Ethan leaned against the gym's bleachers, the shovel propped beside him, its blade scratched from the train yard's gravel. Mia sat cross-legged nearby, sharpening her axe with a chunk of broken concrete, the scrape of stone on steel a steady rhythm. Cal stood by the fire pit, javelin resting against his shoulder, while Tara sorted through a pile of scavenged gear—bent nails, a cracked bucket, a coil of frayed rope. Ben hovered near her, stacking cans into a wobbly tower, his wrench tucked into his belt. The gym buzzed with low chatter, the fire's glow flickering over the survivors' faces, their blankets patched and thin.
Riley paced near the barricade, machete tapping her thigh, her scar catching the light as she addressed the group. "West's a bust," she said, voice cutting through the murmurs. "Bear's got the yard locked. We need another way out."
Pete, the lanky man with the spear, dragged a crate to the fire and flipped it over, spilling out a hand-drawn map—smudged pencil lines on a torn poster. "North's swarming," he said, pointing to a scribbled cluster. "South's flooded—sinkhole's spreading. East's where you came from, and it's a mess."
Ethan stepped up, studying the map. The gym sat near the campus's west edge, the train yard a dead end beyond it. Jagged lines marked the city's outskirts—highways, rivers, all choked by the breach's chaos. "What's left?" he asked, tapping the map's southwest corner.
"Old drainage canal," Riley said, tracing a winding path. "Runs under the fields, pops out a mile from here. Used to be for runoff—big enough to walk through if it's not clogged."
Cal snorted, leaning on his javelin. "If? That's a gamble."
"Better than sitting here," Mia said, setting her axe down, the blade glinting sharper now. "Food's low—how long we got?"
Riley kicked the crate, rattling the cans inside. "Two days, maybe three. Water's half that. We move or we starve."
Tara tossed the rope onto the pile, standing with her bat. "Canal's underground. What's stopping those centipede things from nesting there?"
"Nothing," Riley admitted, shrugging. "But it's narrow—harder for big stuff to follow. We've got weapons, numbers. Worth a look."
Ethan grabbed the shovel, resting it on his shoulder. "Who's scouting?"
"You're volunteering," Riley said, handing him a stubby candle and a pack of matches from her pocket. "Take your crew. Check the canal's entrance—southwest, near the track shed. Back by morning."
Cal grabbed the rope, coiling it over his arm. "We're down a hammer. What else you got?"
Riley nodded to the burly man by the scoreboard, who hefted his sledgehammer and tossed a crowbar to Cal. "Take that. Don't lose it."
Cal caught it, swapping it for the javelin, and tucked the rope into his belt. "Good enough."
Mia stood, axe in hand, and joined Ethan. Tara grabbed her bat, leaving Ben to guard the cans. "Let's get it over with," she said, kicking the bucket aside.
Pete pulled a mat from the barricade's southwest gap, the night air rushing in, damp and earthy. Ethan lit the candle, its flame small but steady, and led the group out, Mia at his side, Cal and Tara behind. The fields stretched south, turf scarred and uneven, the sinkhole's faint glow pulsing to their left. [Predator Sense] hummed—no immediate threats, just the wind rustling through broken bleachers.
They moved fast, sticking to the shadows, the candle's light cupped in Ethan's hand. The track shed came into view—a squat metal box, its door rusted shut, a grate beside it marking the canal's entrance. [Perception] caught the details: mud caked around the grate, no claw marks, no fresh tracks. Ethan handed the candle to Mia and pried the grate loose with the shovel, metal groaning as it lifted.
A tunnel yawned below, six feet wide, its concrete walls slick with moss and water. The air smelled of rot and salt, a faint drip echoing in the dark. Cal dropped the rope, tying it to the shed's frame, and lowered it into the hole. "Looks clear," he said, peering down.
"Looks don't mean much," Tara muttered, bat ready.
Ethan took the candle back, holding it over the edge. The flame flickered, shadows dancing on the walls, but no movement stirred. "We check it," he said, stepping onto the rope. "Stay sharp."
He slid down, boots hitting wet concrete, the shovel scraping the tunnel floor. Mia followed, axe glinting in the candlelight, then Cal with the crowbar, Tara last with her bat. The tunnel stretched southwest, its ceiling low, forcing them to hunch. Water pooled ankle-deep, soaking their shoes, the drip growing louder ahead.
[Objective assigned: Scout the drainage canal]
[Rewards Gained: +1 Perception upon completion]
Ethan raised the candle, leading the way, the flame their only guide in the dark.