The setting sun bled orange and purple across the barren sky, casting long, distorted shadows from the cave mouth. In the clearing before it, the scene was one of surreal domesticity. Zach the Ogre lay on his side like a beached, pale leviathan, his single enormous eye fixed pleadingly on Michael. A low, wet, rhythmic smack-smack-smackechoed in the still air as the creature worked his massive jaws, seemingly trying to extract every last molecule of flavor from the memory of the synthetic ham sausages.
"Master," the Ogre rumbled, his voice a bass note that vibrated through the packed earth. "Might one inquire as to the ETA of further comestibles? A creature of my stature requires consistent fueling, you understand."
Michael, squatting nearby and squinting at the tiny screen of a newly-purchased Geiger counter, didn't look up. "Patience is a virtue, you walking stomach. Food comes when I go back and fetch it. You'll get your fill, I promised, didn't I?" His tone was sharp, edged with the anxiety of a man who had just bet his last chips on a very dubious hand.
After a brief but intense internal debate, he had decided to proceed with the Ogre's salvation. The logic, in his desperate calculus, was mercenary: he'd already invested a whole carton of sausages. To walk away now would be a total loss. So, he'd grimly continued his amateur surgery, carving away rotten flesh until the wounds bled a healthier, if still alarming, red. The last of his precious anti-inflammatory pills—a dose that would have felled a horse—had been unceremoniously dumped down Zach's gullet. The Ogre had swallowed them like pebbles.
Whether it was the drugs or the staggering calorie intake, Zach's condition had visibly stabilized. He remained grievously wounded, unable to stand, but the death-rattle quality had left his breathing. A spark of vitality had returned to his eye. Unfortunately, that spark was currently fixated entirely on the concept of more food.
Michael, whose head was most definitely not 'caught in a door,' had no intention of sacrificing his final box of instant noodles to this bottomless pit. He was guarding that cardboard treasure trove with the zeal of a dragon.
Salvation, of a sort, had appeared. Deeper within the cave, near the back wall, a pinprick of emerald light had winked into existence. It was no larger than a ping-pong ball, but it pulsed with a gentle, undeniable energy, slowly, inexorably swelling. Michael estimated a few more hours before it reached traversable size. Then he could return, use his meager remaining funds to procure the cheapest, most calorie-dense sustenance the modern world could offer, and feed his monstrous investment.
His grander plans of wasteland plunder were temporarily shelved. First, he needed his 'enforcer' operational. Zach, in between requests for snacks, had painted a bleak picture of the local geography. The area was either barren badlands or perilous, monster-infested urban ruins. Cinder Town, with its guarded well, was the sole hub of civilization for miles. An enforcer, especially one that had recently decimated the town's security force, was a priceless asset.
As the light in the cave grew, Michael turned his attention to his other purchase. The Geiger counter, a flimsy plastic thing bought online for 215 yuan with free shipping, felt absurdly inadequate for assessing a post-nuclear hellscape. His fingers, slightly trembling, fumbled with the buttons. A soft, sporadic click-click-clickbegan to emanate from the device. He held his breath, watching the digital readout.
It settled on 5.23.
Relief, warm and sudden, washed over him. He'd read the frantic online forums. A reading between 2 and 10 indicated a 'Low-Level Contamination Zone.' The advice was terse: 'Activity permissible. Monitor exposure time.' It was harmful, certainly, but not instantly, melt-your-skin-off lethal. He dry-swallowed two of the potassium iodide tablets anyway. Compared to the specter of Brother Dong's collectors, a little ambient radiation was a manageable occupational hazard.
With one major worry partially alleviated, curiosity got the better of him. He turned back to his convalescing companion. "Zach," he began, keeping his voice casual. "That green light in the cave. Can you see it?"
The Ogre snorted, a sound like boulders grinding together. "Of course I can see it. It's a ruddy great glowing hole in the air. I'm wounded, not blind."
Michael's heart sank. If others could see it, his sanctuary was compromised. But Zach's next words, spoken in a hushed, almost reverent tone, sent that fear scattering.
"Tried to go through it days ago, when I first spotted it," Zach confessed, his eye narrowing. "Couldn't. Solid as a rock. Are you… one of them? A spell-slinger? A conjurer? Is that your magic door?" The awe in his voice was unmistakable.
