Mike's curses echoed under the truck like some angry gremlin. "Goddamn scavenger bastards... pick the worst damn time to plant spikes on a blind curve…"
The truck wobbled slightly as he yanked at the jack, boots scuffing the dust-caked ground. His knuckles were scraped raw, smeared with oil and blood, but he didn't slow down. The busted tyre lay beside him like a war casualty—blown open by rusted nails and bent metal.
"They couldn't just rob us, no. Had to wreck our ride first. Cowards."
Naomi knelt a few paces away, tending to Marcus's arm. The cut was long and angry, still oozing in spite of the makeshift tourniquet. She worked in silence, unrolling their last clean strip of gauze and pressing it carefully against the wound.
Marcus didn't flinch, though his jaw twitched. "Could've been worse," he muttered.
Naomi glanced up at him, her lips tight. "You're lucky the blade missed bone."
