surged, emboldened.

  The creatures withdrew into the trees, melting into shadow.

  Silence fell.

  For a heartbeat, she stood tall.

  Then her weapon lowered.

  Nigel was already at her side.

  “You’re done,” he said.

  “I am not—” she began.

  Her knees buckled.

  Nigel caught her before she hit the ground.

  For a terrifying second, Ralphie thought she was dead.

  Blanka’s fingers fisted in Nigel’s jacket.

  “I told you,” she whispered faintly. “I will decide.”

  Her head tipped against his shoulder.

  She collapsed fully then—consciousness giving way.

  “Medic!” Nigel roared.

  Inside the infirmary, lantern light was harsh and unforgiving.

  Marla worked quickly, cutting away fabric.

  “She reopened the original wound,” Marla said grimly. “And that creature tore through muscle already healing.”

  “Is she going to live?” Ralphie asked.

  Marla didn’t answer right away.

  “She’s stubborn,” she said finally. “That helps.”

  Nigel refused to leave her side.

  Hours later, when the bleeding slowed and her breathing steadied, Maya slipped in quietly with a tin mug.

  “She will recover,” Maya said softly.

  Nigel looked up, exhausted. “You sound certain.”

  “I gave her something earlier this week. Old remedy. My grandmother used it during the Balkan winters.”

  Nigel frowned. “What kind of remedy?”

  “Willow bark for pain. Fermented honey and garlic for infection. And a poultice of comfrey and pine resin.” Maya shrugged lightly. “She said it was foolish. But yesterday she admitted the fever had broken.”

  Nigel exhaled slowly.

  “She only stayed on her feet tonight because she was already starting to heal,” Maya added. “But even warriors have limits.”

  Nigel looked down at Blanka’s pale face.

  “She doesn’t,” he said quietly.

  Maya gave him a knowing look.

  “Everyone does,” she replied. “The strong ones just hide it better.”

  Outside, the forest shifted in uneasy silence.

  Inside, Blanka breathed—faint but steady.

  And for now, that was enough.