The gates of Red Base creaked open with a heavy groan of rusted metal. The scavenger team formed ranks, and the survivors, including Ajay, gathered in a loose line, their faces a mixture of fear and grim resignation.
From behind the line, Jeet leaned casually against a wall, arms folded, his lips curled into a smile that wasn't really a smile. His eyes lingered on Gyur—straight-backed, disciplined, still carrying himself like the soldier he had once been. Jeet's gaze was sharp, assessing, like a predator sizing up prey. Ajay caught the look. *So, Jeet wants him. Wants his loyalty, his strength… but Gyur won't bend that easily.*
The scavenger captain barked orders, dragging Ajay's thoughts back. "Move out! Pairs of fighters on the flanks. Porters in the center. Keep up or get left behind!"
The group shifted into motion. Ajay moved with them, his eyes sweeping over the formation. Fighters carried real rifles, worn but functional, magazines slung tight against their chests. Survivors—the expendables—were given old knives. A handful carried bags and baskets meant for hauling supplies. Ajay himself had been handed a rough canvas sack.
*Divide and control,* Ajay thought. The Red Fangs deliberately pushed survivors to the front when they entered open ground, yet kept their fighters ready at the rear. The strong guard themselves, not the weak. That much was clear.
The ruined city stretched before them, a graveyard of broken concrete and rusted cars. The air was heavy with silence, broken only by the crunch of boots on gravel. Ajay walked beside two other porters, both older than him, both looking hollowed out by hunger and exhaustion.
One, a gaunt man with stubble and sunken eyes, muttered, "I shouldn't have come here. They promised safety. Promised food. All they give us is scraps and death."
The other, broader, with scars across his jaw, shot him a sharp look. "Better scraps than bones. You'd be dead already if you were still out there. At least here, someone's watching our backs."
The gaunt man snorted bitterly. "Watching? They're watching us die for them."
Ajay listened without speaking. Gyur, walking a few paces ahead, ignored the exchange entirely. His face was stone, his stride steady. He neither complained nor defended. He simply marched, every step a reminder of the soldier still in him.
---
By midday, they reached a ruined open-air marketplace. The stalls were half-burned, roofs caved in, and skeletal remains lay tangled in the wreckage. The air smelled faintly of rot.
The scavenger captain raised a hand, signaling a halt. "We search here. Fighters hold the perimeter. Porters, move in and collect anything useful—food, medicine, tools. If there's danger, you deal with it first. We clean up after."
The fighters smirked, rifles resting lazily in their arms, while the survivors hesitated, fear flickering in their eyes.
Ajay tightened his grip on his canvas sack and stepped forward. His movements were careful, deliberate. Not too brave, not too cowardly. He wanted to blend in—just another expendable survivor.
They spread out into the ruined shops. Ajay ducked into what had once been a convenience store, shelves mostly bare, wrappers and shattered glass scattered across the floor. He pretended to rummage while his ears stayed sharp, catching whispers between porters.
"Who's in charge?" Ajay asked quietly, his voice low enough to sound like nervous curiosity.
Kiran, the man with hollow cheeks and nervous eyes, darted a look to make sure no fighter was near, then whispered back, "Ravi. Head of supplies. He controls who eats, who doesn't. If you want better food, better treatment—you go through him."
Ajay feigned interest. "And promotions? How do they decide who becomes… more than a porter?"
Kiran hesitated, fear flashing in his eyes. "Kill. Fight. Show strength. That's the only way. But be careful. If you ask too much, they think you're planning something. They don't like questions."
Ajay nodded, stepping back just as another porter froze in panic. From the shop across the street came the sound of shuffling—wet, dragging steps, faint groans. The porter let out a strangled cry.
The fighters outside laughed. One shouted, "What's the matter? Rat scare you?"
The groans grew louder. From the shadows of the shop, dozens of figures lurched forward. Decayed flesh, milky eyes, and twisted limbs. Some staggered clumsily, others moved with sudden, jerking speed. Among them towered a hulking brute, its shoulders broad as a doorframe, its skin gray and stretched over bulging muscle. And darting around it were thinner, faster ones—their legs long, movements spider-quick. **Speedsters**.
"Zombies!" someone screamed.
Chaos erupted. Survivors shrieked, dropping bags, scrambling back. Fighters at the perimeter lifted their rifles but did not fire immediately. They watched, waiting.
Ajay's heart pounded, but his mind was cold, calculating. He gripped a rusted iron pipe, swinging it half-heartedly at the nearest zombie—just enough to look like he was fighting, never enough to truly kill. He shoved one creature back, deliberately allowing it to stumble into another porter, who finished it off with a desperate strike.
He dodged another swipe, pretending clumsy fear, while secretly ensuring his blows landed just shy of fatal. When one zombie lunged at him, he staggered, allowing another survivor to slam a blade through its skull. *I don't want to level up in front of the others.*
Meanwhile, the brute roared, swinging a massive arm that crushed two porters in a single blow. The Speedsters darted in, tearing flesh with clawed fingers. Blood sprayed across the cracked pavement.
Survivors fell like wheat before the scythe. And still, the Red Fangs held back. Only when the numbers thinned—after the porters had lost three, maybe four—did the fighters finally step forward.
"Enough fun," the captain muttered, raising his rifle.
Gunfire thundered. Bullets tore through rotten flesh, heads exploded, and the brute staggered under a hail of lead before crashing to the ground. The Speedsters tried to dart aside but were gunned down mercilessly.
In minutes, the battlefield was silent, except for the moans of the dying.
Bodies lay strewn across the ground—some undead, some human. One porter was missing half his face. Another clutched a broken leg, screaming in agony.
The scavenger captain looked at the injured man with disdain. "Dead weight. Leave him."
The man's screams turned to pleas. "Please! Don't—don't leave me here! I can still carry, I can—"
But the fighters were already moving, stripping weapons and bags from the dead, ignoring the living.
Ajay stood over the carnage, hiding the flicker of satisfaction in his eyes. *I know the rules now. The System is the key. Kills bring stability, power, classes. And if I don't want them to know who I really am… I can't kill. Not yet.* He turned, wiping fake sweat from his brow, masking his calm behind an act of shaken fear. To anyone watching, he looked like just another terrified survivor who had somehow survived by luck alone.
By late afternoon, the group had collected what little supplies the marketplace offered—cans of food, bottles of water, some scavenged tools. Weighed down with sacks, they were slower now, exhausted. The scavenger captain, favoring a bleeding cut on his arm, scowled at their sluggish pace.
"We rest here," he ordered, pointing to a half-collapsed building nearby. "Set up inside. We'll move at dawn."
The survivors filed in, weary and broken, while the fighters lounged near the doorway, rifles across their knees.
Ajay sank against a wall, sack at his side, eyes half-lidded as if exhausted. But behind the mask of fatigue, his mind was razor-sharp.
The Red Fangs think they're in control. They think we're disposable. But they don't see me. Not yet. I'll play the part of the weakling, the porter, the nobody. And when the time comes… I'll show them who I really am.
His lips curled into the faintest of smiles, hidden in the shadows.