Day 13.
The North Gate.
Sauget, Illinois.
10:00 Hours.
The "Welcome Mat" was ugly.
It sat in the center of the kill box, bolted to a fresh concrete pad Boyd had poured overnight. It didn't look like a weapon; it looked like a plumbing accident in a refinery. A tangle of copper pipes scavenged from the biker convoy, hooked up to a high-pressure rotary sprinkler head, fed by a fifty-gallon drum of diesel-styrofoam slurry.
The Flamethrower Turret.
My Decay Sight overlaid the monstrosity with jagged red text, the System struggling to categorize a weapon born from a glitch.
`[STATUS: UNTESTED.]`
`[FUEL: NAPALM BATCH 2 (DIESEL/POLYMER MIX).]`
`[MORALITY LOCK: BYPASSED via CRUELTY TRAIT.]`
"It's grim," Boyd said, wiping grease from his hands onto his jeans. He looked thinner than he did three days ago. We all did. His cheekbones were sharp enough to cut glass. "The ignition system is a pilot light from a water heater. If the wind blows it out, we're just spraying gas on people."
"It won't blow out," I said. "And if it does, we have flares."
I walked around the device. I felt different today. The Cruelty trait I'd accepted from the Root wasn't a voice in my head or a red filter on my vision. It was a temperature. A cold, numbing sensation in the center of my chest that made the idea of mercy feel like a rounding error.
I looked at the nozzle. It was aimed at the gate height—chest level for a man, head level for a Shambler.
"Efficient," I noted.
"Jack," Yana called from the overhead catwalk. Her voice was tight. "Incoming. West road. It's not the bikers."
I climbed the ladder, the metal rungs stinging my cold hands.
I looked out over the wasteland.
It wasn't the chaotic swarm of the Red Faction. This was a precision column.
Three Humvees, painted matte black with white identification numbers stenciled on the doors. A pristine white box truck followed them, heavy-duty suspension groaning under a load. It had biohazard symbols painted on the side.
They moved in perfect formation, avoiding the potholes and debris that the bikers had hit. They didn't rev their engines; they hummed.
"Blue Faction," I said. "The Enclave."
`[FACTION DETECTED: THE ENCLAVE (ORDER).]`
`[THREAT LEVEL: HIGH.]`
`[IDEOLOGY: TOTALITARIAN.]`
"Military?" Miller asked, limping up the catwalk behind me. He was cradling his splinted arm. "National Guard?"
"Remnants," I said. "The ones who decided the Constitution expired on Day 1. They operate out of the old bunkers to the west."
The column stopped exactly fifty yards from the gate—just outside the effective range of small-arms fire. They knew the engagement distances.
A man got out of the lead Humvee.
He wasn't wearing road leathers or rags. He was wearing a crisply pressed grey uniform, a tactical vest, and a transparent face shield. He looked like he had just stepped out of a dry cleaner. In the filth of East St. Louis, his cleanliness was more intimidating than the mounted machine gun on his roof.
He held a megaphone.
"Occupants of Sector 1," his voice boomed, amplified and clear, echoing off the factory walls. "This is Lieutenant Sterling of the Regional Provisional Authority. You are in violation of Curfew Order 77 and unauthorized resource hoarding. Prepare for inspection."
"Inspection?" Miller laughed. It was a dry, bitter sound. "They think they're the cops."
"They're worse," I said, checking the load on my Fang .45. "They're the HOA from hell."
I picked up my own megaphone.
"Turn around," I said. "Private property. Infection protocol in effect."
Sterling didn't flinch. He didn't even look up at me. He consulted a tablet in his hand, scrolling with a gloved finger.
"Jack Monroe," Sterling read aloud. "Rank 1842. We tracked the System signature from your ambush on Highway 40. You eliminated a Red Faction convoy. That makes you a resource. But resources must be managed."
He motioned to the white truck.
The back rolled up. Six soldiers in full MOPP-4 hazmat suits stepped out. They weren't holding rifles. They were holding flamethrowers of their own—military grade, sleek and pressurized.
"The Enclave provides security," Sterling announced, walking toward the gate. "We provide order. In exchange, we require a tribute to the collective stockpile."
"We don't have food," I said. "We're eating half-rations."
"We know," Sterling said. "We scanned your heat signatures. You're malnourished. Your metabolic rates are inefficient. We don't want your food, Mr. Monroe."
He pointed at the Gutter. At the tanks filled with liquefying zombies.
"We want your Biomass."
The silence on the catwalk was absolute.
"We require 500 gallons of processed slurry per week," Sterling said. "And we require the Serum."
My grip tightened on the railing.
"They can scan our inventory?" Paige whispered from below, terrified.
"High-level Blue prints," I said. "Surveillance tech. They know what we have."
"The Serum is a restricted substance," Sterling continued, his voice bored. "It causes instability. Hand over the vials, submit to the biomass tax, and we will grant you 'Vassal Status.' You will be under our protection. You will receive a weekly ration of filtered water and Vitamin D supplements."
"And if we don't?" I asked.
Sterling smiled. It was a cold, clinical expression, devoid of any real humor.
"Then you are a vector," he said. "And vectors are sanitized."
`[ADMINISTRATOR: DIPLOMATIC SOLUTION AVAILABLE. SUBMIT AND SURVIVE. EFFICIENCY LOSS: 30%.]`
`[ROOT: THEY WANT YOUR JUICE. THEY WANT TO SLAVE-COLLAR YOU. BURN THE SUITS.]`
I looked down at the courtyard.
Travis was standing by the turret, hidden in the shadow of the gate. He was vibrating. The serum hunger was eating him alive, and these men wanted to take the only thing that kept him strong.
