Day 21.
The Roof (Sector 1).
Sauget, Illinois.
08:00 Hours.
The sun rose on a kingdom of ash.
I stood on the edge of the roof, looking down into the open wound of the factory floor. The skylights were gone, shattered during the siege. Through the twisted steel beams, I could see the blackened concrete of Level 1. It looked like the inside of a chimney.
The Fuser was still down there—a lump of fused carbon and melted fat in the center of the kill zone. The smell of it, twenty-four hours later, was a thick, greasy paste that coated the back of my throat.
"Efficiency optimal," I whispered to myself.
I raised my wrist. The System interface flickered into existence, blue text scrolling against the grey sky.
`[CULL COUNTDOWN: 9 DAYS.]`
`[CURRENT RANK: 412.]`
`[TOTAL TERRITORIES REMAINING: 287.]`
The math was simple. The math was a guillotine.
There were fifty slots on the lifeboat. I was number 412. If the server wiped today, I was dead. If it wiped tomorrow, I was dead.
I had nine days to climb over three hundred corpses.
"Jack," Helen's voice rasped behind me.
I didn't turn. I knew what she looked like. She was aging in dog years. Her hair was thinning, grey streaks multiplying by the hour. Her hands shook constantly, a tremor she tried to hide by chain-smoking scavenged cigarette butts.
"Medical report," I said.
"Travis has micro-fractures in three ribs," Helen said, flipping open her notebook . "From the Fuser impact. He's not complaining, but his breathing is shallow. His body temp is holding at eighty degrees, but his caloric burn is... it's insane, Jack. He's eating raw potatoes out of the hydroponics trays. Skins, eyes, dirt, everything."
"He's a Tank," I said. "He needs fuel. Let him eat."
"Ronnie's eye socket is infected," she continued. "Pus is green. I need antibiotics, or he goes septic in forty-eight hours."
"We're out," I said.
"Then we find some," Helen snapped. "Or he dies."
"Keep going," I said.
"Four of the new Nulls—the ones we pulled from the suburbs before the siege—are showing symptoms. Not the flu. Something else. Their gums are bleeding black. Their pupils are dilating randomly."
"Mutation precursors," I said. "Keep them isolated. If they turn, burn them."
Helen slammed the notebook shut. "We are eating ourselves alive, Jack. This isn't survival. It's a countdown to cannibalism."
I turned to face her. I activated Decay Sight.
The red text ghosted over her head.
`[HELEN VOSS: NULL.]`
`[SURVIVAL PROBABILITY: 22%.]`
`[CAUSE OF DEATH: CARDIAC ARREST (STRESS/MALNUTRITION).]`
`[TIME REMAINING: 22 DAYS.]`
She was already dead. The math had already killed her; her heart just hadn't stopped beating yet.
"It is a countdown," I said. "But not to cannibalism. To the Cull."
I walked past her, toward the hatch.
"Where are you going?"
"Inventory," I said. "We need to see what we have left to spend."
The Lung (Level 2).
08:30 Hours.
The air in the Lung was the only clean thing left in Sauget. The scrubbers hummed, filtering out the ash and the smell of the dead.
But the mood was toxic.
The crew was gathered for the morning ration distribution. Eighteen Nulls, huddled in blankets, staring at the crate of food with hollow, predatory eyes.
Paige was there.
She was on her hands and knees near the drainage grate, scrubbing a patch of dried blood with a rag. She wore the grey jumpsuit of the labor class, stained and torn. Her hair, once a perfect blonde bob, was chopped short and matted with grease.
I looked at her.
`[PAIGE: NULL (SLAVE CLASS).]`
`[LOYALTY: 12% (TERROR).]`
`[SURVIVAL PROBABILITY: 18%.]`
`[CAUSE OF DEATH: STARVATION.]`
She looked up. Her eyes met mine. There was no defiance left. Just a vast, empty fear. She looked at the floor and scrubbed harder.
"Listen up," I announced.
The heads snapped up.
