The ship groaned as it cut through the choppy grey waves, the Antarctic wind howling against the reinforced hull. Inside the cramped command deck, the air smelled of stale coffee and gun oil. Yona hunched over the navigation table, her fingers tracing the faded lines of a pre-Collapse map while Patrick leaned against the console, arms crossed.
"We're making good time," Yona murmured. "But we need to decide—north or south?"
I rubbed my temples. The satellite data James had given us was six months old, but it was all we had. The northern hemisphere had taken the brunt of the Claustrophobe's impact—cities flattened, radiation zones spreading like inkblots. But the south…
"South," I said. "Less direct hits. If anything's still standing, it'll be there."
Patrick frowned. "Less doesn't mean *none*. And we don't know what 'less affected' even looks like now."