A misunderstanding. A glorious, fortuitous misunderstanding. Michael, who had spent twenty-six years in a state that certain internet subcultures might term 'magic' in a very different, lonely sense, puffed out his chest slightly. "Something like that," he said, adopting an air of mysterious competence. "Though my… arts… are a bit different from what you might know."
The effect was immediate. Zach's demeanor shifted from wheedling patient to respectful acolyte. His answers to Michael's subsequent questions became thorough, earnest, if limited by an intellect primarily concerned with procurement and digestion.
Through Zach's fragmented narrative, a clearer, grimmer picture of this world emerged. It was indeed a wasteland, born of a cataclysmic war some thirty to fifty years past. The environment was shattered. Clean water was a prize fought over by tribes and gangs, for while creatures like Ogres could stomach the poisoned pools, humans, 'half-savages,' and the rare 'pure-bloods' could not. To drink it was to court a slow death or a horrific transformation into twisted 'infected' monsters. Cinder Town's value, and the source of Mayor Andrew the Panther-kin's power, was its deep, protected well. The same well that had made the town a target for Zach's rampage, which had, conveniently, wiped out a third of Andrew's enforcers.
The news was music to Michael's ears. A weakened adversary was a distracted adversary.
…
At precisely 10:13 PM by his phone's clock—he'd started timing it—the emerald portal stabilized, a shimmering, vertical pool of liquid light. The cycle was consistent: twelve hours gone, twelve hours present. Leaving the bulky sack of trade goods behind, Michael guided his scooter through the familiar, gut-wrenching twist of the transition.
Back in the stark fluorescence of his bathroom, he staggered, steadied himself, and reflexively pulled out his phone. As it searched for a signal, he checked the time. His breath hitched. He'd spent roughly twelve hours in the wasteland. His phone displayed a time difference of just under two hours.
A time dilation. A ratio of about seven to one.
A fierce, triumphant grin spread across his face. This changed everything. He could operate in the other world without letting his day job—his fragile tether to normalcy and income—completely collapse. He wasn't ready to burn that bridge yet.
After a thorough, almost obsessive shower where he scrubbed every inch of his skin twice, convinced he could feel radioactive dust in his pores, he headed out. He had roughly twelve hours of 'real world' time before the portal reopened. His mission: procure the maximum amount of cheap, calorie-rich food for approximately one hundred yuan. Quantity, not quality, was the mandate. Zach needed bulk, energy, grease.
It seemed an impossible task. But Michael, in his years as a salesman, had seen the underbelly of the city. He knew its rhythms, its economies of desperation. He had a plan, distasteful but potentially brilliant.
He found himself at the door of a small, greasy-spoon restaurant he frequented. It was past three in the afternoon, the lull between lunch and dinner. The proprietor, a woman of such impressive girth she was affectionately (and not entirely kindly) known as 'Auntie Fatty,' was lounging behind the counter, engrossed in her phone.
Michael approached, lowering his voice. "Auntie. Your… kitchen waste. The slop. What's your price for it?"
Her head snapped up, phone forgotten. Her small, shrewd eyes scanned the empty restaurant before settling on him. "Xiao Hu? The fertilizer salesman? What do you want slop for? Starting a pig farm out in the sticks?" She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Ten yuan a bucket. But if you get caught, you never got it from me. Those health department busybodies…"
Michael nodded, producing a crumpled ten-yuan note. The regulations against feeding swill to livestock were years old, but in the shadow economy, they were just another cost of doing business. His concerns, however, were worlds away from the health department. "Deal. I'll take it for the next few days."
She snatched the note with a practiced flick of her wrist, a greedy smile spreading across her face. "Every day? Business must be good. Your farm must be huge."
An image of Zach's cavernous maw and mountainous belly flashed in Michael's mind. A wry, almost hysterical laugh bubbled in his throat. "Huge?" he echoed, the word tasting of absurdity and grand ambition. "You have no idea." He peered into the first reeking, sloshing bucket she dragged out. Amidst the congealed grease, rice scraps, and vegetable peels, something caught his eye: the unmistakable, meat-stripped curve of pork bones. Lots of them. A slow, cunning smile replaced his weariness. Perhaps this venture wouldn't be just about keeping a monster alive. Perhaps it could be about building an empire, one bucket of slop at a time. The legend of the Hog Baron, though he didn't know it yet, had just found its founding capital.