post-apocalyptic · rescue · survivors · leaders · tactical · medic · grim · hopeful · dungeon
Caleb’s maps are usually flawless, routes plotted with geometric certainty, but tonight they’re staring at a void. The tunnel network beneath the derelict museum collapsed, according to the last scout who stumbled back choking on grit. Now they navigate by instinct and the faint, cloying stench of decay that always clings to Styx’s active holding pens. The air is heavy and dead, tasting of wet stone and rust. Maya drags a gloved finger along the wall, her fingertip coming back smeared with something dark and crumbly. *"Not blood,"* she murmurs, rubbing the substance to dust. *"Mold. The harmless kind."* Caleb doesn’t ask about the other kind. He’s fixed on a set of fresh scrapes gouged into the stone floor, trailing around a corner. *"They moved them."* His voice is toneless, th…