"The Last Safe City" exists in name only. I came here expecting to find a lost metropolis from before the Collapse. Instead, it's a sea of tents and prefabricated shelters huddled around bonfires. Everyone here thinks that hiding in the shadow of the Traveler will keep them safe. Keep humanity's killers at arm's length. All I see are hundreds of miles of rough, snow-capped mountains. All I can feel is the memory of frostbite in my fingers. That's not going to stop anyone, just slow them down.

I came here in a caravan of settlers. The march up the mountains was worse than any battle I'd survived. Hundreds died along the way from injuries, starvation, exposure. All the greatest hits. We buried them along the roadside, with no time for markers or ceremony. I've heard some of the Risen here talking about forming guard patrols to escort people. I don't know. Sooner or later our enemies are going to follow the trail of ants back to the mound. We'd never survive a full-frontal assault.

More Risen arrive every day. They're starting to organize, make plans. They make me nervous. I can't shake the memories. Groups of them hitting settlements for ammunition and food, mass executions for those who dared speak out against them, entire towns turned to craters. These ones seem different from the Warlords, but I can't just let it go. The other settlers here are just like the ones outside the "City," consumed with their own ideas about how the world should run. I've heard plenty of people talking about organizing an exodus, just getting in whatever ships we have and abandoning Earth. As if anywhere else in this system is safe. Others want to form clear lines of succession and leadership. Then there's the people like me—trusting their guns—waiting for the other shoe to drop. We know war is a certainty.

Something is going to kill us all. It's just a matter of when, not if. There's nowhere safe. Not anywhere. Not anymore.