The room had been an office once. Now it was cracked concrete and stripped wiring, the windows boarded from the inside with scavenged sheet metal. Someone had dragged in a few plastic chairs and a broken couch. The rest of us sat on crates or straight on the floor, backs to walls that’d been cracked for probably as long as the building had been standing, every space otherwise looted down of anything useful or valuable weeks ago.“Split?” Quinn asked from their nest of cables on a busted desk, soldering two pieces of electronics that’d come out of the damaged cars. “What do you mean split? What do you think this is, some horror movie trope?”“Our priority is getting as many of the supplies to the bunker as we can,” Vesper said. She stood under a sagging ceiling panel, eyes moving across Saints and Paws clustered around the room. “We cannot afford to leave food and meds sitting out here. That means some of us stay to fix whatever can be fixed so we can bring the rest.”“I can agree that we can’t just sit and wait.” Bear had her shoulder against a cracked column, one boot on a fallen chunk of masonry. Her arms were folded, but her fingers kept drifting up to the faint blue horns curving from her temples, pretending to fix her hair every time they brushed them. “But splitting up?”“If whoever attacked us thinks you are on the convoy and not here…” Vesper flicked a hand at the people listening. “They might gamble on easy pickings. It would be a shame if you were waiting for them instead.”Bear chuckled. The sound bounced off bare concrete. Faces turned toward her, then toward me. The implication was obvious. If Bear stayed with the salvage, Caveman was the (...)