The Ninth Safe Zone's outer checkpoint was a jagged line of concrete barriers and coiled barbed wire, manned by UG (United Government) soldiers in drab green uniforms and Blackstone Security officers in sleek black tactical gear. Kalen's boots crunched on the red dust as he approached, his muscles aching from the storm and the eighteen-hour march. His lips were cracked, his eyes bloodshot, his throat parched, but he kept his head high. He'd come too far to be turned away now.
At the gate, a portly guard named Pete leaned against a metal barrier, his uniform stained with grease and red dust. He chewed on a toothpick, his eyes raking over Kalen's worn clothes, scuffed boots, and homemade blade. There was a cruelty in his gaze, a dismissiveness that told Kalen he'd written him off as just another Wasteland rat.
"Temporary pass costs 100 credits," Pete said, picking his teeth with a rusted nail. "No credits? No entry. Back to the Wastes with you. We don't have room for freeloaders."
Kalen's stomach tightened. He hadn't seen a credit chip in months. In the Wastes, currency was tangible—food, water, weapons, medical supplies. Credits were a relic of the old world, useful only in the Safe Zones where the UG still held sway. He reached into his pocket and pulled out three massive sandworm fangs, each as long as his forearm and hard as steel.
He'd killed the sandworm a week earlier, after it had attacked a scavenger caravan he'd been escorting for a handful of rations. The beast had been ten meters long, its body covered in thick, scaly skin that was almost impenetrable, its mouth filled with rows of sharp, serrated teeth. Kalen had lured it into a pit he'd dug and lined with sharpened metal stakes, then finished it off with a well-placed shot to the eye. The fangs were worth a fortune on the black market—they could be sharpened into weapons, sold to collectors in the Inner District, or traded for supplies.
Pete's eyes widened as he saw the fangs. He grabbed them greedily, weighing them in his hand, his fingers brushing the smooth, iridescent surface. "These are… prime sandworm fangs. Fresh, too. Not the dried-out crap we usually get from scavengers." He slipped them into his pocket, then fished a crumpled piece of paper from his uniform. "Fine. Seven-day temporary pass. But listen closely—Blackstone Security runs this place. They're the ones with the guns, the food, the meds. Cross them, and you'll end up as wolf bait. No questions asked. No second chances."
Kalen took the pass, printed with the UG emblem and the words "Ninth Safe Zone—Temporary Authorization." The paper was thin, almost translucent, and smelled of ink and dust. He folded it carefully and slipped it into his pocket. As he walked through the checkpoint, he saw Blackstone Security officers in black tactical gear shoving a scavenger to the ground. The scavenger's bag of rations spilled open, the contents—dried meat, a few berries, a canteen of water—scattering across the dirt. The officers laughed as they kicked the food into the dust, then walked away, leaving the scavenger to crawl on his hands and knees, picking up the scraps.
Kalen's jaw clenched. This was the "safety" he'd risked everything for? A place where the strong preyed on the weak, just like in the Wastes. But he had no choice. He needed to find his mother's medical outpost, and the Ninth Safe Zone was his best lead. Blackstone Security controlled the Outer District's black market, and the black market controlled information. If anyone knew about the North Star Outpost, it was them.
He walked through the Outer District, a labyrinth of ramshackle shacks, illegal stalls, and homeless scavengers huddled in doorways. The air smelled of burning trash, unwashed bodies, and the faint tang of radiation. Children with sunken eyes stared at him as he passed, their hands outstretched, begging for food. Women yelled from stall doors, selling everything from rusted scrap metal to expired rations to homemade alcohol brewed from fermented cactus. Men leaned against walls, their eyes hard, their hands resting on knives or guns, watching Kalen like a pack of wolves.
Kalen stopped at a stall run by an old man with a missing eye and a long, gray beard. The man sold water, rations, and basic medical supplies—bandages, antiseptic, painkillers. Kalen bought a canteen of clean water and a single can of beans for two bullets, then leaned against the stall, eating slowly. He watched the Blackstone officers patrol, their boots thudding on the dirt streets. They didn't even glance at the scavengers begging for food. They just walked, their guns held loosely at their sides, a silent reminder of who held power.
