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As the sun is silently buried in the thick convective clouds on the horizon, you spend the last hour of sunlight ferrying bits of dead grunt from the plaza outside into the atrium, where you pile them into a rough, flattish cuboid shape. As you are doing this, you pass the other two non-grunt members of the camp several times. The girl in the wheelchair is ordering around the poor androgynous person with blunt, laconic commands, mostly involving moving things in preparation for tomorrow's departure. They don't seem to mind in the slightest. The grunts, meanwhile, alternate between standing around picking their noses and cowering in terror at the sight of you.
As night falls, a thick blanket of silence smothers the camp. Even the grunts stop sobbing as they curl up in odd corners to sleep. You lie on your back atop your pile of gore, shifting back and forth in the hopes of finding a comfortable position. Eventually you fall asleep, only to be plagued by dreams of fear and powerlessness, in which every shape and object seems like a malicious force.
You are woken by an urgent tug at your arm. You can just about make out the androgynous person standing over you. As soon as you open your eyes, however, they turn and leave in one fluid movement. Blood chilling screams echo from the North. You scramble to your feet, grasping your only weapon - your trusty nail file.
Various grunts run in screaming from the Northward corridor, lit from behind by firelight. One trips and falls, and is immediately descended upon and slain by a lithe, feline shape. With one sharp movement and a spray of blood, their head is severed and rolls to your feet. In front of you you find three grunts - but unlike the docile, benign denizens of this camp, they are wild eyed and have brightly coloured angular patterns painted onto their faces and bodies. Two are carrying flaming torches, and all three have makeshift wooden spears. They bay at you hungrily, ready to charge.
In their midst, crouching over the freshly decapitated corpse, is your former daughter, Jack. She is gripping a stone knife tightly in one hand, and looking at you with an unreadable expression.