The journey to the derelict Sherman tank, guided by the deep, parallel scars it had gouged into the earth, felt like a pilgrimage to a fallen god of a forgotten age. The sun, a pale, watchful eye in the washed-out sky, beat down on the small party as they trudged the four kilometers from Cinder Town. Michael, with Old Gimpy hobbling beside him and a sullen Zach bringing up the rear like a mobile hill, listened as the old man spun the tank's sorry history.
Years ago, Andrew had stumbled upon a hidden bunker in a canyon to the west. The Sherman had been its sole, slumbering occupant. The real treasures—the medicine, the fuel, the preserved food—had been stripped clean by earlier scavengers, leaving only this thirty-ton relic. Gimpy, with tools scavenged from the ruins and knowledge passed down like a family curse, had coaxed the beast back to a shuddering, smoky semblance of life. It had been Andrew's trump card, a rolling, ironclad argument no one in the wastes could counter. Even with its machine gun seized solid with rust and not a single 76mm shell to its name, the sheer, ground-shaking presenceof the thing had been enough. Can't kill you? Fine,Michael thought, a grin touching his lips despite the heat. I'll just bloody well terrify you to death.
They found it where it had finally given up the ghost, listing slightly in a dry creek bed like a beached metal whale. The moment Gimpy laid a gnarled hand on its rust-pitted flank, a transformation came over him. The sycophantic hunch left his shoulders. The shifty, calculating look in his eyes was replaced by a keen, assessing focus. He produced a multi-tool from his ragged coat and set to work, his movements precise and economical. For a moment, he wasn't Old Gimpy the bartender; he was an engineer, the last inheritor of a dead world's mechanical priesthood.
Michael watched, sweat trickling down his back, a childish hope kindling in his chest. The fantasy was absurd, he knew, but it was intoxicating: rumbling through the streets of Yangcheng in this beast, the ultimate, universe-breaking flex. Traffic would part. Jaws would drop. The very concept of reality would stutter. He waited nearly half an hour in the baking silence, the only sounds the scrape of Gimpy's tools and the buzzing of enormous, iridescent flies.
Finally, the old man emerged from the driver's hatch, his face grim. "It's finished, my lord. A lost cause." He wiped his brow with a filthy rag.
The disappointment was a physical blow, puncturing Michael's glorious daydream. He sighed, about to order a retreat, to leave the Sherman to its slow dissolution into oxides.
Then Gimpy added, almost as an afterthought, "The repairs would be… monumental. No fuel is one thing. A man of your means could buy fuel from the caravans, though the price would make a lesser man weep. But the lubricants… the greases… the seals… the caravans don't carry such things. It's the dry rot in its joints, you see. The old girl is seized up from the inside."
Michael stared, the spark of hope rekindling into a flame. Grease? Lubricant?He fought the urge to shake the old man. His entire plan hinged on the fact that he had access to a world of abundance! A world where you could buy a tub of high-temperature lithium grease for the price of a cheap lunch! The tank wasn't dead; it was just… thirsty.
Assured the Sherman could wait, Michael split the party. Gimpy and one of the guards would return to town. He and Zach would make for the cave, taking a long, circuitous route to throw off any potential trackers. Zach, with his ogre physiology, could hunker down at the cave mouth for days, a monstrous, living padlock on Michael's secret.
The hike back was a dusty, sun-bleached ordeal. But when the familiar mouth of the cave yawned before them, and Michael saw the emerald vortex swirling serenely in its depths, a powerful, almost painful longing gripped him. It wasn't just for safety, but for everything that safety represented: the hum of a refrigerator, the flicker of a screen, the blissful, thoughtless abundance of clean everything.
He was halfway to the light when Zach's voice, a low rumble of pure, uncomplicated need, stopped him. "Master. Do not forget. For your loyal Zach. The Feast of Many Flavors. The glorious… slop soup."
Michael nearly tripped. The memory of the reeking buckets, of Zach's ecstatic slurping, rose up in a wave of guilt. He had used the dregs of his world to feed this simple, terrifying creature. I want to be a better man,he thought helplessly. I just… I need to survive first.
