Morning revealed the parking lot had shifted during the night. Two more cars sat closer to the building, noses pointed at the glass like dogs begging. Wes did not remember hearing engines. He decided the dead pushed them, rolling in neutral, a slow tide that never stopped arriving.
He stood on the roof, breathing through his sleeve. Smoke from the city thirty miles north drifted south, a brown smear against pale sky. No sirens. Only the steady wind carrying burnt plastic and something sweeter underneath, the smell of meat left too long on the flame.
RayRay climbed the ladder and joined him. He carried the road flare they had taken from the convoy, bright red tube dull in daylight. "Time to talk," he said. "Flare goes up at noon. Anyone left out there gets a direction. Anyone left in here gets warning we're not hiding."
Wes nodded. He understood the math: visibility versus invitation, beacon versus bull's-eye. They had argued it once downstairs, voices low so the woman and boy would not hear. RayRay had decided. Wes had accepted. Acceptance was becoming a habit.
They waited until the sun stood directly above the sign, neon now off to conserve generator juice. RayRay popped the cap, struck the igniter. Red flame spit and hissed, smoke curling white. He held it high, then swung in a slow arc, writing a line against the sky that lasted seconds before wind tore it apart. He tossed the spent tube over the parapet and watched it fall into the weeds.
They stood still, listening. Minutes passed like hours. Then, from the west, an answer: a single crack of rifle fire, deliberate, not aimed their way, just sound traveling open desert. RayRay's shoulders loosened a fraction. Someone still pulled triggers. Someone still understood signals.
Downstairs, Mara waited in the cooler doorway, arms folded tight. She had seen the flare through the delivery hatch. Her eyes asked questions she did not voice. Wes gave a small shake of head: no herd incoming, no rescue convoy, just one distant shot and silence.
RayRay moved to the ladder. "Next step," he said. "We inventory fuel, we map the lot, we clear the cars for parts and supplies. Every hour we improve, we stay ahead."
Wes followed. Behind him the roof settled into quiet again, wind sweeping ash across tar paper. Somewhere out there a stranger had seen their sign and chosen to speak once, then vanish. Promise or warning, they would not know until the next hour arrived, bringing whatever followed the living these days.