Day 32.
The Access Road (Eastbound).
2km West of Sector 1.
16:00 Hours.
The vibration was the enemy.
It traveled up through the suspension of the stolen tanker, through the worn shocks, up the steering column, and into Travis's hands. It wasn't just a shake; it was a frequency. A relentless, mechanical grinding that rattled his bones and turned the pain in his kidneys into a white-hot, screaming constant.
Travis gripped the wheel. His hands—massive, grey, and callused—were locked in a rigor-like clutch. If he let go, he wasn't sure he could close them again.
The cab smelled of old coffee, stale cigarettes, and the sharp, chemical tang of diesel fuel.
But underneath that, there was another smell. Something sweeter. Something rot-heavy.
It was him.
He coughed. The spasm tore through his chest, aggravating the micro-fractures in his ribs from the Fuser fight and the fresh gunshot wound in his side.
He hacked, his body convulsing against the seatbelt. He spat onto the dashboard.
It wasn't blood. It was black sludge. Thick, viscous, and oily.
It looked exactly like the fuel sloshing in the tank behind him.
"Black diesel," Travis wheezed. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing the tar across his grey skin. "Running rich."
He looked in the rearview mirror.
The Brennan Fuel Depot was a smudge of smoke on the horizon. The distraction had worked too well. The Runners hadn't just disrupted the Enclave; they had swarmed them. The radio chatter he'd heard before smashing the receiver was just screams and wet tearing sounds.
No one was chasing him. The Enclave was too busy dying.
But he was being chased by something else.
`[SYSTEM WARNING: CRITICAL ORGAN FAILURE.]`
`[RENAL FUNCTION: 8%.]`
`[HEPATIC FUNCTION: 15%.]`
`[TOXICITY LEVELS: LETHAL.]`
The text scrolled across his vision in jagged red letters, pulsing in time with the throb in his lower back.
"Shut up," Travis muttered. "I know the math."
He hit a pothole.
The truck lurched. The massive tank behind him—eight thousand gallons of liquid salvation—sloshed violently. The weight shifted, dragging the trailer sideways.
The steering wheel jerked in his hands, trying to break his wrists.
Travis roared. It wasn't a battle cry; it was a sound of pure exertion.
He fought the wheel. He threw his weight against the turn, his muscles screaming as they tore further. His stone-grey skin cracked at the shoulder, weeping clear serum.
He pulled the truck back into the lane.
He gasped, sweat pouring down his face. It was freezing cold sweat. Ammonia ice water.
"Stay on the road," he told himself. "Just stay on the fucking road."
The landscape rolled by in a blur of grey and green. The ruined suburbs of East St. Louis. The skeletons of burned-out cars. The endless, rotting cornfields.
He started to hallucinate.
In the passenger seat, the empty space shimmered.
He saw Marcus. The Null he had left behind at the Armory on Day 22. Marcus didn't have legs. He was just a torso, propped up against the door, bleeding onto the upholstery.
"You left me," Marcus whispered. His voice sounded like the grinding of the transmission gears.
"I had to," Travis said. He didn't look at the ghost. He kept his eyes on the asphalt. "You were dead weight."
"You're dead weight now," Marcus said. "Look at you. You're rotting from the inside out. You're just a meat-suit driving a bomb."
Travis blinked. The ghost vanished.
Just the empty seat. Just the radio he had smashed.
"I'm not dead," Travis growled. "I'm working."
He pressed the accelerator. The engine roared, a deep, guttural belch of power.
The speedometer climbed. 40. 50.
He needed to get back. He needed to deliver the payload. If he died out here, on the side of the road, the truck would just be another wreck for the scavengers to pick clean.
Jack needed the fuel. Helen needed the heat. Ronnie needed the light.
He thought about the Silo. The concrete walls. The smell of the hydroponics. It was the only home he had left.
He thought about Brick, the new Tank recruit he had shared a potato with. The kid didn't know what was coming. He didn't know the cost of the serum.
