The night air was cool, heavy with the faint, metallic scent of blood and decay. The group moved cautiously through the alleyways, their footsteps muffled by the uneven cobblestones. Marisol, still clutching her makeshift spear, led the way, glancing nervously over her shoulder every few steps.
"You're sure this is the right direction?" Clara whispered, her machete glinting faintly under the moonlight.
Marisol nodded. "The raiders had a truck. I saw them heading west—towards the old manufacturing district. It's not far."
Greg tightened his grip on his weapon, scanning the shadows for any sign of movement. "Stay close. We don't know who—or what—is out here."
Mallory lagged behind the group, her pace leisurely despite the tense situation. She tugged Blinky along with a piece of rope she'd fashioned into a leash, the little robot's wheels whirring softly as it rolled over the cracked pavement.
