The morning broke cold and wet, the kind of damp that seeped through layers and settled in your bones. Thorne had broken camp before first light, erasing signs of his overnight stay with practiced efficiency—scattering ashes from the fireplace, wiping boot prints from the kitchen tile with a damp rag. No point advertising your presence to whatever might come sniffing later.
He moved west again, skirting the edge of what had once been a state park. The trees here were thicker, pines and oaks standing sentinel over a carpet of dead needles and fallout ash. The air smelled different—resinous, almost clean compared to the chemical stink of the suburbs. But clean was relative. Radiation lingered everywhere, invisible and patient.
Thorne kept a steady pace, rifle slung but ready. The encounter with the Enclave yesterday had sharpened his caution. They weren't the screaming maniacs like the Reapers, but that made them worse in some ways. Organized. Armed better. If they'd decided he was a threat...
He pushed the thought aside. No evidence they were tracking him. Yet.
The woods thinned into a fog-shrouded ravine, mist rising from a stagnant creek that cut through the underbrush. Visibility dropped to twenty meters—bad for long-range threats, good for staying hidden. Thorne slowed, moving from tree to tree, listening.
That's when he heard it.
A soft sound, almost swallowed by the fog. Not animal. Human.
Whimpers.
Low, broken. Someone trying to stay quiet and failing.
Thorne froze, body going still against a thick oak trunk. He eased the M4 up, safety already off from habit. The sound came again—closer now, from a depression in the ravine ahead. A ditch, maybe, or natural hollow.
He pie'd the angle slow, advancing in bounds.
There.
Curled in the mud at the bottom of a shallow ditch was a girl. Young—nineteen, maybe twenty. Long black hair matted with leaves and dirt, tangled like raven wings. Pale skin bruised along one cheek and arms, clothes torn: black jeans ripped at the knees, a dark hoodie shredded at the sleeves. She hugged her knees to her chest, rocking slightly, breath coming in shaky hitches.
Thorne scanned the area first—threats before anything else. No movement in the fog. No tracks leading directly to her except her own, staggered and desperate. She'd been running.
He watched her for a full minute. She hadn't noticed him yet, eyes squeezed shut, lips moving like she was whispering to herself.
*Curvy under that torn hoodie—looks like a D-cup, full and straining the fabric even hunched as she is.*
The assessment was automatic, clinical. Part of reading a person: build, potential threats or assets, health state. She looked half-starved but not broken. Bruises fresh, but no obvious breaks. Could walk, probably run if pressed.
The whimpers quieted. Her eyes snapped open—piercing green, rimmed red but sharp. She spotted him instantly.
"Who the hell are you?" The words came out husky, edged with sarcasm that didn't quite hide the tremble. Breathy, like she'd been holding her breath too long.
Thorne didn't lower the rifle. "Someone passing through. Keep quiet."
She stared at him, taking in the gear, the weapon, the way he stood. Her full lips pressed into a thin line. "You gonna shoot me or just stare, sir?"
The 'sir' slipped out subconscious, sarcastic but with something underneath. Vulnerability, maybe.
Thorne considered. Lone female, evading something—raiders, probably, by the bruises. Useful? Maybe. Extra eyes, hands for work. Liability? Definitely—noise, supplies split, potential to draw attention.
But the pragmatism won out. One more body might mean one more watch rotation. And information—she might know the local threats.
"You alone?" he asked.
She nodded slow, pushing herself up against the ditch wall. Her hips swayed as she stood, jeans clinging to thick thighs despite the mud. Musky scent hit him—fear-sweat mixed with earth and something faintly floral, like old perfume clinging stubborn.
"For now," she said. "Had a... protector. Didn't work out."
Her voice cracked on the last part. Eyes flicked away.
Thorne caught the implication. Protector who couldn't protect. Or worse.
He lowered the muzzle slightly—not friendly, but not threatening. "Reapers?"
She shuddered. "No. Just... regular assholes. Thought they could take what they wanted." A bitter laugh. "They were right, till I got away."
Thorne nodded once. He'd seen enough to know the story. Didn't need details.
"You got a name?"
"Vesper." She wiped her face with a torn sleeve, smearing dirt across pale cheeks. "You?"
"Thorne."
She waited for more. He didn't give it.
The fog thickened around them, muffling sound. Time to move.
"You coming or staying?" he asked.
Vesper glanced back the way she'd come, then at him. Green eyes calculating. "You offering?"
"Offering you don't slow me down. And you pull weight."
She pushed hair from her face, strands sticking to damp skin. "I can pull weight."
Thorne turned and started walking. Didn't look back. Footsteps squelched behind him after a moment—she was following.
They moved in silence for an hour, Thorne setting a ground-eating pace through the woods. Vesper kept up better than expected, though her breathing came heavy. No complaints. Good sign.
His mind wandered as they walked—the rhythm of boots on damp earth triggering memories he'd rather keep buried.
MARSOC selection. The grind that broke most men.
He remembered the beach at Coronado, sand like ground glass under bare feet, instructors screaming inches from your face while you held a log overhead till your shoulders screamed. The cold Pacific swallowing you during surf torture, waves pounding until lungs burned and everything narrowed to the next breath.
*Pain is just weakness leaving the body.*
They'd said that a lot.
