Mara's shift ended at two in the morning, though the clock on the wall had stopped pretending hours mattered. She climbed down the vent ladder and found Wes waiting, rifle slung, eyes red from more than coffee. They did not speak. She handed over the weapon, grip first, then walked toward the cooler where Elijah still slept on a folded coat. The boy's thumb was in his mouth, a habit she had given up correcting.
Wes climbed to the roof. The night felt wider than before, The sky seemed like a black sheet pulled tight to keep the world from leaking out. He settled beside the low parapet, legs dangling over the edge, and scanned the lot in slow sweeps. The neon sign buzzed, casting pink rectangles that slid across broken glass and pooled under empty cars. Nothing moved that he could see, yet the silence itself seemed to breathe, a long inhale waiting for the scream.
He checked the rifle out of habit. Magazine seated, round chambered, safety on. He had nineteen bullets left, no spares. RayRay had counted them aloud earlier, voice flat, as if inventorying cans of peaches. Nineteen chances to keep mistakes small.
An hour passed. His thoughts drifted to the woman and child below, to the way Mara's voice never rose, to the boy's birthmark shaped like Ohio. He wondered what state his own body would resemble when this ended, assuming anyone remained to draw maps.
A scrape reached him, metal on asphalt, faint but deliberate. He brought the rifle up, cheek to stock, and searched over the scope. The sound came again, from the far edge near the highway on-ramp. A shape emerged, low to the ground, crawling under the guardrail. Human once, maybe. Now spine curved wrong, one leg dragging like an anchor. It moved with patience, inching toward the pumps, face lifting to sniff air that carried fryer grease and human sweat.
Wes eased the safety off. The click seemed loud enough to echo. The crawler froze, head cocked. Seconds stretched. Then it changed course, angling straight for the diner, knuckles slapping pavement in steady rhythm. Wes estimated thirty yards, closing slowly.
He exhaled, held it, placed the reticle on the crown of the skull. Nineteen minus one. He squeezed. The shot cracked, sharp and lonely. The shape dropped mid-stride, lay still. The echo rolled away across sand and asphalt, fading into nothing.
He waited. No second shape followed. The blackbird that lived in the lot sign flapped once, resettled. Wes chambered the next round, safety back on, and resumed the sweep. The smell of gunpowder lingered, thin and bitter, like the last truth anyone bothered to speak.
Down below, RayRay appeared in the kitchen doorway, silhouette framed by battery lamp glow. He looked up, raised a hand. Wes raised two fingers back: one threat down, no further movement. RayRay nodded, vanished inside. The building settled back into its huddle of wood and tin, pretending He could sleep.
Another hour crawled by. The eastern horizon lightened, a gray seam that widened without promise. Wes counted cars in the lot, then counted again. He listened for engines, for sirens, for any sign that the country beyond the interstate still maintained schedules. He heard only the neon transformer and his own pulse.
At five-thirty he woke RayRay by tapping the ventilation duct three times with the rifle barrel. The cook emerged, hair flat on one side, cleaver already in hand. They traded places on the ladder without words. RayRay took the rifle, checked the magazine, and settled into the watch position Wes had vacated. He scanned the dead crawler near the pumps, then looked at Wes.
"Good shot," he said, voice sounding like gravel. "Next one waits until they cross the white line. Conserve rounds. Conserve sleep."
Wes nodded. He descended the ladder, legs stiff, and found Mara in the kitchen brewing coffee over a canned-heat flame. She offered a cup. He took it, wrapped both hands around the tin, and let the warmth settle into his palms. Steam rose, fogging his vision.
He drank. It tasted of nothing familiar, but it was hot, and for now that passed as hope.