Before leaving, the squad stripped off their terminals and pulled the plates from the truck. No records. No trail.
Their ride was a seven-seater, heavily modified for the apocalypse. Steel plates covered the doors and windows, welded into a rough but solid frame. A cage of bars shielded the windshield. It wasn't pretty, but it could take a hit.
The navigation screen flickered faint blue. Satellites still orbited above, though no one knew for how long. The vehicle could still run on auto-pilot, tracing routes through the broken city.
Ethan sat in the driver's seat, boots up on the dash, arms folded. The wheel turned by itself—no human touch required. Beside him, Caleb leaned against the window, eyes narrowing as he checked the rearview mirror again and again. His gaze lingered on Damian, and on the silver-haired stranger hunched in the back.
The youth curled up in the farthest corner, arms around his knees, gray eyes fixed on the floor. Damian sat next to him, shoulders broad enough to block half the stares in the cabin.
The truck rattled forward, leaving the safety of the inner zone behind.
The further they drove, the harsher the world became.
Shanties of warped tin and scavenged wood spread out on both sides. Summer baked them into ovens, winter froze them solid, but for most, they were the only shelter left. And for those who couldn't even afford tin—there was only bare ground. Bodies lay on the roadside, breathing shallow, eyes hollow, waiting to starve.
Damian's jaw tightened. Ten years from now, there would be fewer still. Half the pure lands gone. Most of these faces already dust.
The boy beside him had been one of them.
Ahead, the outer wall loomed—concrete and steel topped with sparking current. The city's last shield.
And beyond the walls came the endless tide.
Zombies slammed against the barrier in waves, rotten hands clawing the metal mesh. The air reeked of blood and rot. Each impact shook the ground.
On the battlements above, hired warriors from Core Families unleashed destruction.
BOOM!
A fireball arced downward, bursting in the middle of the horde. Rotten bodies vaporized into a spray of blood mist. The shockwave sent limbs flying, black gore splattering against the wall.
CRACK!
A Psionic's voice ripped through the air, a sonic boom that shattered skulls. Dozens dropped at once, their shrieks cut short, bodies twitching in the dirt.
Thunder followed. Then ice. Explosions lit the battlefield in bursts of fire and frost, smoke boiling upward as the horde kept pressing on.
And still they came. No matter how many burned, no matter how many fell—the tide did not end.
At the fence below, scavengers scrambled like ants. Ordinary men and women shoved long nets through the mesh, fishing in the steaming gore for glittering crystal cores. Every strike above meant wealth below—if they didn't lose an arm in the process.
The youth pressed his forehead to the window. His chest hammered, his skull throbbed with stabbing pulses—not just fear, but a warning his body refused to ignore. And still, his gray eyes trembled with envy as he watched the warriors rain death from above.
If only I had that power. If only I could be useful.
The truck slowed at the final checkpoint, a fortified gatehouse where the outer wall met the road.
Damian's fingers twitched near his blade. Trouble, before they even left the gate.
Armed guards stepped out, rifles raised, blocking the way. One pointed at the stripped vehicle.
"Where's your terminal? Where's your plate? No one leaves without clearance."