The rover crested the last dune. Beyond it, the perimeter fencing came into view. It was a half-collapsed array of metal sheets and cyclone wires that were reinforced in most places.

  Jonas cut the engine, the vehicle hissing as it cooled. Sand shifted and settled as they stepped out.

  Beside the barricade, two soldiers manned the checkpoint. Their suits were sealed, visors darkened, postures too casual in a way that only came with monotony. The one who carried a gun leaned on the fence, while the other adjusted the small clipboard hanging from his neck.

  The armed soldier moved forward. “Any exposure?”

  “None that spread. Just a new scar to add to the collection.” Naomi answered, followed by a dry chuckle.

  She unraveled the bandage and showed her arm. The charred trail of cauterized flesh ran from shoulder to elbow. Still red, still blistered, but black roots had not returned.

  The soldier grunted. “Smells like a damn tire.”

  “Burned the roots,” Naomi said, “it did hurt like hell.”

  He sniffed once and waved them through with a bored flick of his wrist. “You’re clear. Just don’t leave a bloody trail this time.”

  They passed the fence without any further comment. The other soldier didn’t look at them, only scribbled something onto the clipboard.

  Jonas drove the rover in, while the rest lined up as the second gate creaked open. A hiss of disinfectant mist sprayed as they entered the settlement walls. It did little. The spores had a survival time of only a few minutes.

  The Northwest Maine Settlement Zone unfolded in silence. Sunken bunkers dotted the flatland, roughly fifteen to thirty people to a unit, mostly constructed from surplus plating or pipes, and whatever hadn’t been rusted beyond use. Each entrance was narrow by design, sealed tight against sandstorms and intrusions alike.

  Decay stopped at the fences. Spores would drift occasionally, but nothing deadly. No green grew, no animals lived outside. The last patches of fertile soil had long since turned to dust. The Sea of Decay had expanded from the heart of the continent outward, reshaping Triva’s geography into one whole desert wasteland, rendering old maps irrelevant.

  Inside the secondary structure, a soldier stopped them again.

  “Lockdown at zero-hundred. No exit clearance until rotation resets.”

  Fran signed the entry log. “We’ll be in.”

  The man turned to Naomi, “Got enough for tomorrow?”

  She grinned. “We might need to meet a handful of friends.”

  “Be careful out there.”

  Official command still technically belonged to the National Defense Force, the remaining government soldiers, and they even kept their old insignia. But real control no longer sat with them. Years ago, one of the delegations from Raktan Corp., a paramilitary science team, had overpowered local command, not by force, but by consolidation. They controlled energy, handled logistics, and distributed food. Their authority was never announced. It was assumed, as quietly as it was enforced. The soldiers followed orders. But the Raktans determined what those orders were. So the system held.

  The team entered the bunker in turns and gathered at the table. The lighting was functional but uneven, a strip in the ceiling flickering at intervals that they no longer minded.

  Luke stood aside when Naomi approached, shoulders tight, eyes red, waiting for the scolding to happen. But Naomi stopped in front of him, studying him for a quiet moment. Then she laid a hand on his shoulder.

  His breathing hitched, but the scolding didn’t come.

  Naomi only gave a small smile, nodded, and walked past him.

  Luke let out the breath he didn’t know he was holding, and broke into a sob.

  Naomi knew why he did what he did, all too well, and she understood that what he expected was not what he needed at that moment.

  By the dining table, Naomi spotted Elina, a woman in her early thirties, sitting with her 8-month-old tucked under her shirt, the child suckling quietly. She was the only adult left in the bunker, nursing her newborn, and looking after two other toddlers that weren’t her own.

  “Thank you, Elina.” Naomi tapped her on the shoulder.

  And beside Elina was her four-year-old sister, Yani, playing. Naomi crouched down.

  “Nao!” Yani called, breaking into a grin.

  Naomi opened her arms and gathered her close. “Did you have fun today? How are you feeling?”

  “I played with Shaina!” She giggled. “I’m feeling okay!” Yani chirped, then coughed. Naomi caught a whiff of the faint, sweet odor on her breath.

  Naomi turned to Elina. “Did she get out today?”

  “Just for ten minutes. I couldn’t stop her from meeting that Shaina kid from the other bunker.”

  She turned to Yani. “I told you not to go out! Your lungs are still—” Naomi’s arm tugged, cutting her short.

  She let out a long breath. “You know you're sensitive to the dust.”

  “Sorry…” The child pouted.

  Naomi rubbed the side of her neck, letting the tension ease out in a tired exhale. She rose and reached for her sister with her good arm.

  The child clambered into her embrace without protest, cheek smudged with ash, arms curling tight around her neck.

  Naomi gave Elina a quiet nod, then carried her sister toward their corner of the bunker.

  “Do you want to come with me tomorrow?” she asked as they walked.

  Yani frowned. “Outside… outside is scary.”

  “Still scared of that centipede?”

  She nodded.

  “Alright. But if you see Shaina again, you wear a mask. Every time. Or you’re coming with me. Deal?” Naomi lay her on the bed and crouched close beside her.

  “Okay,” Yani whispered.

