Dash

The storm clouds crawl in over the horizon, low and heavy, threatening to crush the sky. I lean against a tree on a rise overlooking Alicia’s camp, hands shoved deep into my jacket pockets, and think through the impossible. We have three days before the storm is on us, maybe less if it moves fast. Three days to figure out how to move an entire camp—crops, supplies, and people—without Greg, Reeves, or his men catching so much as a whisper.

The field below is a patchwork of makeshift greenhouses, small plots of land, and uneven cabins slapped together out of scavenged wood and sheet metal. People move between them, purposeful but subdued. Even with the way they keep their heads down and their voices low, I feel their eyes darting toward me as I pass. No one here trusts easily, and I don’t blame them.

Dean trudges up beside me, rifle slung over his shoulder and a sour look on his face. He’s as tall as me, maybe a little broader, and I can see why Alicia made him her second. There’s something solid about him, even if his attitude’s rough around the edges. He follows my gaze toward the storm clouds.

“That coming for us?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Two, maybe three days out. Hard to say how bad it’ll be.”

He snorts, shifting his weight as he scans the camp. “Bad enough to get us all stuck in the mud if you’re not careful.”

“It’ll also get Reeves’s men stuck in the mud.”

Dean shoots me a look, but I don’t take the bait. I know what he thinks—I can’t be fully trusted. He’s been throwing little digs at me since we met, but I’ve got too much on my plate to worry about his ego.

“Storm’s a gift,” I say. “Reeves’ camp is between us and the new site. We can’t move in full force without him noticing, but in a storm? No one’ll be watching.”

Dean grunts. “You’re assuming we’re ready to move at all.”

“I’m not assuming anything,” I snap, pushing off the tree. “You’ve got three days to get those crops harvested and the first loads stashed along the routes we scouted. You pull too much at once, Reeves will see it. Make it look like winter prep, not an evacuation.”

His brows pull together. “You think they’re not already watching?”

“They’re watching, sure,” I say. “But they’ve got their own problems. Food shortages, cracked morale. If we move quiet, they won’t catch on until it’s too late.”

Dean stares at me for a long moment, his jaw tight. “Alicia trusts you. Don’t screw this up.”

I meet his glare head-on, holding it just long enough to make my point. “I don’t plan to.”

He snorts and shakes his head, turning to head back down the rise. His boots crunch against the dry ground, but I don’t move yet. My eyes linger on the camp below, taking in the quiet determination of Alicia’s people. They’re tough—there’s no doubting that—but they’ve been living in survival mode for too long. Fear has a way of wearing people down, carving into them until there’s little left but exhaustion.

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I let out a slow breath and follow Dean’s path down the hill, weaving between the cabins and toward the greenhouses. The air grows heavier with each step, thick and humid as I push through the door into the largest of the structures.

The space is alive with the smell of damp earth and fresh vegetables. Rows of tomato vines and leafy greens stretch toward the glass walls, and the steady rhythm of hands picking and sorting fills the air. The sunlight filtering through the clouds outside steams up the panes, turning the space into a hotbox.

A woman carrying a crate of green tomatoes brushes past me, her face streaked with sweat and dirt. “This’ll take all week,” she mutters, her voice edged with irritation.

“Good,” I say, stopping to scan the rows. “That’s the point.”

She pauses, turning back to fix me with a skeptical look. The lines etched into her face speak of years of hard work, and her sharp eyes don’t miss a thing. “You’re not trying to clear the fields?”

“Not yet.” I gesture toward the rows of crops, taking a step closer. “Pull enough to keep your camp fed and start stockpiling along the routes we’ve marked. Leave the rest on the plants. We can’t risk anyone noticing the fields are bare.”

Her eyes narrow, suspicion flickering across her face. “And if Reeves’ men start sniffing around?”

“They won’t,” I say firmly. “Not if you keep it steady. A few baskets at a time, same as you’ve always done. No carts, no big movements until the storm’s on us.”

She studies me, her gaze weighing my words against the risk. After a long moment, she gives a small nod, muttering something under her breath before turning back to her work. I watch her go, noting the slump in her shoulders as she joins the others.

These people are strong, but strength doesn’t mean unbreakable. They’ve been living under Reeves’ shadow for too long, bending under the weight of his control. And now, I’m asking them to take the biggest gamble of their lives.

By the time I return to the cabin Alicia’s crew set up for me, the sun is dipping below the horizon, casting the sky in shades of deep orange and gray. I step inside and close the door behind me, the silence wrapping around me like a second skin.

The table in the center of the room is cluttered with papers and maps, each one marked with routes, supply points, and backup plans. I drop into the creaky wooden chair and stare down at the mess, running a hand through my hair.

Every move has to be perfect. Every path calculated. The storm gives us a chance, but it’s also a risk—a massive one. The rain will cover our tracks, but it’ll slow us down, turn the trails into mud pits, and make the move twice as dangerous.

I lean forward, tracing a finger along one of the routes we’ve scouted. Supplies are the first priority—food, medical kits, tools. But the livestock complicates things. Moving animals without tipping off Reeves? That’s a whole other nightmare.

My eyes blur as I stare at the map, the edges of the ink smudging into the paper. I blink hard, trying to focus, but the sheer weight of what we’re trying to pull off presses down on me like the storm clouds building outside.

The storm’s a blessing, but it’s also a threat. The rain will cover our tracks, but it’ll turn the trails to mud, slow us down, and make it damn near impossible to keep supplies dry. And the livestock? Moving them without raising alarms will be a nightmare.

The math doesn’t add up. We need more time. More hands. But we don’t have either.

The door creaks open behind me, and Alicia steps inside, shaking off rain from the jacket slung over her shoulders. She crosses the room and leans against the table, her sharp eyes scanning the map.

“You always this obsessed with details?” she asks, smirking.

“Details are what keep people alive,” I say, not looking up.

“Dean’s been grumbling about you all day,” she says, crossing her arms. “You know he thinks you’re overcomplicating this.”

I finally glance up at her. “And you?”

She shrugs, her smirk fading. “I think you’re the best shot we’ve got. But if this plan falls apart…”

“It won’t,” I interrupt.

Alicia stares at me, her expression unreadable. “You’d better be right, Dash. Because if Reeves gets wind of this…”

She doesn’t have to finish the sentence. I already know.

The storm is coming, and we have three days to pull off the impossible. If we fail, Reeves won’t just stop with Alicia’s camp—he’ll come for Branson’s too.

I fold the map and lean back in my chair, staring at the storm clouds creeping closer in the distance.

Three days. That’s all we’ve got.