Hostile Scavengers

Leila grimaced at the spent shells. "We'll need more than ever now. Let's move."

Midday found them weaving through a crumbling stretch of abandoned suburb. Overturned cars and debris choked the streets. While scanning for an alternate route, a burst of gunfire cracked the stillness. Bullets pinged off the pickup's hood.

"Down!" Leila yelled, yanking the steering wheel to swerve behind a rusted bus for cover. The party scrambled out, ducking behind wreckage.

A small band of scavengers—likely another desperate group—had staked out the area. Their quick, uncoordinated shots suggested they were no crack militia, but still dangerous enough. Mark waved a cloth to signal they had no desire to fight, but the scavengers kept firing.

Trapped, Leila directed a flanking maneuver: Santiago and Martin circled left while Kai laid covering fire with short bursts. Fiona and Janelle stayed low with Mark, waiting for a lull to push forward. The exchange lasted only minutes but felt like an eternity.

Eventually, the scavengers ran low on ammo or realized the group wasn't easy pickings; they retreated. The raid party emerged bruised but uninjured, nerves rattled.

Martin, adrenaline pumping, boasted how he'd chased off two scavengers. Leila, ignoring his bravado, quickly checked everyone for wounds. No casualties, though the pickup's windshield took a bullet, spiderwebbed with cracks.

"Keep moving," she ordered, breath shaky. "We can't get bogged down here."

By late afternoon, they reached the rumored stronghold: a fenced compound of low concrete buildings, barbed wire overhead, battered vehicles scattered around. It looked deserted at first glance, but they approached with caution, mindful of the day's earlier ambush.

Kai and Mark split off to scout the perimeter. Martin kept glancing around nervously, while Janelle and Fiona stuck close to Leila. Once sure no immediate defenders lurked, they pried open a side entrance. Inside, the stale smell of dust and old chemicals washed over them.

"This must've been a small National Guard post," Mark muttered, shining his flashlight along corridors. Broken cots and half-ransacked lockers told a story of a desperate final stand. Yet deeper in, they found locked doors, crates possibly untouched by looters.

Leila's pulse quickened. She signaled for the group to move systematically. "We get in, grab what we can, and get out. Minimal noise, minimal time."

They forced open a heavy storage room door with a crowbar. Their flashlights revealed a modest trove: stacked ammo boxes, medical kits, and sealed MREs (Meals Ready to Eat). Fiona exhaled in relief upon spotting antibiotics in a metal cabinet. Kai tested the weight of an ammo crate. Enough to refill their meager stash, at least for a few fights.

Santiago quickly stashed bandages and basic meds in a bag, while Mark loaded boxes of bullets into the group's duffel. Martin, glancing over his shoulder, pocketed extra MRE packs. Leila noticed but decided to address it once they were safe.

A few scattered footprints suggested some items had been taken recently, but apparently not enough to empty the place. This was the break they needed.

While combing through an adjacent office, they found signs someone might still be living there: a bedroll, half-eaten food rations, personal belongings. Janelle's eyes went wide.

"Whoever they are, they aren't here now," she whispered.

Tension rippled. They realized the occupant might not be malicious—just another survivor claiming this place. Were they stealing from someone in dire need?

An argument flared:

Martin insisted they'd come too far to worry about random squatters. "Better we take it than let it rot!"

Fiona argued they should only take what they absolutely needed, in case the occupant returned.

Santiago stayed neutral but eyed Leila for direction.

Leila wrestled with guilt. They did need these supplies. But robbing a harmless occupant felt wrong. She ultimately decided they'd take the critical items—ammo, medicine, some MREs—but leave behind enough that whomever lived here wouldn't starve. A shaky middle ground.

Martin grumbled, but Leila's glare silenced him. "We're survivors, not monsters," she hissed, echoing a phrase that haunted her since Jace and Ellie's treachery. We can't become them.

Just as they prepared to exit, a guttural moan echoed in the corridors. Then another—zombies, drawn by the noise of forced doors or the lingering presence of humans. The group froze.

Mark swung his flashlight beam across the hallway, revealing a cluster of undead shuffling toward them. Their eyes gleamed in the half-light, heads lolling with mindless hunger. More moans sounded behind them—trapped from both ends.

"Move!" Leila shouted. They scrambled, gunfire sparking muzzle flashes in the dimness. Bullets cut down the first wave, but more lumbered forth. The undead were fresh or at least recently turned, quick on their feet.

Kai led them in a frantic dash around a corner, luring half the horde after him while Mark provided covering fire. Martin hacked wildly with his machete, nearly nicking Janelle in the process. Fiona fired two measured shots, each hitting true, clearing a path.

In the chaos, a few precious bullets were spent. They raced for the exit, the moans swelling behind them. With the duffel bags full of loot slung over their shoulders, they burst outside, slamming the door shut behind them. More undead dotted the yard, but they were able to sprint to the pickup.

The pickup screeched out of the stronghold's parking lot, undead hands clawing at air. Leila's breath came in ragged gasps as she wove around abandoned vehicles. Mark barked directions from the passenger seat, scanning for hostiles. Adrenaline spiked each time a stray zombie lunged at the truck, but they managed to break free.

By the time they reached safer roads, the group let out a collective exhale. They had the supplies. They were alive. The question of sabotage back at the shelter lingered, but at least they wouldn't be defenseless if an attack came.

Hours later, dusk settled as they rolled past the fence of their own compound. The watch at the gate let them in, expressions equal parts relief and apprehension. Darren rushed forward, helping unload crates of precious ammo and medical supplies.

Fiona looked almost tearful with gratitude upon seeing the antibiotics. "This…this could save lives," she whispered.

Kai set down a box of MREs, wiping sweat from his brow. "We did good," he said, though his gaze flicked to Leila, sensing her troubled thoughts.

Night fell over the shelter, the mood a mix of celebration and wariness. Survivors gathered around, marveling at the newly acquired supplies. A small cheer rose as Mark distributed fresh ammo to key defenders. Fiona doled out essential medicine for a few who'd been nursing untreated wounds. Even Martin's earlier grumblings were forgotten in the wave of relief—though Leila hadn't forgotten his single-minded push to take more than necessary.

As the glow of small lanterns lit the courtyard, Leila caught Kai's eye. He offered a subtle nod. The group might have staved off immediate disaster, but the infiltration threat wasn't solved. Someone in their midst still aimed to undermine them, and the sabotage from last night proved they were bolder than ever.

Leila stood by the newly unloaded crates, forcibly mustering a steady voice as she addressed the crowd. "We've got a fighting chance now. Medicine, ammo, and some food. We can't waste it. Keep watch, share what we have fairly, and remember—whoever tries to take us down from inside…we'll find them. We protect each other."

Applause was scattered, uncertain. Some smiles broke out, though overshadowed by the knowledge that their success tonight might escalate internal sabotage. The tension, like a coiled spring, remained taut.

Kai stepped beside Leila, resting a hand on her shoulder. "One crisis at a time," he murmured, so only she could hear.

She exhaled, letting the moment wash over her: the fleeting victory of the resource raid, the weight of an unresolved traitor lurking in the shadows. Despite the new supplies, they weren't safe, not really. But for now, they'd celebrate small triumphs.

"Right," she whispered back. "One crisis at a time."

And as the others busied themselves storing the spoils and patching new cracks, Leila and Kai stood close, haunted by the uneasy truth that the real battle for the shelter's soul had only just begun.