Day 11.
The Mess Hall (Factory Floor).
Sauget, Illinois.
19:00 Hours.
Sal's funeral was a ten-minute affair. We didn't bury him; the ground outside was frozen slurry and toxic mud. We burned him.
Boyd had rigged the industrial incinerator in the waste disposal unit. It wasn't ceremonial. It was sanitary. We watched the smoke rise through the vents, greasy and black, carrying away the only guy who knew how to tell a joke in this hellhole.
Now, the silence in the mess hall was heavy enough to crack the concrete.
The crew sat on overturned buckets and crates around a burning oil drum. Their faces were gaunt, hollowed out by eleven days of hard labor and low-calorie rations. They weren't looking at the fire. They were looking at the crate of MREs behind me.
I stood on the raised loading dock, checking the inventory screen on my HUD.
`[FOOD STORES: CRITICAL.]`
`[CONSUMPTION RATE: UNSUSTAINABLE.]`
`[DAYS UNTIL STARVATION: 4.]`
The math was brutal. The Red Faction ambush had cost us more than ammo. We'd lost a day of scavenging. We'd burned calories fighting that we couldn't replace.
"Listen up," I said. My voice echoed in the vast, shadow-filled factory.
The heads snapped up. Paige. Miller. Ronnie, with a bloody bandage over his missing eye. The three new Nulls we'd picked up from the suburbs on Day 8.
"We took a hit today," I said. "Sal is gone. We used a lot of resources holding the line."
"We saved your ass," Miller muttered from the back. He was nursing a cup of hot water, staring into the steam.
"We saved the Silo," I corrected. "But the supply chain is broken. The hardware store is tapped. The grocery distribution center on 3rd Street is overrun by a Tier 2 nest. We can't get to it."
I took a breath. This was the moment. The moment the benevolence ended and the dictatorship began.
"Effective immediately," I said, "the exchange rate is changing."
I pointed to the sign cardboard sign leaning against the MRE crate.
1 MRE = 1 SCRIP.
I reached down, grabbed a black marker, and crossed out the 1.
I wrote a 2.
"Food is now two scrip," I said. "Water is one scrip per liter."
Silence. Absolute, stunned silence.
Then, the explosion.
"Two washers?" Ronnie stood up, knocking his crate over. "Jack, I only earn twelve a day! You're cutting my rations in half?"
"I'm rationing the supply," I said calmly. "If we keep eating at the current rate, we starve by Day 15. If we cut back, we make it to the Day 20 harvest."
"We're starving now!" Paige screamed. She stepped forward, her hands shaking. "Look at us, Jack! My ribs are showing! We're moving tons of concrete on 1200 calories a day, and now you want us to eat less?"
"I want you to live," I said. "Hunger hurts. Starvation kills. This buys us time."
"It buys you time," Miller said.
He stood up slowly. He walked into the center of the circle, the firelight catching the grease on his sheriff's uniform. He looked at the crew, then at me.
"Look at him," Miller said, pointing a dirty finger at my chest. "Does he look hungry? Look at Travis. That monster eats three times what we do. Where does his food come from?"
"Travis is a Tank Class," I said, my hand drifting toward the Fang on my hip. "His metabolic burn is four thousand calories a day. If he doesn't eat, he dies. If he dies, the walls fall, and the Red Faction skins you all alive."
"So he eats, and we starve," Miller said. "Because he's useful. And we're just... what did you call us? Nulls? Zeros?"
He turned to the new guys.
"You see how it works?" Miller's voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, but it carried. "The Users get the juice. They get the super-strength. They get the heat. We get the scraps. And when we die—like Sal died—they just burn us and check the ammo count."
`[MILLER: AGITATOR STATUS CONFIRMED.]`
`[LOYALTY DRAIN: -15% (GROUP).]`
I saw the nod. The subtle shift in body language. Ronnie looked at Miller, then at me. The hatred in his one good eye was terrifying.
"It's simple math, Miller," I said, keeping my voice steady. "We have X amount of food. We have Y days. If you want to argue with the math, go ahead. But the price is the price."
"It's not math," Miller spat. "It's tyranny. You have a stockpile, Monroe. We saw the case you brought back from the hardware store. The serum. You're hoarding the god-juice while we fight over crackers."
"The serum isn't food," I said. "It's a weapon. And it kills you if you're not compatible."
"Or maybe," Miller smiled, a cold, thin stretching of lips, "it just makes you strong enough to take what you want. And you don't want us strong."
The tension in the room spiked. I could feel it—a physical pressure.
`[ROOT TEMPTATION: HE'S A CANCER. CUT HIM OUT. EXECUTE HIM NOW. MAKE AN EXAMPLE.]`
`[ADMINISTRATOR: WARNING. EXECUTING A LEADER FIGURE WILL TRIGGER IMMEDIATE MUTINY. PROBABILITY OF VIOLENCE: 88%.]`
I couldn't kill him. Not yet. If I shot him now, right after Sal died, I'd lose the room. They'd rush me. I'd have to kill Ronnie, Paige... everyone.
I'd be the King of Nothing.
"Work harder," I said, leaning on the crate. "You want more food? Earn more scrip. Double shifts on the wall reinforcement. Night watch. Sanitation duty. The work is there."
I looked at Paige.
"You want to eat, Ness? Pick up a shovel. The scrip doesn't care about your feelings."
Paige stared at me. For a second, I saw the old Vanessa—the woman who used to negotiate million-dollar contracts. Then it vanished, replaced by the hollow-eyed laborer.
She reached into her pocket. She pulled out two metal washers.
She threw them at my feet.
Clink. Clink.
"One peanut butter," she whispered.
I didn't blink. I kicked an MRE packet off the dock. It landed in the dirt.
"Enjoy," I said.
She picked it up and walked away, tearing the package open with her teeth like a feral animal.
One by one, the others followed. They threw their washers in the dirt. They took their half-rations. They didn't look at me. They looked at Miller.
And Miller looked at me.
He didn't buy food. He still had a stash somewhere, or he was stealing. He just stood there, watching the transaction.
"Inflation," Miller murmured as the last Null walked away. "It's a bitch, isn't it, Jack? When the money becomes worthless, people start looking for other ways to pay."
"Watch your step, Sheriff," I said.
"I'm watching yours," he said.
He turned and limped into the shadows of the sleeping quarters.
I stood alone on the dock. The bucket of washers at my feet felt heavy. Useless.
Travis stepped out of the shadows behind me. He was eating a block of protein nutrient straight from the wrapper.
"He's trouble, Boss," Travis rumbled. "I should have squashed him on the highway."
"Not yet," I said, watching the darkness where Miller had vanished. "We need the labor. The wall isn't finished."
I looked at the inventory screen again.
`[DAYS UNTIL STARVATION: 6 (ADJUSTED).]`
I had bought us two days.
But I had sold their loyalty to do it.
FOUNDRY PROTOCOL - DAY 11
SECTOR 1 (JACK MONROE) █████░░░░░ 5/10 Nodes
ECONOMY: INFLATION (2:1)
Morale: HOSTILE
Threat: Internal Mutiny (Miller Agitating)
Next Event: The Glitch / Flamethrower Turret