The fire from the overturned fuel truck still burned long into the dusk, painting the sky in hues of orange and deep blood-red. The scent of scorched rubber and charred bone lingered like an invisible mist, impossible to escape. River sat silently beneath the twisted remains of a lamppost, arms wrapped around her knees, eyes blank as the night crept over the ruined cityscape.
The group hadn't spoken much since the ambush. The scavengers from District 3 were ruthless — not like the infected, but in some ways far worse. Human minds turned monstrous, and in them, mercy had died long before the virus took root.
Ash paced nearby, machete still stained from earlier violence. His jaw clenched with each step. River could hear the low tremor in his breath — anger, grief, maybe even guilt. It had been Ash's call to take the eastern overpass. He had underestimated the enemy's desperation. They'd lost three people because of it.
"Keep pacing and you'll wear a trench in the concrete," muttered Saya. Her voice was low, half-drowsy. She was tending to a deep gash on her leg, barely flinching as she stitched it herself.
"I should've seen it coming," Ash said, ignoring her.
"You did see it. Just too late," Saya replied.
River finally lifted her eyes. "They had sniper cover. Someone trained. Civilians don't shoot like that."
"Former militia, maybe," Ash said darkly. "Or worse. The kind that enjoy the kill."
The city had changed in the last few weeks. It wasn't just the infected anymore. Survivors were evolving — adapting, arming, organizing. Factions had formed out of the ashes: The Bleeding Cross, The Woken Sons, and now these new ones — silent, deadly, precise. And beneath it all, rumors. Always rumors.
River reached into her jacket and pulled out the old transmitter she'd been carrying since day one. It was battered, cracked, the screen long gone. But it still caught stray signals. Static. Scratches. Sometimes voices.
Tonight, it was humming.
She turned the dial slowly, and through the static, a low voice emerged.
"…The Crimson Sky is not a warning. It is a door…"
The group fell silent.
"…Repeat: those who see the sky burn twice must move west before dawn. Not a warning. A door…"
Then static swallowed it again.
"A door?" Saya repeated, eyebrows narrowing.
"To what?" Ash said, crouching beside River.
River didn't respond. She was staring at the sky.
The first time the sky had turned crimson, it was during the fall of New Denver — a city consumed in nuclear fire to halt the second wave. But she had seen it again, just days ago, moments before the fuel truck exploded.
Two times.
She pressed the transmitter close to her ear, hoping for more.
Nothing.
"I've heard about this," said Elijah, the youngest among them. His voice trembled. "At the southern outposts. They talk about some… place. A zone untouched. A green zone."
"Fairy tales," Saya grunted.
"No," Elijah insisted. "They said it's real. Past the wasteland. Past the Dead Belt. There's a wall, a field of lights. And inside — no infected, no radiation. Just… life."
"A sanctuary," River murmured.
Ash laughed bitterly. "And how do we get past the Dead Belt? March through the Crimson Swamp with no food? No vehicles? No masks?"
"We follow the message," River said.
Ash turned on her, voice rising. "We don't even know if it's real!"
"Neither was the virus. Neither were the infected. Neither was any of this — until it was!" River shouted, surprising herself.
Silence fell again.
Saya finally broke it. "Even if it's a lie… it's something. We're bleeding out hope, and hope's the only currency that still means anything."
Ash stared at her, torn between rage and resignation. Then he finally nodded.
"West before dawn, then," he said.
They moved in darkness, avoiding roads and open rooftops. The city groaned around them like a dying animal — occasional gunshots, distant screams, the low snarl of infected prowling beneath broken windows. But they kept going, driven not by certainty, but by sheer need.
By morning, they reached the edge of Zone Delta. A former quarantine line — now a broken fence riddled with claw marks and bullet holes.
Here, something strange happened.
The birds returned.
River was the first to notice. A soft trill broke the silence — a robin. Then another. A crow perched on a rusted antenna, watching them.
Ash stopped, eyes scanning the skyline. "This isn't right."
"The infected avoid places like this," River said.
"Too quiet," Saya added. She had her gun out, finger on the trigger.
But they pressed forward.
And then they saw it — on the horizon, shimmering like a mirage in the rising sun.
A wall of light.
Translucent, like heat haze, but geometric — hexagonal ripples in the air, stretching for miles. Behind it, outlines of structures too clean, too tall. Smoke rising in neat spirals. Order.
River fell to her knees. "It's real," she whispered.
But before anyone could speak further, the world snapped.
A high-pitched ringing filled the air. The light wall shimmered violently, like it had sensed them.
Then, a voice — clear, mechanical, omnipresent — echoed across the open space.
"Unauthorized biological presence detected. Tier 2 protocols initiated. Purge commencing in T-minus 180 seconds."
"What the hell does that mean?" Elijah cried out.
"I think…" River stood slowly. "We're not supposed to be here."
"Back!" Ash ordered, but it was too late.
From the ground behind them, a panel slid open. A machine — sleek, four-legged, with a glowing core — emerged. Its head twisted unnaturally, scanning them.
Then it began to charge.