As we push open the heavy, reinforced door of the shelter, the familiar, dimly lit confines feel suddenly oppressive, echoing with an unseen tension that clings to the air like a thick fog.
Sue is there to meet us, her features etched with lines of worry. She wastes no time on greetings, her focus laser-sharp. "It's the survivor groups," she begins, her voice a mix of resolve and underlying tension. "They're at each other's throats in the town centre. I could hear gunshots, a continuous, terrifying barrage, interspersed with screams that pierce right through me." Despite her composed delivery, her hands slightly quiver, betraying the intensity of the ordeal she has witnessed.
"How clear was it, Sue? Can you make out any specifics?" I ask, my voice echoing slightly in the confined space of our shelter, seeking any tangible detail that might guide our next move.
