97

You rush toward the fuel cans and grab two by the handles. Filled with gasoline, they are heavy and awkward, but you manage to drag them to the edge of the inner doors. Though the entryway is five feet from inner to outer doors, three feet of the are is covered in debris from the explosion. A narrow hole, maybe a foot wide, has been dug by the raiders who haul large broken pieces of stone and cement.

You lift one fuel cannister, bring it into the vestibule and spread gasoline over the debris. The pungent odor mixes with the dust, causing your eyes to tear as you slosh liquid over the rubble. A head pokes through the hole—a dark-skinned face with tattoos around the eyes of bloody thorns, and when he sees your activity, he pulls away and yells to the other raiders.