Wes kept the bolt-action across his knees until the sky turned the color of wet cement, then lowered it to save his shoulders. The chain group had not returned, but the absence felt tactical, like a breath held too long. He wrote "03:00. no visuals. Assume listening" and closed the notebook, the click of the cover louder than any gunshot he had fired.
RayRay met him at the hatch, arm wrapped fresh, fever sweat shining at his temples. "Motor's holding," he said. "Fuel gives us thirty-six hours if we kill it during daylight. After that we siphon the truck out front or we go dark."
Wes nodded. He had already measured the distance to the deuce and a half in his mind: forty steps, no cover, a straight line across broken glass. He stored the math beside the round count, another problem waiting its turn.
Mara was folding blankets when they entered the dining room. Elijah sat on the counter, legs swinging, tracing finger shapes across fogged plywood. The boy had not spoken since the night before, but his eyes followed every movement, cataloguing exits the way children learn to count toys.
RayRay tapped the board. "We pull one sheet at noon. Let light in, keep rifles ready. Anything crosses the paint, we drop the board and fire. Wes, you take high. I'll take low. Mara, you carry the boy to the cooler and count to sixty. If the door opens before sixty, you fire through it."
Mara's chin lifted. "And if you're both down?"
RayRay's answer was immediate. "Then you keep counting and you do not open. Sixty becomes one hundred, one hundred becomes forever. The food stays inside. The blood stays outside. That's the ledger."
No one argued. They ate cold peaches from the can, syrup thick as guilt, and said nothing more.
At eleven thirty Wes climbed to the roof and settled behind the parapet. RayRay followed with a pry bar and a length of two by four. Together they loosened the center sheet, easing it down until a horizontal slit six inches high ran across the front window. Daylight poured in, harsh and yellow, painting stripes across the floor below. Wes adjusted the rifle rest, lined the crosshair on the white paint, and waited.
Minutes passed like hours. The generator idled low, a whisper beneath the wind. At twelve oh three the first shape appeared beyond the pumps, walking slow, head cocked. It was male once, shirt gone, ribs showing through skin that looked baked and brittle. It stopped at the white line, toe tips brushing paint, and listened. Wes's finger found the trigger, pressure steady, no squeeze. The shape did not cross. It turned and walked away, back toward the road, disappearing behind the last sedan.
RayRay exhaled through his nose. "One."
A second followed, then a third, each repeating the same ritual: stop at the line, listen, leave. By the fifteenth Wes lost count of faces. None stepped over. The white boundary held like an invisible wall.
At thirteen hundred the flow stopped. The lot sat empty again, heat rippling above asphalt. Wes kept the rifle ready another thirty minutes, then lowered it, muscles trembling. RayRay slid the board back into place, cutting the sun off mid stripe. The room returned to twilight.
They did not speak. Wes descended the ladder and found RayRay at the cooler, writing on the back of a can label with a grease pencil: "Day 5, no breach, line holds, 17 rounds." He underlined the number twice, then looked at Wes.
"Tomorrow they test the corners," he said. "We reinforce or we fall. Your watch."
Wes took the pencil, added one word beneath the tally: "Ready." He capped the marker and slipped it into his pocket, a small transfer of authority he felt in his bones.
Evening came heavy. They ate again in silence, then divided the night into thirds. Wes drew the first shift, roof until midnight. Mara would follow, then RayRay until dawn. They spoke only names and times, nothing more.
At twenty one hundred Wes climbed the ladder, settled behind the rifle, and watched the white line fade under early starlight. He listened to the generator thrum, counted heartbeats against the round count, and waited for the next shape to decide whether rules still applied to the dead.
Metal scraped far off, then stopped. The wind carried no other sound. He wrote the time, closed the book, and kept his eyes on paint that no foot had yet disturbed, one hour closer to morning, one decision closer to the end.