Chapter 8: The Convergence
The fourth day dawned over the 89 survivors. The air, once heavy with the silence of the "Spectral Hunt," now carried a new kind of pressure—the pressure of proximity. The safe zone had shrunk into a tight circle around the laboratory complex, a cluster of white and silver buildings that looked alien amidst the rust and concrete of Necropolis-7. A final arena was taking shape.
Klaus studied the map on his HUD, calculating routes. The main road to the complex was a death trap, a wide, exposed street. The flanks were a maze of utility ducts, service alleys, and sewers. The choice was obvious—but no less dangerous.
He chose the ducts. Narrow metal tunnels, dark and tight, where his shotgun would reign supreme. Before entering, he put on the Thermal Vision Goggles [RARE]. The world shifted into shades of gray. The duct entrance was cold and dark, but he could clearly see several heat signatures moving inside—not human, but biomechanical rats the size of cats, their eyes glowing a sickly orange. They were feeding on something… or someone.
>> MECHANICAL PEST [LEVEL 1] DETECTED. <<
It was an obstacle—but also an opportunity. He could bypass them, but every threat eliminated meant one less risk behind him. Shotgun in hand, he advanced. The rats turned, their metallic snouts opening in silent snarls. Two short, deafening shots in the narrow tunnel were enough. The heat signatures exploded into a mist of fragments and hot oil, then vanished. +10 EXP.+10 EXP.
He pressed forward, passing over the still-twitching bodies. The duct opened into a fire control room, full of rusted valves and offline panels. And there, as he scanned the room with the goggles, he saw them. Through a concrete wall, two human heat signatures—vibrant orange—stood still. They weren't moving. They were… waiting.
Then one moved. It raised a hand, making a sign. A universal signal: Stop. Let's talk.
It was a huge risk. But the arena was closing in. Information could be more valuable than a grenade. Klaus lowered the shotgun but kept a hand near the M1911. He stepped out of the ducts into the fire control room.
There were two men. One was the same man from the arsenal, the one with the hunting rifle. The other was younger, thin, with eyes that seemed to have aged decades in four days. They were visibly more ragged than Klaus, their clothes torn, faces smudged with soot.
"You," said the arsenal man, his voice hoarse. "The negotiator."
Klaus nodded, saying nothing.
"We saw you at the bank," continued the man. "Or, at least, saw a Specter circling the place like a vulture, but never entering. We deduced someone smart was inside."
Klaus kept his expression neutral. They were observant. That made them dangerous.
"What do you want?"
"The zone is too small for 89 people to hide," said the younger one, his voice thin. "The labs are the only way in. But there's a… blockade."
"Bots?" asked Klaus.
"Worse," the arsenal man replied. "It's a barricade. Other recruits. A group. Four, maybe five. They control the main entrance and the loading platform. They're letting no one through. They're hunting anyone who comes near."
A clan. The natural evolution. Groups forming to dominate the final resources. They weren't just surviving; they were trying to control the game.
"Why tell me this?"
"Because you have equipment," said the man, eyes scanning Klaus's tactical backpack, ballistic vest, goggles. "We have numbers. Two of us. You. Maybe we can… create a distraction. While they focus on us, you flank from the inside. You look like the type who can handle yourself alone."
It was a suicidal proposal for them. They would be the bait. Carnage.
"And what do you gain from this?"
"A chance," said the young man, desperation in his voice. "A chance to get inside. And the loot we can carry before the zone crushes us. They have things in there. Things worth points. Things that can be sold."
Klaus looked at them. Disposable? Maybe. But also brave—or desperate enough to be useful. And the logic was sound. A frontal assault against a entrenched group was madness. A distraction was the only way.
"Combination," he said finally. "I go behind. Cause chaos. When you hear shots from inside, attack. Every man for himself."
It was an agreement of non-betrayal, not alliance. The only kind of agreement that mattered in Necropolis-7.
They nodded. No handshakes. No names.
Klaus turned and returned to the ducts, his mind already working on a new plan. The barricade. A group. They would be organized, confident. Perhaps complacent.
He was no longer just a Collector or a Survivor. He was about to become a Gravedigger.
The arena awaited. And 89 was too many for the final stage. The number needed to decrease. And Klaus, with his ring full of death and goggles that saw through walls, was perfectly positioned to help with that task.
The game had changed. It was time to eliminate the competition.
If you want, I can continue with Day 6, where the first clashes happen and Klaus fully embraces the role of "Gravedigger" in the shrinking arena.