The journey westward was, for several days, uneventful.
This relative peace was shattered by the distant, unmistakable sounds of combat, the shrieks of mutants, the panicked shouts of humans, and the crackle of poorly channeled energy weapons.
They crested a small rise overlooking a ruined highway interchange. Below, a convoy of three rugged vehicles was surrounded. About a dozen survivors, a mix of men and women, were making a desperate stand against a swarm of fast, canine-like mutants, using the trucks as a barricade. It was a losing battle; the mutants were agile, and the survivors' fire was disorganized.
Celestia's eyes scanned the scene instantly. "Eighteen hostiles, three confirmed human casualties not moving. Do we intervene?"
Julian's gaze was analytical, weighing the variables. Helping meant expending resources, revealing their presence and capabilities. But survivors meant information. And a group under attack was often… grateful.