"Don't take the juice, kid," Travis whispered to the windshield. "Stay small. Staying small hurts less."
Another coughing fit hit him.
This one was worse. It bent him over the wheel. He couldn't breathe. His lungs felt like they were filled with concrete dust.
He heaved, his diaphragm spasming.
SPLAT.
A clot the size of a golf ball hit the steering wheel. It was black, fibrous, and smelled of necrosis.
It was a piece of his liver.
He stared at it. He wiped it away with his thumb.
"Just a part," he wheezed. "Don't need it. Got a spare."
He didn't have a spare. He knew that.
He looked ahead.
The skyline of the factory complex rose from the smog. The smokestacks. The shattered skylights. The green glow of the Kernel venting into the sky.
Sector 1.
He was close. One mile.
He reached for the gear shift. His hand missed. He tried again. His depth perception was gone. His vision was tunneling, the edges turning black.
"Come on," he snarled at his hand. "Work, damn you."
He grabbed the stick and slammed it down. The gears ground, metal screaming against metal, but they caught.
The truck slowed.
He saw the gate. The North Gate.
It was closed.
Ronnie had reinforced it with I-beams and scrap metal. It was a fortress wall.
If he hit it at speed, he would breach it. But the impact... 8,000 gallons of diesel. A spark.
He would turn Sector 1 into a crater.
He had to stop.
But his legs... he couldn't feel his legs.
He tried to lift his foot from the accelerator to the brake. His leg felt like a log. Dead weight.
"Move!" he shouted, punching his own thigh.
Nothing. The nerve connection was severed by the swelling in his spine.
The gate was getting closer. 200 yards. 100 yards.
"Brake!"
He grabbed his leg with his hand—his good hand—and physically lifted it off the gas pedal. He slammed it onto the brake pedal and leaned his entire body weight onto his knee.
SCREEEEECH.
The air brakes locked. The tires smoked. The massive truck shuddered, sliding sideways on the slick pavement.
It drifted. The rear of the trailer swung out, clipping a rusted sedan parked on the shoulder.
CRUNCH.
The truck slid toward the gate. Fifty yards. Twenty.
It stopped.
The grill of the truck was six inches from the steel beams of the gate.
Dust settled. The engine idled, a rough, chugging rhythm that sounded like a dying heart.
Travis slumped over the wheel.
He couldn't move. He couldn't uncurl his fingers from the rim.
He just breathed. Shallow, wet gasps.
He honked the horn.
HONK. HONK.
It was weak. But it was enough.
The Courtyard.
16:15 Hours.
The gate rolled open.
I stood there, the Fang in my hand, expecting an attack. Expecting the Enclave.
Instead, I saw the tanker.
It was a behemoth. White paint scarred by bullets, the side of the trailer dented and scraped.
But it was here.
"He made it," Ronnie whispered from beside me. "Holy shit, he actually made it."
"Open the valves!" Boyd shouted, running toward the truck with a fuel hose. "Get the transfer pump! Don't let it sit!"
The crew swarmed the truck. They were cheering.
"Fuel!" someone shouted. "We have heat! We have power!"
They were looking at the tank. They were looking at the salvation.
They weren't looking at the driver.
I walked to the cab.
The door was riddled with bullet holes. The glass was spiderwebbed.
I pulled the handle. It was locked.
I looked through the shattered window.
Travis was slumped over the wheel. His skin was the color of ash. His mouth was open, drooling black slime onto his chest.
"Travis," I said.
He didn't move.
I used the butt of my pistol to smash the rest of the window out. I reached in and unlocked the door.
I pulled it open.
Travis fell out.
He didn't try to catch himself. He just tumbled, a massive, dead weight hitting the asphalt with a sickening thud.
"Medic!" I roared. "Helen! Now!"
The cheering stopped.
The crew turned. They saw their champion lying in the mud, looking like a broken golem.
Helen was already running. She skidded to a halt beside him, dropping her kit.
