JOSH.
The storm hadn't stopped.
But it had slowed — no longer screaming, just breathing heavy over the skyline like a wounded beast.
The tower lights flickered back to full brightness as the backup systems rebalanced.
Josh stood at the central table, maps spread, hand scribbling notes as rain streaked the glass behind him. Jules paced nearby, tablet in hand, tracking the satellite relays and interior readings.
"Three floors still need post-flood checks," she said. "We lost a storage drone in Sector D—either water damage or a direct hit from debris."
Josh grunted. He didn't look up.
"We're going out."
That made her stop.
"Out where?"
"Perimeter first. Then further. I want to see if anything can be salvaged—caches, solar kits, med stations. If anyone's alive out there, they'll head to higher ground. If not…" He finally looked at her. "Then we need to know what we're dealing with."
Jules didn't argue. Just tapped her screen, bringing up the exterior schematic.
"You're not going alone."
"I figured."
"Boris?" she asked.
"He's already prepping packs. Told me he wants to check for displaced animals anyway. Some of the shelters up north were wiped. He thinks some may've broken loose."
Jules nodded once.
Then:
"If we find people?"
"We don't let them in unless I say so."
Her expression flickered—pain, then resolve.
"You think Rosie's really gone?"
"I think the sea wanted her more than we did."
A beat.
Then Jules reached under the table and pulled out the bin she'd been hiding since the first day of prep. Inside: ration tags, decon kits, radio beacons, and a crate marked simply "R-1: HUMANITARIAN".
"Just in case," she said.
Josh smiled faintly.
"Always two moves ahead."
"It's called trauma," she said dryly. "You're welcome."
--
The water had receded.
Mostly. At least on the higher ground areas.
It left behind a film of grey silt, overturned bikes, broken bus shelters, and silence. The kind that pressed against your eardrums until your heartbeat became the loudest sound in the world.
Josh walked in front, waterproof gear cinched tight, a filtered mask over his mouth. A matte-black pack clung to his shoulders, antennae extending from the radio unit strapped to his left hip. His boots squelched with every step.
Behind him, Jules scanned with a shoulder-mounted thermal scope.
Boris brought up the rear, his eyes flicking between rooftops and alley mouths.
No one spoke.
--
They paused beside a flooded intersection. A red car still blinked weakly, half-submerged. A soaked scarf fluttered from a fire hydrant like a flag.
Josh crouched, brushing mud from a storm grate.
"Water came up fast here. That's why they didn't make it."
"Or why they'll be here," Jules murmured. "Trapped on roofs. Waiting."
"Or dead," Boris said flatly.
A noise.
They turned.
A faint clatter — metal on brick.
"There," Jules said, pivoting.
They approached slowly.
Josh kept his hand near the weapon at his side, just in case.
--
It wasn't a person.
It was a dog. Skinny, filthy, limping. But alive.
"Easy, boy," Boris said softly, crouching low. "Easy…"
The dog didn't bark. Just looked at them with wild, hollow eyes.
Josh pulled a protein bar from his vest and tossed it gently.
The dog snapped it up like it hadn't eaten in days — because it hadn't.
Jules lowered her scope.
"He's tagged," she noted. "Must've escaped a home."
"Take him," Josh said. "He deserves better than this."
--
They moved on.
Abandoned shoes. A child's scooter. A bloodied jacket wrapped around an empty backpack.
No bodies.
That was somehow worse.
Then Jules raised her hand.
"Contact. Movement. Rooftop, 1 o'clock."
They squinted up.
Someone was there. A shape, a flash of reflective material.
Josh clicked his radio.
"This is Tower Sweep One. If you can hear me, stay where you are. We are not here to harm you."
Silence.
Then—
"Help…" A thin, weak voice crackled back. "Please…"
Jules looked at him. Boris gripped his pack tighter.
Josh's face didn't move. His voice was low, decisive.
"Let's check them out."
--
The stairs were soaked and rotting in places, the handrails rusted through.
Josh moved slow.
Jules followed two steps back, rifle low but ready. Boris brought up the rear, carrying a med pack he didn't trust enough to open yet.
They emerged onto the roof.
Wind whipped at their hoods.
The figure huddled at the far end, back against a rust-streaked vent. A torn silver space blanket fluttered around their shoulders. Skinny. Barefoot. Arms wrapped around their knees.
Eyes too large for their face.
A young man, maybe twenty. Filthy. Wide-eyed. Shaking.
Josh stayed several feet back.
"Name."
"T-Ty. Tyler. I—I was with a group near Fort York but—there was screaming. Then fire. Then—" He coughed. "They left me."
"You from Rosie's camp?" Jules asked, voice sharp.
Ty shook his head fast.
"No. No, we tried to join. My brother did. They said we weren't strong enough. That we'd get people killed if we stayed."
Josh's jaw twitched. He looked him over — sunken cheeks, a faded bruise under one eye. No visible weapons. One of his feet was wrapped in what used to be a baby shirt.
"Injuries?"
"Foot's bad. Fever maybe. I dunno."
"Any others with you?"
"No. Just me."
Josh turned slightly to Jules. A glance exchanged everything.
"Quarantine?" she said flatly.
Josh gave a single nod.
"Tag him. Strip search. Suit him. Then we bring him back. Side entrance. Blind folded."
"Copy."
"The direct route back?"
Josh smiled, "Absolutely."