"Generator fuel is at twelve percent," I said. "We can't run the scrubbers, the grow lights, and the heat at the same time."
Boyd stood by the control panel. He looked different. His skin had a metallic sheen to it, silver-grey under the grow lights. He wasn't blinking enough.
"I can reroute," Boyd said. His voice was flat, synthesized. "Priority to the Mudroom. Hygiene is critical."
"No," I said. "Priority to the Turret compressor. If the Enclave comes back, we need fire."
"That leaves the barracks dark," a Null shouted from the back. "It's freezing down here! You can't cut the heat again!"
"Wear more clothes," I said. "Sleep in shifts. Body heat works."
"You're killing us!" the Null screamed.
I didn't argue. I didn't justify. I let the Cruelty trait do the work. I just looked at him. I looked at him until he sat down and shut up.
`[ADMINISTRATOR: EFFICIENCY OPTIMAL. ATTRITION ACCEPTABLE.]`
`[ROOT: TOO SLOW. HE'S WEAK. CUT HIS THROAT. DRINK THE WARMTH.]`
"Food rations are cut to one-third," I said. "Starting now."
A groan went through the room.
"We have three days of food left," I said. "If we stretch it, we have nine. Nine days gets us to the finish line."
"And then what?" Helen asked from the doorway. "What happens in nine days, Jack? Do we get a pizza party? Or do we just die hungry?"
"In nine days," I said, "we win."
I walked over to the radio station Boyd had set up in the corner. It was scanning the frequencies, picking up static and garbled transmissions from the other surviving territories.
zzzt... Top 200... zzzt... bonus unlock... zzzt...
I froze.
"Boyd," I said. "Isolate that frequency."
Boyd touched the dial. He didn't turn it; he just touched it, and the static cleared.
"...repeat, Sanctuary 4 to all stations. System broadcast intercepted. Top 200 ranking grants bonus resource cache. Threshold is real. If you're below 200, you get purged early. Repeat..."
The transmission cut out.
I stared at the radio.
"Top 200," I whispered.
The System hadn't told me that. The System barely told me anything. But it made sense. A cull before the Cull. A qualifier round.
We were Rank 412.
We weren't just racing the clock. We were racing a hidden cutoff.
"Change of plans," I said.
I turned to the room.
"We aren't hunkering down," I said. "We're going hunting."
"Hunting?" Travis asked. He was standing in the corner, chewing on a raw potato. Dirt crunched between his teeth. He looked like a statue carved from bruised meat. "Zombies?"
"No," I said. "Territories."
I pulled up the map on my HUD.
To the east, near the old rail yard, there were three faint signatures. Rank 460. Rank 438. Rank 422.
Weaklings. Hiding in the dark. Hoarding resources they didn't have the strength to defend.
"We're going to expand," I said. "We're going to absorb them."
"You mean kill them," Helen said.
"I mean audit them," I said.
I looked at Yana. She was leaning against the wall, hand resting absently on her stomach. She looked pale.
"Yana," I said. "Scout run. Tonight. I want to know what they have."
She nodded, but her hand stayed on her stomach. Her eyes were unfocused, panic flickering behind the hazel irises.
`[YANA: SHADOW CLASS.]`
`[STATUS: COMPROMISED (BIOLOGICAL ANOMALY).]`
I narrowed my eyes. Anomaly? What kind of anomaly?
"Yana?" I asked.
She snapped her hand away from her belly. "I'm on it, Jack. I'll find them."
She vanished into the shadows before I could ask.
I turned back to the map.
`[RANKING UPDATE: 405.]`
Seven territories had died while we were having this conversation. The noose was tightening.
"Get ready," I told the crew. "The grind is over. The war begins now."
FOUNDRY PROTOCOL - DAY 21
SECTOR 1 (JACK MONROE) ██████░░░░ 6/10 Nodes
RANK: 405 (Target: Top 200)
STATUS: AGGRESSIVE EXPANSION
Resources: Critical (Food/Fuel)
Next Event: The Scavenger Compact