The highway was a labyrinth of rust and ruin. For over an hour, they moved through the maze of stalled vehicles, a slow, grueling advance. The initial chaos of close-quarters combat had settled into a tense, exhausting rhythm. Clear a car, check the next, move forward. Repeat. The constant, low-level threat kept their nerves frayed, their muscles coiled tight.
They had made it perhaps a quarter of a mile when the rhythm broke. They were moving past a large, overturned tractor-trailer that blocked several lanes when Hex, who was watching their rear, suddenly swore.
"Quinn, we've got a problem," he said, his voice tight. "Big group. Moving fast. Coming up behind us."
