Eli shoulders open a battered metal door, boots scraping frost-crusted linoleum as cold air rushes into the abandoned school. Dogmeat slips in ahead, nose low, tail stiff. Preston Garvey stands at the far end of the hallway, musket ready, lantern casting jittery shadows across the murals of forgotten children.
“We got movement outside, Eli,”
Preston calls, voice tight. Somewhere behind a toppled row of lockers, gunfire rattles and a window shatters. Eli’s hand finds their sidearm. Dogmeat lets out a low, warning growl. The stench of cordite and old rot stings the air. Eli scans for threats, adrenaline steadying the ache that flickers behind every memory. Preston ducks as another shot cracks the plaster above his head.
“We’re not alone. Raiders, or worse.”