The morning air was crisp on the mountain, but there was a sense of unease hanging over New Haven. The sun had just begun to rise, casting a pale light over the tents and half-built homes that sprawled across the mountainside. George stood on the mansion's balcony, looking out at the growing community. What had started as a small, tight-knit group of survivors had swelled to hundreds of people, all seeking safety from the horrors outside. But with each new arrival, the strain on their resources grew.
Tents now stretched farther than George could see, makeshift structures hastily erected to give the newest refugees a place to sleep. Supplies were dwindling, food, water, medical provisions, everything was running dangerously low. The last expedition had brought some relief, but it wouldn't last much longer.
George rubbed his temples, feeling the weight of it all. "We need to find more supplies, and fast."
