Ethan let Robert's theft go unremarked for three days, watching as his adoptive father grew bolder. First it was food, small packages that Robert thought wouldn't be missed. Then batteries, medical supplies, even a knife from the tool storage.
Robert was building a stash, probably hidden somewhere in the family's assigned quarters. It was predictable behaviour, the hoarding instinct that emerged when people felt powerless. Ethan had seen it countless times in his previous timeline, survivors hiding supplies even when doing so hurt the group.
On the fourth day, Ethan called a meeting in the common area. All four of them assembled, looking wary. They'd learned to be cautious around these gatherings. Ethan's announcements were rarely pleasant.
"We need to discuss theft," Ethan began without preamble.
Robert's face remained carefully neutral, but Ethan caught the slight tension in his shoulders. Margaret looked confused. Dylan just seemed annoyed, his injured feet propped up on a chair, still bandaged and oozing.
"Someone has been taking supplies without permission," Ethan continued. "Food, batteries, tools. I have it all on camera, of course. Every inch of this bunker is monitored."
"Then you know who it is," Dylan said. "So what's the meeting for? Just kick them out."
"It's not that simple," Ethan replied. "See, I'm trying to decide if this is a mistake worth correcting or a problem that needs permanent solution."
Robert finally spoke, his voice steady. "What exactly are you accusing me of?"
"I'm not accusing. I'm stating facts. You've stolen approximately fifteen pounds of food, three boxes of batteries, a medical kit, and a hunting knife over the past seventy-two hours. You've hidden them in a hollowed-out section behind the wall panel in your sleeping quarters. Would you like me to play the footage?"
The color drained from Robert's face. Margaret gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. Dylan looked at his father with something between shock and admiration.
"I was just," Robert started, then stopped. What excuse could he possibly give?
"You were just ensuring your family had reserves in case I decided to cut you off," Ethan finished for him. "You were planning for the possibility that I might throw you out or reduce rations. You were thinking ahead, being strategic. I understand the impulse, Robert. Really, I do."
Robert straightened slightly, perhaps sensing this wasn't going to end in immediate expulsion. "Then you understand why,"
"I understand," Ethan interrupted. "I also can't allow it. This bunker operates on trust and rules. Break either, and the whole system collapses. So here's what's going to happen. You're going to retrieve every single item you stole and return it to its proper place. Then you're going to submit to reduced rations for the next week as punishment. Half portions, to replace what you took."
"That's unreasonable," Margaret protested. "He's still recovering. He needs proper nutrition."
"He should have thought of that before becoming a thief," Ethan said coldly. "And if anyone shares their portions with him, they'll both be punished. Am I clear?"
Silence. Then Robert nodded slowly. "Clear."
"Good. Jessica, you'll accompany Robert to retrieve the items and verify everything is returned. Margaret, Dylan, you stay here."
After Jessica and Robert left, Ethan turned to the remaining two. Dylan was staring at him with unconcealed hatred, his jaw clenched tight. Margaret just looked tired, defeated.
"I know what you're thinking," Ethan said, addressing Dylan. "You're thinking I'm a tyrant, that I'm enjoying this, that I'm no better than you were to me."
"Aren't you?" Dylan shot back. "You're starving Dad as punishment. How is that different from what we did to you?"
"The difference is choice," Ethan replied. "Your father chose to steal. I didn't choose to be thrown out in the cold to die. See the distinction?"
"You're twisting it. You want us to suffer because you suffered. That's all this is. Revenge."
Ethan considered this. "Partially, yes. But it's also practical. In a survival situation, theft destabilizes everything. If everyone hoards, the group fails. Robert needed to learn that actions have consequences."
"Like you learned?" Dylan's voice dripped with sarcasm. "Because you seem to have learned that cruelty is the answer to everything."
"I learned that mercy is weakness," Ethan corrected. "I learned that family is a lie people tell themselves. I learned that when it comes down to survival, everyone chooses themselves. Your father just proved that lesson again."
Margaret spoke quietly. "Is there anything we could do to earn your trust, Ethan? Any way to prove we've changed?"
Ethan laughed, a harsh sound without humor. "Changed? Margaret, it's been a week. People don't change in a week. They just get better at hiding what they've always been."
"That's not fair," she said. "You're not even giving us a chance."
"Fair?" Ethan's voice went cold. "You want to talk about fair? Let's discuss fairness. When I was fifteen, I saved for six months to buy a guitar. Remember what happened to it?"
Margaret's face went pale. She remembered.
