Evan resisted a yelp when the SWAT commander tightened the bandage around his head with one last pull. He touched the fabric on the gash: it was damp, blood had seeped through but the pressure on the wound should stop the flow in a while. Head injuries felt worse than they appeared and since the veteran didn’t say it was grievous, he figured that it should heal with but a scar and he wouldn’t suffer an infection with any luck. “Thanks Roland,” he said. “I’m Evan, by the way.” 

It seemed the group of survivors, including the man who had nearly, albeit accidentally, killed them all, had banded together with no animosity in a time of crisis. The soldiers looked like they had combat experience and they quickly sorted out their ranks. Evan had few exceptional skills and the thudding pain and dizziness worried him if he could escape danger when needed to; so he meekly followed their lead. 

He awkwardly stood up with the backpack still on him and swallowed hard against the nausea that threatened once more - it was weaker this time. Taking deep breaths and slow steps, Evan walked towards the multi-storey carpark from which the blinking spotlight had shone. “It’s getting late,” he reminded the group, “we need a place to sleep. We can’t do this out in the open. The people in there,” he pointed at the building, “must have seen us crash and are either offering us help or want to kill us. They must be watching us. It might be a trap.”