First Contact

They saw the building just as the light began to fail.

It sat half-buried in snow at the edge of the old road — a long, two-storey structure that might once have been a waystation or storage depot. Most of the windows were dark. The snow around it was disturbed in irregular patterns that led both toward the trees and up to the broken front doors.

Sydney slowed and lifted a hand.

“Movement. Treeline.”

Emma saw them a second later. Three figures stepped out of the dark between the trees, then a fourth. They did not charge at once. They spread out, watching.

Emma raised the Remington 700 first. Her shot cracked across the quiet and struck the lead Ravager in the shoulder, spinning it hard into the snow. It did not stay down.

Sydney’s bow was already drawn. Her first arrow took the second figure cleanly through the upper chest. The second arrow followed almost immediately, punching into the neck of the third. Both went down hard and stayed there.

Emma worked the bolt, settled her breathing, and fired again. This time the .308 hit centre mass. The fourth Ravager dropped and did not rise.

More shapes were already moving in the trees.

“Building,” Emma said. “Now.”

They broke from the open ground at a run, boots punching through the snow. The front doors hung crooked on their hinges. Sydney went through first, bow still in hand. Emma followed, rifle up.

The ground floor was a single long room of collapsed shelving and frozen debris. Two Ravagers were already inside.

The nearest one lunged from behind a toppled metal cabinet. Emma fired at near point-blank range. The rifle roared in the enclosed space and the body slammed backward into the wall, leaving a dark spray across the frozen plaster.

Sydney dropped the bow, ripped the machete free, and met the second one head-on. The blade rose and fell in short, brutal arcs — shoulder, neck, chest. When the Ravager still tried to push forward she shoved it off with her boot, drew the Glock, and put a single round through its skull.

A wet sound came from the upper floor.

Emma turned toward the half-collapsed staircase, raising the rifle. Before she could settle her aim, an arrow took the figure on the landing cleanly through the eye. The body toppled forward and tumbled halfway down the stairs.

Sydney was already lowering the bow she had snatched back up.

Silence returned, broken only by their breathing and the soft creak of the old structure under the weight of snow.

They cleared the rest of the building methodically. No more movement. No more sounds. The place was empty.

In the aftermath Sydney moved from body to body without speaking, recovering every arrow that could still be used. She wiped them clean on the snow outside the door and returned them to her quiver with careful, practised hands. Emma kept watch at the broken windows, rifle ready, listening to the dark treeline beyond.

Nothing else came.

For now.