By the time the sun rose we were already limping through the forest as a group. The leader of the warlike townspeople had introduced himself as Sam Rothchild and, although all we’d told them so far was that we’d come from beyond the desert, they accepted us and were happy to have our help.

There were few wounded, those of us still living only had small injuries. And those we’d left behind were often maimed beyond recognition. Sam explained that none of the bunker doors had opened in the last forty years of this fifty year war. And now that things were starting to change, they weren’t prepared.

Not only were they ill-equipped for battle, but they had no time or means to transport their dead. Instead, we had to leave their bodies behind. And with what Sam told us of the wendigo creatures, nightfall would see them eating corpses; those of their own and their enemies.

But even if his people would be upset by being unable to bury their dead, Sam seemed troubled by something else.

“It’s unstoppable,” he muttered, as we tramped between the trees. He stared off into the distance, already plotting out futures for all those living under his reign.

When the focus came back into his eyes, he turned to me.

“I’ll expect you and your friends to provide some support once we reach our village.”

“We’re happy to help, just tell us what you need,” I said.

“We’ll need a fortress impenetrable by even the most ravenous beast. What we’ve got is a village with old walls and even older weapons. But we only have hours to improve it.”

We kept trudging forward, but I was worried. If they didn’t have battlements as impressive as the bunkers, then how were we going to survive the coming attacks when we’d barely lived through the first battle?