Night in the Deadlands was not dark. It was a bruised purple, lit by the distant, rhythmic pulsing of the Spire and the faint, sickly glow of the toxic river below our ravine.
We had made camp in a "graveyard of giants"—a ravine filled with the rusted hulks of old cars and machinery. It hid us from the drones, but it couldn't hide us from the cold.
The wind howled through the metal skeletons, sounding like a dying animal.
Most of the pack was asleep, huddled together for warmth in the back of the trucks or under heavy tarps.
I walked through the camp, checking on everyone.
I found Marcus and Maya first. They were sitting on an old bus seat that had been pulled out near a small, smokeless heater. Marcus had his head in Maya’s lap. He was asleep—finally. Maya was stroking his hair
