The groan of the heavy bay door sliding open was the only sound in the pre-dawn stillness. It felt like the opening of a tomb. The riot van rolled out of the auto shop's dusty sanctuary and back into the wounded city. Inside, the small band of survivors was quiet, each lost in their own thoughts. The two other adults from the clinic, Ben and Clara, sat huddled in the back, their faces pale and drawn. The children were quiet, a silent pact of shared trauma passing between them.
Quinn drove, his eyes constantly scanning the blighted landscape. He navigated the van through the maze of industrial streets, his movements precise and economical. They were a self-contained, armored island, moving through a sea of death.