  They shared a small smile. Naomi brushed a smudge of ash from Yani’s cheek, then turned toward the supply corner. Her arm throbbed with every step.

  She crouched by the storage bin, rifling through its contents for the med kit. Her fingers trembled as she shifted the heavier items aside. Pain shot through her shoulder when the wound tore open again, warm blood trailing slowly down her arm.

  She hissed, pressing her palm against it.

  “Mija…”

  A figure stepped into view—Marcella, one of the older mothers. Her hair had a few grays, and her stature slumped, but her presence was steady as stone. The kind of woman who never flinched.

  “Let me,” she simply said, already reaching down to take the kit from Naomi’s hands and easing her into a sitting position.

  “It’s alright, I can—” Naomi’s voice broke into a gasp as Marcella poured alcohol over the burn. “Shh— that’s worse than the bugs chewing on me.” She panted. “J-just bind it please.”

  Marcella worked fast, wrapping the bandage tightly with adept hands.

  She tried to steady her breathing, jaw clenched, until the last wrap was secured.

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  “How many in total?” she asked, barely audible.

  The kit was closed, and Marcella’s eyes lowered. “Two dozen at most. We’re a last dozen short.” With a weary sigh, she sank down beside her.

  “Tomorrow’s rationing.” Naomi rolled her shoulder, grimacing. “Please tell Fran and Jonas we’ll head to the flowering cave tonight.”

  Marcella’s head snapped up. “No, you’re not going.”

  Naomi frowned.

  “You always come back wounded.” Marcella’s voice was low, but pointed. “Look at you now, have some pity for yourself.” She sighed. “Is this about Ed? You carrying his duties?” Her hands lifted, almost in a plea. “Your father—he is gone, mija, let us find ways where we can eat and remain safe.”

  “No, this is not about him, Marcella. It’s us, look at us.” Her voice trembled. “Nobody can wait another week of hunger. We’ve got a nursing mother. Our kids are barely holding any weight. I worry for Yani. For everyone… I—” she tried to keep her voice from breaking. “I want to keep things hopeful for us.”

  “Dios mío…” Marcella covered her face with her hands. “You will be in danger. If you come back worse—how will I face your mother when it is my time to go?”

  Naomi inched closer, placing a hand on the old woman’s back, caressing it gently.

  When she lowered her hands, Marcella’s face was drawn. She whispered, “Your parents and now you… Why must you always take the hardest road?”

  Naomi didn’t deny it. If anyone knew her parents truly, it was Marcella. More than anyone, more than she ever did. The woman reached forward and took her hands in hers, rough palms against rough palms.

  “I will not stop you,” she said, voice thin. “But you listen to me. Only take what we need. Then come back home, you hear me?”

  Marcella squeezed her hands again, firmer, and pulled her into a brief embrace.

  She nodded. “We’ll be careful.”

  ***

  Dusk painted the sky in bruised colors as they stepped out through the bunker hatch. The air was cooler now, dry and quiet.

  Naomi adjusted the strap of her satchel, eyes scanning their gear and food one last time. She tied back her shoulder-length hair, then brushed the dust from her cargo pants with quick swipes.

  A grunt behind her made her glance over. Fran tugged the strap of his worn pack until it bit into his shoulder, making the bag seem child-sized on his broad frame. He pulled a bonnet over his semi-bald head, blue eyes meeting Naomi’s for a moment, before he gave a curt nod.

  “Ready,” he said.

  A few paces off, Jonas knelt over a coil of rope threaded with bright flaglets, checking each knot. His glasses slid down his nose, and he nudged them back with a knuckle without looking up. Loose curls fell across his forehead, some held in place by a faded headband. His beard was patchy, uneven, as if the last shave had been interrupted or he’d gotten impatient by the dull blade. He stood and rubbed his patchy beard, thinking if he had missed anything.

  Naomi gave them a small smile and turned south. “Let’s move?”

  The two gave a nod.

  The Flowering Cave lay beyond two ghost towns, a collapsed overpass, and the ditch of molding remains. A six-hour round trip if the route held, or longer if they had to carry weight back.

  They passed through the settlement gates without taking the rover. The engine’s rattle over gravel would be too loud. If any creatures were active, quiet mattered more than speed.

  So they put on their masks, lit their flashlights, and walked.

  The ground shifted beneath their boots—soft sand giving way to cracked road, then gravel that crunched with every step, before returning again to dunes that swallowed their feet up to the ankle. Every few dozen paces, they tied the rope with bright scraps of cloth to whatever they found: a pole, a rusted fencepost, a rebar jutting from the ground.

  They passed hollowed husks of buried cars, sun-bleached and skeletal, and a bus tipping into a ditch, with rebars everywhere, bent and stuck on earth.

  No one spoke longer than they had to. When the air was at rest, they slipped off their masks to drink from a shared canteen or chew hard bread until it softened in their mouths.

  Just like that, night bled slowly into their journey.

  The overpass came into view two hours later, collapsed in on itself like a broken rib. They clambered over slabs of concrete and twisted bars one at a time, careful with each footing and handhold.

  On the other side lay the ditch of molding remains. It was what it was.

  They switched off their lights as they descended the last slope.

