Alex stands at the base of the tower, the thin plume of smoke curling into the blood-red sky like a final, desperate signal. The silence from the compound is heavy, broken only by the mournful whistle of the wind through the rusted lattice of the tower.
She's alive.
The thought is a surge of pure, unadulterated relief, so potent it almost buckles his knees. But it's immediately followed by a cold wave of caution. Or someone else is.
He raises his rifle, the Stalker-1 feeling heavy and solid in his grip. He scans the area one last time. The dead Scrappers lie undisturbed. No immediate threats.
He approaches the narrow, metal ladder bolted to the side of the concrete bunker. It ascends vertically, disappearing into the upper levels of the comms tower structure.
He slings the rifle over his shoulder, the strap digging into his bruised muscles. Climbing with a bad ankle and a heavy pack is going to be hell. He takes a deep breath and begins the ascent.
Each rung is an agony. His ankle screams with every upward pull. His arms, weak from his previous life, tremble with the strain. He moves slowly, deliberately, forcing himself to stay quiet, listening intently for any sound from above.
What will I find up there? He fell into thought, his mind racing. Is it Maya? Did she win? Or did the Scrappers take the tower, and that smoke is from their cookfire? The uncertainty is a physical weight, heavier than the pack on his back.
He passes the second level, a small platform littered with spent shell casings. He sees more scorch marks, evidence of the fierce firefight. She'd made them pay for every inch.
He keeps climbing, the wind picking up as he gets higher, whipping dust into his eyes. The tower groans around him, a mournful sound of stressed metal.
Finally, he reaches the top platform. A heavy steel hatch, slightly ajar, blocks the entrance to the rooftop. The scraping sound he heard earlier must have come from here.
He pauses, listening. Silence.
Taking another steadying breath, he uses the barrel of his rifle to nudge the hatch open further. It moves with a rusty squeal. He pulls himself up, muscles screaming, and rolls onto the rooftop, immediately swinging his rifle towards the most likely point of cover – the sandbag parapet.
And there she is.
Alive.
She's leaning against the sandbags, her profile outlined against the vast, desolate sky. Her left arm is in the crude sling he remembers, her face pale and drawn under a layer of grime. Her rifle rests across her lap. She is watching the horizon, a lone, weary sentinel at the end of the world.
The sound of the hatch scraping against the metal floor makes her spin around.
In a single, fluid motion born of pure, ingrained instinct, her sidearm is in her hand, leveled directly at his head. Her eyes are wide, feral, the eyes of a cornered animal ready to kill.
Then, they focus. Recognition flickers through the hardened, battle-worn mask. The hard line of her mouth softens slightly. The gun doesn't waver, but the immediate killing intent recedes, replaced by a look of utter, stupefied disbelief. She looks at him—at his relatively clean trek suit, his new rifle, the heavy backpack, the fierce determination that has replaced the fear in his eyes.
Her pistol lowers, slowly, as if she doesn't trust her own senses.
"Seven days," she whispers, her voice a hoarse, incredulous breath. The single phrase hangs in the air between them, heavy with unspoken questions, accusations, and a dawning, impossible hope.
"You actually came back."