The next morning, Kalen reported for patrol at 0600 hours. The barracks was chaos—guards rushing around, getting dressed, grabbing their weapons. Tyson stood in the center of the room, barking orders, his face red with anger.
"Listen up, maggots!" he yelled. "Today's patrol is Scrap Street. Most dangerous part of the Outer District. Robberies, murders, drug deals—you name it, it happens there. Your job is to keep the peace. No scavenger causes trouble. No one steals from the stalls. And if you see anyone snooping around Warehouse 37, shoot first, ask questions later. Am I clear?"
The guards nodded, their voices echoing in the warehouse. Kalen grabbed his baton and comms device—his own radio, not the overpriced Blackstone one—and followed the other guards out the door. He knew Tyson was trying to get him killed. Scrap Street was a death trap, even for seasoned Wasteland survivors. But he also knew it was his best chance to find information about Victor's operation.
Scrap Street was a labyrinth of ramshackle stalls, illegal bars, and homeless scavengers huddled in doorways. The street was narrow, barely wide enough for two people to walk side by side. The air smelled of burning trash, unwashed bodies, and the faint tang of radiation. Women yelled from stall doors, selling everything from rusted scrap to expired rations to homemade alcohol brewed from fermented cactus. Children with sunken eyes begged for food, their hands outstretched, their voices thin and weak.
Kalen walked slowly, his eyes scanning the shadows. He noticed everything—the way the guards avoided certain alleys, the way the stall owners nodded at certain men, the way a group of scavengers huddled in a doorway, watching him with suspicion. He was looking for patterns, for clues, for anything that might lead him to the North Star Outpost or Victor's fake meds operation.
Three drunk scavengers stumbled out of a derelict bar, blocking his path. They reeked of homemade whiskey, their clothes stained with vomit and blood. The tallest one, a man with a missing eye and a scar across his cheek, grabbed Kalen's arm. "Blackstone pig," he slurred. "Give us your water. And any credits you got. Or we'll beat you within an inch of your life."
Kalen tensed, his hand drifting to the baton at his hip. He didn't want to draw attention, but he wasn't going to let three drunks rob him. He'd dealt with worse in the Wastes. Before he could move, a young man in a bright red scarf sauntered over, chewing gum loudly. He was Mexican-American, with a sharp grin and a tattoo of a snake coiling around his wrist. He was lean, wiry, with a confidence that told Kalen he was someone to be reckoned with.
"¿Qué carajo estás haciendo?" he snapped in Spanish (What the hell are you doing?). The drunkards paled when they saw him.
"Rico… we didn't know he was with you," one stammered. They backed away, their hands raised, and disappeared into the crowd.
Rico clapped Kalen on the shoulder, his grin widening. "Che, you must be the new guy from the Wastes. Tyson sent you to Scrap Street to get yourself killed, huh? That's his MO—send the newbies to the worst parts of the district. If you survive, you're useful. If not, no loss."
Kalen narrowed his eyes. "Why'd you help me?"
Rico nodded toward a second-story window, where a small boy with a gaunt face stared down at them. The boy's skin was pale, his eyes milky white—classic radiation sickness symptoms. "My brother Miguel. He's got radiation sickness. Needs meds. Tyson's patrol routes—you tell me when he's not around, I can sneak Miguel to the clinic. In return, I'll keep you alive. Fair trade."
Kalen thought of Jake's sister, of all the scavengers dying from Victor's fake pills. He nodded. "Deal. But I need something else. Information. About Victor Kim. About Warehouse 37. About the fake meds he's selling."
Rico's grin faded. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Warehouse 37 is Victor's main operation. He's been selling fake meds for months. My cousin took those pills. Died two weeks ago. Choked on his own blood. The UG knows about it, but they don't care. Allen Cole gets a cut of the profits. It's all a racket."
Kalen pulled out the fake pill bottle he'd stolen from the warehouse. "I have proof. But I need more. I need to know who's supplying the fake meds. Who's covering for Victor in the UG. And I need to find the North Star Outpost—a medical cache my mother told me about before she died."
Rico's eyes lit up. "The North Star Outpost? I've heard rumors. Some say it's in the Wastes, north of the Safe Zone. Others say it's a myth. But if your mother told you about it, it must be real. I know a guy. A former Blackstone guard. He owes me a favor. He might talk—for a price. Meet me at the scrapyard tonight. Midnight. Bring credits. Or rations. He's hungry."
Kalen nodded. "I'll be there."
As Rico walked away, Kalen watched him go. He didn't trust easily—fifteen years in the Wastes had taught him that—but Rico's anger seemed real. His brother was dying. His cousin was dead. They had a common enemy. And Kalen needed all the allies he could get.
For the rest of the day, Kalen patrolled Scrap Street, memorizing Tyson's routes and the positions of Blackstone guards. He saw Victor's men shaking down stall owners for "protection money," stealing rations from scavengers, and beating anyone who dared to complain. He saw a woman beg for meds for her dying child, only to be laughed at by a Blackstone officer. He saw a young boy get hit by a Blackstone truck, the driver speeding away without a second glance.
It made Kalen's blood boil. This wasn't security. It was tyranny. Victor Kim was a criminal, and the UG was his accomplice. He was stealing from the poor, killing them with fake meds, and getting away with it. Kalen was determined to stop him.
By dusk, Kalen's shift ended. He returned to the barracks, exhausted but focused. Jake was waiting for him, his face pale. "Tyson's looking for you. He asked where you were during your patrol. I told him you were following orders, but he didn't believe me. He's suspicious."
Kalen nodded. "I'll be careful. Thanks for covering for me."
He lay down on his cot, but he didn't sleep. He thought about Rico, about the scrapyard meeting, about the North Star Outpost. He thought about his mother, about her dream of healing the world. He knew the road ahead would be dangerous, but he was ready. He'd survived fifteen years in the Wastes. He could survive anything.
As midnight approached, Kalen slipped out of the barracks. The Outer District was quiet, most scavengers asleep. He walked toward the scrapyard, his hand on his machete. He didn't know what to expect, but he knew it was a risk worth taking. He was one step closer to finding the truth. One step closer to honoring his mother's memory. One step closer to making things right.