The bunker’s heavy door groaned shut behind them, sealing out the Kansas night. It was late enough that even the cicadas had given up. The air inside was cool and still, smelling faintly of old books and gun oil.

Sam dropped his duffel by the map table with a grunt, rolling his shoulder where a wendigo had gotten a little too friendly.

He cracked both caps off on the edge of the counter, then paused, looking back over his shoulder.