Kallum had the key. He was coming back to me. That was what mattered.
The gunfire started before I could breathe.
Not close. Not yet. The perimeter. But steady. Multiple weapons. Not the scattered shots of a probe.
Full assault.
I snatched the pulse rifle and took the stairs three at a time. My legs screamed with every step. Every muscle in my body had been running on nothing for hours, and now the nothing was running out.
Turnip had dragged himself to the kitchen wall. His back legs still weren’t working right, but his eyes were open. Alert. His tusks were red in the dawn light coming through the shattered windows.
“Hey, pig.” I dropped beside him. Checked the wound. The bleeding had slowed. Not stopped, but slowed. “How you doing?”
He made a sound. Low. Pained. But his eyes tracked me, and when I touched his snout, he pressed into my palm.
“I know. I know it hurts.” I glanced at the windows. The gunfire was getting closer. “We’re going to get out of here. You and me and the ghost boy. We’re going to be fine.”
I didn’t know if I believed it. But Turnip needed to hear it.
Another burst of gunfire. Closer now. Coming from the north ridge.
“Kallum.” I pressed the comm. “They’re hitting the perimeter. How many are left?”
“Too many.” His voice cut in and out. “More than we can take head-on. They’re not trying to breach. They’re holding position.”
“Holding for what?”
“I don’t know. Stay inside. I’m almost there.”
I moved to the window. Kept low. Searched the treeline.
They were out there. I could see the shapes moving between the burned stumps of what used to be Torek’s orchard. Professional spacing. Controlled movement. They’d learned.
But they weren’t advancing.
Why weren’t they advancing?
The smell hit me first.
Smoke. Not weapons discharge. Not the acrid bite of pulse fire.
Wood smoke. Old smoke. The kind of smoke that meant something was burning that shouldn’t be.
I ran to the east window.
The tool shed was on fire.
Flames licked up the sides, orange and hungry. I’d stored Torek’s extra equipment there. His spare parts. The feed for Turnip. It was already consumed, the roof collapsing inward.
The barn was catching too. I’d opened the grazer stalls two days ago, when the first scouts appeared. Let them scatter into the hills. They were prey animals. They knew how to run, how to hide. Better odds out there than trapped in a building.
I hoped they’d made it far enough.
Another flicker of light. The chicken coop.
My hens. The ones who gave me eggs every morning, who clucked and fussed when I came to feed them, who’d been the only voices on this farm besides Turnip for three years.
I couldn’t save them. Couldn’t carry them. But I could give them a chance.