"Dylan wanted guitar lessons," Ethan continued, "so you gave him my guitar. My savings, my property, just handed it over because Dylan wanted it. When I protested, you called me selfish. So no, Margaret, I'm not interested in your definitions of fair."
He stood up. "I'm going to check on the power systems. When Robert returns the stolen items, everyone will report to their work assignments. We're done here."
As he left, he heard Dylan mutter something to Margaret. Ethan didn't need to hear the words to know they were about him. Let them talk. Let them plot and whisper and bond over their shared hatred of him. It changed nothing.
In the command center, Ethan pulled up the external sensors. The temperature had finally stabilized, still lethally cold at minus thirty-five degrees, but no longer dropping. The snow had stopped falling, leaving the world buried under fifteen feet of white silence.
He switched to the long-range sensors and saw something that made him pause. Heat signatures, multiple ones, moving slowly about three miles from his position. A group of people, maybe a dozen, trudging through the snow.
Survivors. Probably heading toward Henderson Base if they'd picked up the radio signal.
Ethan watched them for several minutes. They were moving slowly, clearly struggling. At their current pace and in their obvious condition, most wouldn't make it another day. The cold would claim them, or exhaustion, or any of a hundred other deadly factors.
He could save them. He had room in the bunker, not comfortably, but he could fit another dozen people if he reorganized. He had enough supplies to sustain them, at least for a while.
The thought lasted exactly three seconds before he dismissed it. More people meant more problems, more mouths to feed, more potential for conflict. He had his hands full with the four he'd reluctantly saved. Taking in more would be suicide.
Ethan switched off the long-range sensors and pulled up the inventory logs instead. He had work to do, systems to maintain, a bunker to run. The dying strangers three miles away were not his concern.
His computer chimed with another radio intercept. This one was different, not a broadcast but a conversation between two parties using encrypted channels. Ethan's systems had cracked the encryption automatically, a feature he'd built in for exactly this purpose.
"Base, this is Scout Team Seven. We've confirmed another survivor encampment at coordinates 43.2156, negative 79.1134. Approximately forty individuals, poorly supplied. Recommend extraction."
"Copy, Scout Seven. What's their condition?"
"Critical. They won't last another week without intervention. Requesting permission to make contact."
"Permission granted. Offer them transport to Henderson. Standard protocols apply."
Ethan sat back, processing this. Henderson Base wasn't just gathering survivors passively. They were actively searching for them, sending out scout teams, offering rescue. It suggested a level of organization and resources he hadn't anticipated.
More importantly, it meant they might eventually find his bunker.
That complicated things. Ethan had no desire to be absorbed into some military operation, to surrender his autonomy and resources to a collective authority. But he also recognized that complete isolation might not be sustainable long term.
He needed more information about Henderson Base. What kind of organization it was, who was in charge, what their intentions were for survivors. Knowledge was always the first step in maintaining control.
Ethan began composing a carefully worded radio message, something that would open communication without revealing too much about his position or resources. He was still drafting when Jessica appeared in the doorway.
"All the items have been returned," she said quietly. "Robert wanted me to tell you."
"Good. Go help Margaret with the cleaning."
Jessica didn't leave. She stood there, shifting her weight nervously. "Can I ask you something?"
"You just did."
"I mean, can I ask something real? Not about work assignments or rules?"
Ethan gestured for her to continue, though he didn't turn away from his computer.
"Do you hate us?" Jessica asked. "I mean, really hate us? Or is this all just, I don't know, some kind of performance?"
"Does it matter?"
"It does to me," she said. "Because if you hate us, at least I understand the cruelty. But if you don't, if you're doing this for some other reason, then I don't understand you at all."
Ethan finally turned to look at her. Jessica had always been pretty, the kind of girl who turned heads without trying. But the apocalypse had worn her down. Her hair was lank, her skin pale, her eyes haunted. She looked breakable.
"I don't hate you," he said truthfully. "Hate requires caring, and I don't care about any of you enough to hate you."
"That's worse," Jessica whispered.
"Probably," Ethan agreed. "Now go. I have work to do."
After she left, Ethan returned to his message draft. But Jessica's question lingered in his mind. Did he hate them? He'd thought he did, in those final moments of his previous life, freezing outside their door. He'd sworn revenge, promised himself he'd make them suffer.
But now, having actually achieved that revenge, it felt hollow. They were suffering. They were completely dependent on him, stripped of dignity and autonomy. He'd won every possible victory over them.
So why did it feel like losing?