As he ate, a young boy—no older than ten—approached him, his clothes tattered, his face covered in dust. He held out a small, crudely carved wooden figure of a radiation wolf. "Trade? For food. Please."
Kalen looked at the figure. It was surprisingly detailed, the wolf's snarling face captured perfectly. He thought of the child who'd died on the overpass, and his heart softened. He pulled out a biscuit and handed it to the boy. "Keep the figure. It's good work."
The boy's eyes lit up. He thanked Kalen profusely, then ran off, clutching the biscuit like it was a treasure. Kalen smiled faintly. It was a small gesture, but it felt good—like a reminder that even in the darkest world, there was still kindness.
By dusk, Kalen found the Blackstone Security recruitment office—a squalid trailer on the edge of the Outer District, its windows covered with plywood, its door hanging off its hinges. He stepped inside, the smell of sweat, cigarette smoke, and stale beer hitting him like a fist. A receptionist with a tattoo of a skull on her neck and a pierced nose glanced up from her clipboard.
"Name. Experience. Why you want to join." Her voice was flat, bored, like she'd asked the same questions a thousand times.
"Kalen Voss. Fifteen years in the Wastes. I can fight. I can patrol. I can fix just about anything. I don't ask questions. I just want to get paid." He didn't mention his real goal—to infiltrate Blackstone, find information about the North Star Outpost. He knew better than to trust anyone in a place like this.
The receptionist nodded, scribbling on her clipboard. "Wait for Tyson. He'll interview you. Third door on the right."
Kalen took a seat on a rusted metal chair, his eyes scanning the room. Posters of Blackstone's founder, Victor Kim, covered the walls—Victor in a tailored suit, smiling, his arm around a UG official. The caption read: "Security. Stability. Survival." Kalen sneered. It looked like a lie. He'd seen enough of the world to know that security and stability for some meant suffering for others.
Twenty minutes later, a towering man walked in. Tyson was six and a half feet tall, with a jagged scar slicing across his left bicep and a shaved head covered in tattoos—skulls, knives, the Blackstone logo. He carried a baton at his hip, and his eyes were cold as ice, like he'd never known a moment of warmth.
"A Wasteland rat thinks he can be a security officer?" Tyson sneered. He circled Kalen like a predator, sizing him up. "What makes you qualified to wear the Blackstone patch? You look like you haven't had a hot meal in a year."
Kalen stood, meeting his gaze. He didn't flinch. "I've survived things you can't imagine. I've fought radiation wolves, sandworms, raiders. I've fixed broken radios with scrap metal and started fires in blizzards. I don't care about your patch or your rules. I just want a paycheck. And I'm good at what I do."
Tyson laughed, a harsh, barking sound that echoed through the trailer. "We'll see. Report to the barracks tonight. 2100 hours sharp. And bring 50 credits—you'll need a Blackstone-issued comms device. No exceptions. If you don't have the credits, don't bother showing up."
Kalen's jaw tightened. 50 credits was three times the black market price. It was a shakedown, plain and simple. But he needed this job. He needed access to Blackstone's files, to their network, to the information he needed to find the North Star Outpost. "I have my own radio. It works fine."
Tyson's smile faded. He took a step closer, his face inches from Kalen's. "You want the job, you buy the device. Or you can go back to the Wastes and let the wolves eat you. Your call."
Kalen bit back his anger. He'd dealt with bullies like Tyson his entire life. The key was to pick his battles. "Fine. I'll bring the credits."
As he left the trailer, the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky a deep crimson. He walked toward the barracks—a drafty warehouse on the edge of the Outer District—his mind racing. Victor Kim. Blackstone Security. The North Star Outpost. He was one step closer to finding his mother's cache. But he was also walking into a den of wolves.
He passed a group of Blackstone officers drinking beer outside a bar, their laughter loud and boisterous. They stared at Kalen as he walked by, their eyes filled with contempt. He ignored them, keeping his hand on his machete. He knew he was an outsider, a Wasteland rat in their world. But he also knew he was tougher than any of them. He'd survived fifteen years in the Wastes. He could survive Blackstone Security.