Then the real training—SERE school in the Maine woods. Evasion, resistance, escape. Days without food, nights without sleep, interrogators who knew how to make you doubt your own name. Learning to compartmentalize. To endure.
Thorne had excelled at it. Quiet, adaptable. Never the loudest in the team, but the one who got things done. His team had called him "Ghost"—always there when needed, gone when not.
Afghanistan. Multiple tours. Raids on compounds that smelled of goat shit and hashish. Clearing rooms where muzzle flashes lit faces frozen in surprise. The metallic tang of blood mixing with cordite. Losing Colton to an IED that turned their Humvee into confetti. Holding pressure on Jenner's gut wound while calling for medevac that never came.
Then the big one—the op that went sideways in Syria. Intel said low-threat target. Turned out to be a trap. Ambush in a marketplace, RPGs turning concrete to shrapnel. Thorne dragged Reyes clear, both of them leaking blood, while the rest of the team bought time with their lives.
He'd made it to extraction. Reyes hadn't.
And then the world ended anyway.
Nuclear flashes on the horizon while they were stateside, waiting for redeployment. Orders came scrambled—defend infrastructure, maintain order. Then comms went dark. EMPs fried everything. Cities burning. His team convoy hit by panicked civilians turned desperate. Reyes dying in the dirt, pressing that map into his hand.
Eden's Reach.
Thorne blinked, pulling himself back to the present. The fog was lifting as they crested a ridge. Vesper walked a few paces behind, long hair swaying with each step.
"You were military," she said suddenly. Not a question.
He glanced back. "Was."
"Special forces?"
Thorne didn't answer. Kept walking.
Vesper pressed. "The way you move. Like you're always expecting someone to jump out. And that rifle—suppressor, nice gear. Not scavenged crap."
"Observant."
She snorted. "Had to be. World went to shit, you learn quick or you don't learn at all."
They reached a clearing—old campsite, fire ring blackened and cold. Thorne stopped, scanning. Good sight lines, water nearby from the creek they'd crossed earlier. Defensible enough for one night.
"Stopping here," he said.
Vesper dropped to sit on a fallen log, breathing hard. "Thank fuck. Thought you were gonna march forever."
Thorne ignored her, dropping his pack and beginning setup. He gathered deadfall—dry stuff from under larger logs where the ash hadn't soaked through. Vesper watched, arms wrapped around herself.
"You always this chatty?" she asked.
"Talking burns calories."
She laughed—short, surprised sound. "Fair."
He used the multi-tool striker on some birch bark and sanitizer-soaked cotton from his IFAK. Flame caught quick, small and hot. Shielded it with rocks to contain smoke.
"Sit closer," he said. "Warm up."
Vesper moved without argument, scooting nearer the fire. The flames painted gold across her pale skin, highlighting bruises that were turning purple. Her hoodie gaped slightly as she leaned forward, warmth seeping through torn fabric.
Thorne boiled water in a scavenged metal cup—twice, always twice. Added a purification tab for good measure.
He handed her the first cup when it cooled enough. "Drink slow."
She wrapped both hands around it, inhaling steam. "God, that's good."
They sat in silence for a while, fire crackling between them. Vesper's hair dried in waves, black strands catching red highlights from the flames.
"Why west?" she asked eventually.
Thorne poked the fire with a stick. "Somewhere to go."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the one you're getting."
She studied him across the flames, green eyes reflecting light like cat's eyes. "You remind me of someone. Guy who looked after me before. Called himself my protector." Her voice went bitter. "Didn't protect much when it counted."
Thorne met her gaze. "I'm not your protector."
"No," she whispered. "But you're something."
The fire popped, sending sparks upward into the darkening sky.
Thorne checked his watch—habit, even though it had stopped months ago. Time by the sun now.
"Get some sleep," he said. "I'll take first watch."
Vesper curled up near the fire, using her arms as pillow. "Wake me for second?"
He nodded once.
As she drifted off, Thorne sat with his back to a tree, rifle across his knees. The woods settled around them—night sounds starting up, insects that had somehow survived the fallout.
His mind drifted back again, unbidden.
The day the bombs fell.
They'd been at Bragg, prepping for another deployment. Sirens started wailing across post. Then the flashes—bright even through clouds, like God turning on floodlights. Shockwaves minutes later, rattling windows.
Orders came fast—secure nuclear sites, maintain order. But it was chaos from minute one. Civilians flooding bases, military families trying to get in, soldiers trying to get out to their own.
His team loaded up convoy—Humvees, weapons, whatever supplies they could grab. Headed toward D.C. to link up with command.
Never made it.
Ambush on the highway—desperate people with guns, thinking the military had answers. Or food. Or safety.
Reyes took the first rounds. Thorne returned fire, methodical, dropping threats while dragging wounded clear. But there were too many. Too disorganized. Friendly fire in the confusion.
By the time the shooting stopped, his team was gone. Vehicles burning. He walked away with what he could carry and Reyes' dying words.
Eden's Reach.
Thorne blinked, coming back. The fire had burned low. Vesper slept fitfully, murmuring in her dreams.
He added another stick, watching flames catch.
Tomorrow, more miles.
With company now.
Whether that was good or bad remained to be seen.