"Don't move him," she snapped, checking his airway. "He's aspirating."
She rolled him onto his side.
Travis coughed. A gout of black fluid splashed onto the concrete.
His eyes fluttered open. The orange glow was almost gone, just a faint ember deep in the pupil.
He looked at me. He tried to smile.
"Full," he wheezed. "Tank's... full."
"Yeah," I said, kneeling beside him. "It's full, Travis. You did it."
"Good," he whispered. "Good."
His eyes rolled back. He seized—a violent, rigid arching of his back.
"He's crashing!" Helen shouted. "Get him to the Lung! Lift him! Now!"
We lifted him. Me, Ronnie, and three Nulls. He was heavier than ever, his density increasing as his body failed.
We carried him through the cheering crowd, leaving a trail of black blood on the concrete.
The Lung (Sector 1).
17:00 Hours.
The dialysis machine hummed. It was a rhythmic, mechanical sound, pumping blood out of Travis, filtering it, and pumping it back in.
The filter canister was black. It clogged every ten minutes. Helen had to swap it out, cursing and crying as she worked.
Travis lay on the table. He was conscious again, thanks to a massive dose of epinephrine.
But he wasn't better.
I stood at the foot of the bed. Decay Sight told me what Helen didn't have to.
`[TARGET: TRAVIS.]`
`[CLASS: TANK.]`
`[STATUS: TERMINAL.]`
`[KIDNEY FUNCTION: 0%.]`
`[LIVER FUNCTION: 5%.]`
`[ESTIMATED TIME TO DEATH: 240 HOURS.]`
Helen stripped off her gloves. They were stained with the black sludge. She threw them in the biohazard bin.
She lit a cigarette. She didn't ask if I minded. She took a drag that burned half the tobacco in one go.
"He's pissing necrotic tissue," Helen said. Her voice was flat. Dead. "The serum isn't just accelerating his metabolism anymore. It's eating him. It's consuming his organs to maintain the muscle density."
She looked at Travis.
"The gunshot wound is fine. The ribs are healing. But the engine is blown, Jack. There's no coming back from this. He needs a transplant, and we don't have a donor. Even if we did, his body would reject it in seconds. His immune system is hyper-aggressive."
Travis turned his head. The movement was slow, grinding.
"Doc," he rasped.
Helen walked to his side. She brushed a strand of hair from his grey forehead. "I'm here, Travis."
"Give it to me," Travis said. "The number."
"Travis..."
"The number, Doc. Don't bullshit me. I'm a contractor. I need the deadline."
Helen looked at me. I nodded.
She took a breath. She exhaled smoke.
"Ten days," she said. "Maybe twelve if you stay in this bed. If you disconnect... maybe two."
Travis stared at the ceiling. He watched the grow lights flicker.
Ten days.
He had traded forty years of life for thirty days of strength.
He looked at his hand. The stone skin. The power.
He thought about the tanker truck full of fuel sitting in the courtyard. He thought about the lights staying on. He thought about the Nulls eating hot food tonight.
He had paid the tab.
He looked at me. The old spark returned to his eyes—a stubborn, defiant orange flare.
"Ten days," Travis whispered.
He grinned. It was weak, but it was real.
"Good. Make 'em count."
`[LOYALTY: ABSOLUTE.]`
`[MORALE: UNBROKEN.]`
I turned away. I couldn't let him see my face. The Cruelty trait dampened the grief, but it couldn't stop the respect.
"We will," I said.
I walked out of the Lung.
Outside, the generator roared to life, fueled by the diesel Travis had bled for. The lights in the factory flickered on, banishing the shadows.
The Silo was alive.
Because the Tank was dying.
FOUNDRY PROTOCOL - DAY 32
SECTOR 1 (JACK MONROE) █████████░ 9/10 Nodes
RANK: 167
STATUS: FUEL SECURED (8,000 Gallons)
TRAVIS: TERMINAL (10 Days Remaining)
NEXT EVENT: The Gate of Beggars