  And finally, at the bottom, it came into view.

  Half-swallowed by earth and time, a hospital once, now buried under its own skeleton. The roof had caved in, smothered beneath layers of dust hardened into stone. Only a narrow mouth remained where the entrance had been.

  From within, a faint light spilled out, soft and slow, pulsing a blue glow that shimmered against the dust.

  The Flowering Cave.

  Naomi turned the wheel of the rusted metal door, and it moaned in protest. She ducked beneath the overhang of packed, petrified sand and stepped inside. Jonas followed, and Fran stooped low just behind them.

  Stillness met them, cool and damp, overrun with flowerings. Luminescent blooms climbed the walls and spilled across the floor, their petals casting soft halos of blue, violet, and white. The light pulsed in unison as if the whole place shared a single heartbeat, shifting across their faces like water reflections.

  “Nao,” Fran called quietly, pointing to a cluster of fungal vines.

  Naomi knelt and pressed two fingers to one of the strands along the floor. A faint vibration traveled up her hand.

  Her expression turned sour. “The spiders are active,” she murmured.

  Jonas leaned toward Fran. “Why does she always get to check?” he hissed.

  “She’s closer to the ground,” Fran whispered back.

  Naomi threw him a pebble.

  “Let’s make it quick,” Jonas said, chuckling.

  They moved deeper into the hospital, into one of the larger wards, where the flowering light grew richer. The air smelled faintly of copper and rain.

  The corpses weren’t hard to find.

  They had dried a long time ago, the twisted husks slumped against walls, curled in corners, or sprawled in beds. Roots had weaved, flowerings had bloomed, through every opening of the remains.

  Naomi knelt beside the nearest one. A woman, maybe, judging by the hair and shape of her bones. Maws of these blooms had grown from her sternum, twitching slightly.

  A few paces away, Jonas and Fran were already at work, hacking other gems loose.

  Naomi pulled on her gloves, the leather stiff from use. She could feel her wound pull a little, but she ignored it. She cut the growth at the chest and leaned in, tracing the base of the gem with her knife. It came free with a faint squelch.

  She reached for it—

  and a shock jolted through her arm, up to her shoulder. She yanked her hand back with a gasp, dropping her on one knee. Smoke curled from her glove, and a finger had been eaten through. The edge of the hole was blackened, the skin beneath raw and red.

  Jonas’ head shot up. “What was that?”

  Naomi flexed her hand, pain crawling up her wrist. She stripped the glove off, shaking her hand. “Static buildup?” she muttered. “It was like touching a live wire. The gem must’ve been holding charge.”

  Fran didn’t look convinced. “You sure?”

  “Yeah. Must be.” She steadied the tremor in her voice.

  She reached for the gem once more and lifted it toward the glow. Sunset yellow. Intact. Dropped it on the satchel on her waist and continued.

  Many of the corpses here had grown into the floor or walls, roots latching deep. It made the work slow. Splitting tissues at awkward angles, cutting through the web of growths, but the haul was worth more than surface scavenging.

  Naomi worked on another neck, feeling the gem twist loose beneath the cut. That one was hot on her palm too, but she shoved it into the pouch without a word.

  Time stretched. Gem after gem, body after body. Naomi felt her tremors worsen. Not just from pain. The buzzing in her skull hadn’t let up either since the first shock.

  She crouched by the last remain.

  The corpse wore a rotten uniform. The throat was already split, flowering spilling out, the gem glinting in the hollow.

  She reached in.

  This time, the shock wasn’t heat.

  Cold knifed up her arm, sudden and sharp, chased by a blinding flash. Her teeth clamped down on the cry rising in her throat.

  Jonas’ head snapped toward her. “That’s the hundredth time.” His gaze lingered. “What’s going on?”

  Naomi pushed herself upright, forcing steadiness into her voice. “Maybe the flowers are too active. Residual charge, or something.”

  “You sure you’re not—” He stopped, studying her closer.

  “I’m good!” She made sure to say it louder.

  The lie tasted of metal. Blood was sliding past her lip, temples pounding. More drops gathered at the edge of her pilthrum. She let them dry there, let them crust. It was hidden anyway.

  They still watched her longer than she liked. Then Fran turned back to his work, kneeling by the final corpse. “We’ll be done in five.”

  Naomi nodded, though her gaze had gone slightly unfocused. Her skin was numb. Sounds came to her with an echo, as if someone else were repeating them half a second late. She shook her head to focus.

  She wondered what was wrong. Was it the vines carrying these electrical charges? The black roots from the locust attack? As she sat down for a moment, she tried to breathe deeply, multiple times, and the buzzing slowly faded.

  But then they heard it.

  A sound that didn’t belong.

  Soft, choked—like a child trying not to cry.

  They froze. Naomi’s blood iced over.

  Another sob. A sharp hitch in breath.

  Then… dragging.

  Wet dragging. Heavy.

  With slow, consecutive thuds.

  It came deeper from the corridor, bouncing off walls and broken windows. A shadow swelled in the archway, blotting out the dim flowering light.

  Something enormous moved behind the vines, parting them with care, like curtains in a room it owned.