The transition was, as ever, a gut-wrenching twist of reality. Then his feet were on cool, familiar tile. The smell of mildew and cheap air freshener was, for once, not a sign of poverty, but of miraculous, mundane sanitation. Before he did anything else—before he even took off his filthy boots—Michael stumbled to the sink. He turned the tap, cupped his hands under the stream, and drank. He drank deep, long gulps of water that tasted faintly of chlorine and pipes, and in that moment, it was the sweetest, purest nectar that had ever passed his lips. The Wasteland had rewritten his definition of luxury; it was now a glass of tap water, drunk without fear.
The shower that followed was a sacrament. He stood under the spray until the water ran clear, scrubbing at his skin until it glowed pink. The grime that swirled down the drain felt like more than just dirt; it was the dust of that other world, the residue of desperation. He emerged, wrapped in a thin, clean towel, feeling reborn, fragile.
Dressed in fresh, soft clothes that didn't smell of smoke and sweat, he finally retrieved the cloth-wrapped bundle from the pocket of his discarded trousers. His heart beat a little faster as he unfolded it. Even though he'd seen them before, the sight still stole his breath: a thick stack of pre-Collapse U.S. currency. One hundred dollar bills. Benjamin Franklin's mild, judicious gaze looked up at him, 291 times over.
He grabbed his phone, fingers fumbling. The exchange rate glowed on the screen. A few taps on the calculator app later, and the number made him lightheaded. Over two hundred thousand yuan. After wiping out the debt to Brother Dong, he'd be left with a cushion. A real one. The math was obscene in its profitability. This wasn't a salvage run; it was a heist on history itself. And this was just the beginning. The thought, once a desperate gamble, solidified into a cold, hard certainty in his mind. This wasn't an escape route anymore; it was a foundation. And on that foundation, a strange and terrible ambition began to build, brick by silent brick.
Stepping out into the city night, his hair still damp, the euphoria of his calculation crashed into the reality of a clock that read past nine. The banks were tombs of polished marble and silence now. His plan to march in and exchange his fortune was temporarily foiled. But the larger obstacle—havingthe fortune—was already overcome.
He pulled out his phone and found Dong Ge's number. The call connected after several rings.
"A-Biao." The voice on the other end was stripped of all false bonhomie, cold and flat as a river stone. "Your date is coming. Don't call me for more. And when it arrives, if the money doesn't… you know how this works."
The transformation from oily benefactor to cold-eyed collector was complete. Michael felt a surge of vicious satisfaction. "I'm calling to pay, Dong-ge. But I have U.S. dollars. Old ones. You take those? I also need to change the rest to RMB. At a fair rate."
There was the briefest pause, then the voice transformed again, warmth seeping back in as if by magic. "Michael! My brother! Of course, of course! For you, anything! Where are you? Let's not discuss such things over the phone…"
Thirty minutes later, in the back of a black SUV with tinted windows, the transaction was complete. Michael's debt contract, a paper snake that had been coiled around his future, was in his hands. He tore it slowly, methodically, into confetti. A bag holding 52,000 yuan in used bills sat at his feet. The final tally was less than he'd hoped; Dong's "fair" exchange rate had a healthy bite, and the "fees" for the short-term loan were a gouge. But it was a price paid for freedom. The alternative… he didn't let himself think about it.
His attention was caught by Dong himself. The man was holding the stack of hundred-dollar bills, not counting them, but appraisingthem. He brought them to his nose, inhaling deeply, a look of rapturous bliss on his face. He even pressed his lips to the edge of the stack in a grotesque parody of a kiss.
A violent, hysterical laugh fought its way up Michael's throat. The memory of the waste bin, of John's horrified face, of the originof this "treasure" collided with Dong's reverence. He choked it back, his face contorting.
Dong looked up, noticing his expression. "Something wrong, Michael? A problem with the count?"
Michael cleared his throat, meeting the loan shark's eyes with perfect, deadpan sincerity. He gestured to the bag of cash and the shreds of his contract.
"No," he said, his voice flat and clean. "No problem at all."