The bus crawled along the ruined road, its engine humming low, as if afraid to break the silence. Clara sat with one arm around a trembling child, Rachel watching the world outside through the cracked window, and Jackson stood near the front, alert, gripping the rail with white knuckles.
Children whispered. The elderly clutched their bags. Some people stared at nothing at all. The quiet was so heavy it felt like part of the air—thick, waiting, listening.
The driver cleared his throat and called out softly, "Jackson… we've got a problem."
Jackson stepped forward. "What now?"
"We're nearly out of fuel." The driver pointed ahead, where a faded sign leaned crookedly in the wind. "There. A gas station. Looks like it… survived."
As the bus rolled closer, they saw abandoned cars scattered across the lot like forgotten toys, some with doors hanging open. The mini-supermarket's windows were dusty but unbroken. Behind the station stretched a rusted scrap yard, mountains of twisted metal silhouetted against the sky—an ugly graveyard of machines, but a natural barrier.
"It'll do," Jackson murmured. "We stop here."
The bus hissed as it came to a halt. No movement. No rats. No screams. Just a tense, eerie quiet.
Clara gathered the injured, helping them off the bus. Rachel checked the perimeter with Jackson, their steps crunching on broken glass. The place looked untouched, like whatever chaos had swept the city hadn't fully reached this pocket.
"This could work," Rachel said. "For a few days at least."
Jackson nodded. "We'll fuel up, patch the hurt, fix the bus… and fortify everything. Scrap yard behind us, walls in front. We can make this place defensible."
Clara looked at the group—exhausted faces, frightened eyes—and finally allowed herself a shaky breath.
They had escaped the swarm. For now.
And for the first time in days, they had a place to rest.
---
Securing the Gas Station
The moment the bus doors folded open, Jackson began assigning roles. The survivors spilled out—thirty-four souls in total: fifteen adult males, ten of them older men with stiff movements and tired eyes; five younger or middle-aged men who could still run if needed. Twelve women, seven older and five younger. And seven kids—four girls, three boys—clinging to each other in confusion and fear.
They had numbers. What they needed was safety.
"Everyone who can stand and move, gather up," Jackson called out. His voice echoed against the metal siding of the gas station, strong enough to steady the panic without barking orders.
Clara stepped beside him, keeping the children close. Rachel checked sightlines, her hand resting on the handle of her makeshift spear.
That's when she noticed someone she didn't recognize—
a woman stepping off the bus for the first time, her hair tied back, a medical bag slung over her shoulder.
"Isabella," she introduced herself softly. "I used to be a nurse… before all this."
Clara felt immediate relief. A healer. Finally.
Isabella didn't wait for permission—she crouched next to an injured old man, already pulling supplies from her bag. Her hands were steady. Her presence, calming.
---
Anthony's Awakening
Near the fuel pumps, the driver—Anthony—popped the hood of the bus, brows furrowed. He'd been a simple driver before the world fell apart.
But something had changed in him since the chaos began.
As he inspected the engine, it was as if invisible diagrams unfolded in his mind. Every bolt, every valve, every cable made sudden sense. He could see what needed repair, what needed reinforcing, what needed replacing.
"Anthony?" Jackson asked. "You alright?"
Anthony stood slowly, wiping sweat from his forehead.
"I… I know how to fix things now," he said quietly. "Like I've done it for years."
Jackson raised a brow. "A skill?"
Anthony nodded. "Engineer. Don't ask me how… but I can keep this bus running. Maybe even make it better."
That was hope. A rare currency.
---
Fortifying the Station
Together, they set to work.
1. Perimeter Sweep
Rachel led five of the younger men around the lot, clearing debris and checking every abandoned car.
They dragged the cars into a rough barrier around the front of the station, leaving only a narrow space large enough for the bus to exit if needed.
2. Scrap Yard Advantage
Behind them, the towering piles of metal formed a natural wall. Jackson stationed two old men with good eyes on top of a rusted shipping container where they could act as lookouts.
Clara noticed the kids peeking up at the jagged heaps.
"Stay close," she warned them. "No wandering in there. It's a maze."
3. Reinforcing the Store
The mini-supermarket's doors were intact but flimsy. Using metal sheets scavenged from the scrap yard, Anthony and three of the younger women hammered together makeshift shutters.
Every bang of the metal echoed across the empty highway.
Isabella flinched at each sound.
"The noise might attract something…" she murmured.
"Better now than in the middle of the night," Jackson replied.
4. Fueling and Resources
They filled the bus tanks.
They siphoned fuel from abandoned cars.
Rachel and Clara organized the women to search the store for food, water, blankets, anything useful.
The kids helped by carrying whatever wasn't too heavy.
For the first time in days, they smiled.
---
Nightfall at the Station
As the sun bled into the horizon, the station looked different—stronger, almost defensible. The survivors sat in a circle outside, sharing the first calm meal they'd had since the rats invaded the road.
Isabella moved from person to person, checking wounds and offering soft words.
Anthony tinkered with a busted generator, muttering to himself as if the machine whispered back secrets.
Jackson stood guard by the scrap yard, watching shadows twist between the heaps of metal.
Clara sat with the children huddled against her, the firelight dancing in their tired eyes.
Rachel joined him, lowering her voice:
"Think we can stay here a few days?"
Jackson hesitated.
Listened to the distant wind.
Listened to the silence behind the metal mountains.
"If nothing's hiding in that scrap yard," he replied. "Then yes."
But the night felt heavy.
And somewhere deep in the piles of rusted metal…
something shifted.