The wind cut through the depot in long, icy gusts.
It whistled through broken windows.
Through rusted fencing.
Through gaps in old maintenance buildings that should've collapsed years ago.
Every breath burned on the way in.
Every exhale vanished into white fog.
Snow crunched beneath shifting boots.
Nobody said it aloud, but everyone felt it.
Winter was winning.
Not the infected.
Not starvation.
Winter.
The kind of cold that crawled into your bones and stayed there.
The kind that turned a minor injury into a death sentence.
Somewhere in the distance, a low, distorted howl drifted across the frozen landscape.
Everybody heard it.
Naomi's head turned immediately.
Terri's arms folded tighter.
Even Hale paused for half a second before continuing to load fuel.
Another sound followed.
Faint.
Far away.
The unmistakable cry of an infected.
Not close.
Not yet.
But getting closer.
Nobody had many rounds left.
Hell, most of us didn't have any.
