A breeze kicked up, and the biting air stung his face. His breath frosted in front of his lips. It was time to get out of the cold.

A red plastic gas container sat on the sidewalk beside him. He picked it up and hurried away, promising himself that he would deliver another message soon. He made a mental note to check in on Ross’s family again—they were having a hard time of it, too.

Avoiding the major boulevards, he stuck to back alleys and secondary streets as he cautiously made his way across town. Even though it was broad daylight, the streets and sidewalks were largely deserted. Law-abiding folks were huddled in their homes, trying to ride out the occupation.

Bane’s “army” of mercenaries and miscreants appeared to be staying indoors, as well. Blake found himself grateful for the harsh winter weather, which reduced the odds of running into any roving bands of troublemakers. He just needed to keep an eye out for the more dedicated enforcers. Otherwise, he’d end up on trial just for being a cop.

The subway would have been faster, but all lines had been shut down by the cave-ins. The monorail and buses had stopped running, too. Taxis were as scarce as law-abiding citizens—driving a cab was like asking to be carjacked. All of the schools, libraries, and post offices had been closed for months. Most had already been looted. Heaven help you if you needed a doctor or dentist.

The temperature continued to drop. By the time he made it to St. Swithin’s, he could barely feel his toes anymore. His cheeks felt red and raw. He stamped the snow off his boots before slipping into the building via a back door. He locked it carefully behind him.

No longer just a home for orphans, the shelter was packed with homeless refugees, either driven from their homes or hiding from Gotham’s new masters. Men, women, and children huddled in every corner, camping out even in the halls and stairwells. Many still had the shell-shocked look of disaster victims.

Blake spotted Father Reilly consoling a weeping family in the lobby. He took the priest aside and handed him the gasoline can.

“For the bus,” he said, “in case there’s a chance to evacuate. Keep it in here. People are siphoning parked cars.”

The priest looked grateful, but exhausted.

“Really?”

Blake smirked.

“How do you think I got it?”

“Right.” Reilly didn’t scold Blake for the theft. They both knew that these were desperate times for the good people of Gotham. The elderly priest had more important issues on his mind. “Any news? Is the commissioner—?”

Blake cut him off.

“Less you know, Father.” He glanced around to make sure no one had been listening. “How’re the boys?”

“Power’s been on more, so they get some TV.”

Blake was glad to hear it. That probably made Reilly’s job a little easier. He took a moment to warm up a bit, toasting his hands over a rusty radiator, before heading back toward the exit. He had another long, frigid hike in front of him.