If I gave them the serum, I gave up our only edge. If I gave them the slurry, we lost our fuel.
They wanted to turn us into a gas station.
"Subjugation isn't survival," I muttered. The Cruelty trait pulsed, a cold spike of clarity.
I keyed the megaphone.
"Sterling," I said. "I have a counter-offer."
Sterling paused. "Proceed."
"You get off my lawn," I said. "Or I fertilize it with you."
Sterling sighed. He tapped his tablet, shaking his head like a disappointed teacher.
"Sanitation Team," he ordered. "Clear the infection. Burn the structure."
The hazmat soldiers stepped forward. The Humvee turrets swiveled toward us, the heavy .50 calibers racking with a metallic clack-clack.
"Boyd," I said into my headset. "Meatloaf."
Boyd, crouching behind the concrete pad in the courtyard, hesitated for a fraction of a second. Then he hit the switch.
WHIRRRRR.
The plumbing nightmare in the center of the kill box shuddered. The compressor kicked on with a scream like a dying jet engine.
The North Gate rolled open.
Sterling looked up, confused. He expected a shootout. He didn't expect an open door.
KA-CHUNK.
The rotary head on the turret spun. The pilot light flickered blue.
A solid stream of napalm—thick, sticky, and burning at 2,000 degrees—erupted from the nozzle.
It didn't just spray. It painted.
It hit the lead Humvee first. The sticky fire coated the windshield, blinding the driver instantly. The glass shattered under the thermal shock.
Then the turret rotated, the stream whipping across the road like a lash made of lava.
It hit the hazmat soldiers.
Their suits were rated for chemical spills. They were fire-resistant. But they weren't napalm-resistant. Nothing is.
The gel stuck to them. It burned through the rubber seals in seconds. It cooked them inside their protective gear.
They screamed. It was a muffled, wet sound behind their masks, like steam escaping a kettle. They flailed, dropping their weapons, turning into human candles.
"Pull back!" Sterling screamed, diving behind the white truck. "Engage! Engage!"
The Humvee gunners opened fire. Bullets sparked off the concrete walls of the Silo, chipping the bone-reinforced cement.
"Range is thirty meters!" I yelled down to Boyd. "Adjust elevation! Get the gunners!"
Boyd cranked the handle on the servo motor. The stream arched higher, clearing the truck and splashing down on the roof gunners.
One gunner took a face full of the burning sludge. He fell back into the cabin, thrashing. The interior of the Humvee lit up as the fire spread inside.
The smell of cooking chemicals, rubber, and meat filled the air. It was sweet and terrible.
`[SYSTEM ALERT: CRUELTY TRAIT ACTIVE.]`
`[SANITY: -2%.]`
`[ROOT: GLORIOUS. COOK THEM IN THEIR SHELLS. SMELL THE PURITY.]`
I watched them burn. I didn't feel horror. I felt satisfaction. It was a math problem, and the fire was the solution.
The Enclave wasn't ready for this. They were used to shooting starving civilians or burning stationary nests of Shamblers. They weren't ready for industrial warfare. They weren't ready for someone who played by the Root's rules using Administrator tools.
The remaining Humvees reversed, tires spinning on the melting asphalt. One of them drove blindly into the drainage ditch as the driver panicked, the vehicle rolling onto its side.
"Cease fire!" I ordered. "Save the fuel!"
Boyd cut the valve. The roar of the fire died down, replaced by the crackle of burning tires and the wet screams of the dying men in the hazmat suits.
Sterling was alive. He had scrambled into the second Humvee before it pulled back.
"This isn't over, Monroe!" his voice crackled over the megaphone, panic finally cracking his clinical facade. "You are designated Hostile! You are Kill-on-Sight! The Battalion will wipe you off the map!"
The remaining vehicles tore away, leaving their burning comrades behind on the asphalt.
I stood on the catwalk, watching them run. The "Welcome Mat" smoked in the center of the yard, dripping unburnt fuel onto the concrete.
Miller walked up beside me. He looked at the burning hazmat suits. He looked at the man writhing on the ground, his suit melted to his skin.
"You just declared war on the army," Miller said. His voice was quiet.
"They aren't the army," I said, holstering my Fang. "They're just another gang. They just have better laundry."
I turned to the crew.
"Scavenge the bodies," I said. "Once they stop burning. Hazmat suits might be useful if we can patch them. And check the white truck. If they were collecting taxes, maybe they have some food."
Miller stared at me. "You want us to loot the people you just burned alive?"
"I want you to eat, Sheriff," I said.
I pointed at the white truck abandoned in the driveway. The back door had popped open in the chaos. Inside, I could see crates.
"Go," I said.
Miller looked at the truck. Then at his stomach.
He went.
I stayed on the wall, watching the black smoke rise into the grey sky.
The Enclave would be back. They would bring tanks next time. Or drones.
But tonight, we ate.
`[BATTLE WON.]`
`[LOOT: ENCLAVE TRUCK (SUPPLIES), HAZMAT SCRAP.]`
`[RELATIONSHIP: THE ENCLAVE (WAR).]`
`[SANITY: 78%.]`
I touched the cold spot in my chest. It felt solid. It felt necessary.
"Day 13," I whispered. "Unlucky for them."
FOUNDRY PROTOCOL - DAY 13
SECTOR 1 (JACK MONROE) █████░░░░░ 5/10 Nodes
RELATIONS: WAR (The Enclave)
DEFENSE: FLAMETHROWER TURRET (Proven)
Sanity: 78% (Cruelty Active)
Next Event: The Darkness / Blackout