Chapter 2

That evening, I took a clean glass and poured myself a neat whiskey.

I turned my attention to the surveillance matrix, formed by twelve high-definition screens.

The feeds were split across different sectors of the base. The main screen was locked right onto the central plaza.

A massive crowd had gathered there. People were packed tightly together, looking up at Marcus, who stood atop an armored assault vehicle.

Marcus’s face wore the smug, relaxed smile of a victor. Megaphone in hand, he loudly proclaimed his triumph and my "death" to the masses.

I kept the audio muted. I didn't need to hear him to know exactly what he was spewing. Just the usual political garbage: rights, freedom, and a brighter tomorrow.

I raised my glass and took a sip.

Part of me wanted to put a bullet straight through Marcus’s skull, but I couldn't. Given the current emotional frenzy of the mob, if Marcus died now, he would instantly become a martyred hero who sacrificed himself for their "freedom." The base would never see a day of peace after that; there would always be another Marcus stepping up to take his place.

I shifted my gaze to screen number two.

It showed a row of independent concrete buildings to the right of the base's main gate—the Quarantine Zone.

Elena was standing in front of the heavy quarantine gates with a few guards.

During my rule, I set a strict protocol: anyone who left the base on a scavenging run, regardless of whether they were injured or not, had to spend a full fourteen days in the Quarantine Zone upon returning.

During that period, if anyone discovered an unexplained scratch on their body, they were executed immediately.

It was an ironclad law.

The incubation period for the zombie virus was incredibly unstable. Sometimes it triggered within hours of being scratched; other times, it lay dormant for a dozen days. I never allowed even a fraction of that risk into the residential sector.

But on the screen, Elena was violently smashing the padlock off the Quarantine Zone's iron gate.

She shoved the door open and shouted something to the people inside.

A moment later, forty or fifty survivors—who should have still been in mandatory quarantine—walked right out.

Waiting family members practically rushed them, embracing them tightly. A few even wept tears of joy, turning around to bow deeply to Elena.

Elena smiled, reaching out to pat one of the men on the shoulder. Right on that man’s neck was a glaring, half-scabbed scratch.

I blew out a breath, my expression completely deadpan.

Moving back to the main feed.

The rally in the plaza was coming to an end. Marcus waved his hand grandly, and the surrounding crowd erupted into an even more feverish cheer.

At the edge of the screen, I saw several guards who were supposed to be manning the perimeter watchtowers casually sling their rifles over their backs. They climbed down the ladders and happily joined the raging party.

Marcus had abolished all labor mandates and guard duties.

No more patrolling in the freezing wind, no more digging in the dirt of the greenhouses. Today, everyone got to rest. He even announced that they would light a massive bonfire in the plaza tonight and throw a banquet.

The crowd dispersed, eagerly setting up the fire pit.

Marcus, meanwhile, took six of his armed cronies and turned toward the core sector.

I set my glass down and switched the feed to the underground corridors.

Marcus’s pace was fast, almost eager.

He wasn't stupid; he knew speeches could only incite emotions. The only thing that could truly keep four thousand people obedient was the massive stockpile of supplies I had supposedly left behind.

He arrived in front of the heavy blast door of the vault.

This was the place where I used to store our heavy weaponry, ammunition, and compressed rations.

But over the past three months, Razor had already stealthily transferred everything inside straight down to Bunker Zero.

With a dull, heavy mechanical clank, the blast doors slowly parted.

The moment it fully opened, the six guards flicked on their tactical flashlights. The blinding beams swept across the interior of the vault.

The triumphant smile on Marcus's face died in a fraction of a second.

There were no crates of rations. No mountains of canned meat. No neatly stacked rows of assault rifles.

In the massive, echoing space, there were only a couple of dozen battered wooden crates scattered around.

Marcus practically lunged inside, viciously kicking over the closest wooden crate.

With a loud clatter, the wood splintered open. It was completely empty.

"This is impossible!"

Marcus’s voice echoed off the barren walls of the vault.

He sprinted to the other crates, ripping their lids off with brute force.

Marcus's face instantly went deathly pale.

He spun around, grabbing a nearby guard by the collar, his face twisted in a furious roar. The guard, clearly just as horrified by the empty room, could only shake his head frantically.

Marcus then led his men storming into the adjacent cold storage and the backup armory.

The result was exactly the same.

Watching Marcus lose his mind on the monitor, I reached over and topped off my whiskey glass.

Marcus shouted something at his men.

Quickly, two guards ran out of the frame. Less than two minutes later, they marched back into the vault, dragging Razor along.

Razor’s hands were zip-tied behind his back, his face wearing a perfectly faked look of sheer panic.

Marcus lunged forward, grabbing Razor by the collar. "Where are the supplies?! Where is everything?!"

Razor flawlessly recited the script I had taught him.

"It has nothing to do with me... Five days ago, an abandoned factory fifteen miles east sent out an SOS. Gideon determined it was a high-value strategic military holdout. So he ordered us to load up over eighty percent of the base's ammo and rations into trucks and ship them out, trying to establish an outpost."

Razor laid it on thick: "He didn't tell anyone, said he didn't want to cause a panic. You all know Gideon was a stubborn maniac; we were just subordinates, we had to obey orders. But after that field team went out, we never heard back. Gideon completely hollowed out the base..."

I watched Marcus on the screen. His chest heaved violently. Finally, grinding his teeth, he let go of Razor.

On the feed, he stood rigidly against the wall for three solid minutes. The guards exchanged uneasy glances.

Eventually, Marcus smoothed out his collar, barked a few orders at the guards, and led them out of the subterranean vault. They headed straight for the surface distribution center.

The surface distribution center held exactly two weeks' worth of the base's daily rations—supplies I had intentionally left above ground for contingencies.

Originally, these provisions required strict rationing. Mixed with the output from the hydroponic farms, they were just barely enough to sustain four thousand people for fourteen days.

But right before my eyes, Marcus ordered his guards to haul out every single can of meat, bag of flour, and jug of purified water from the station.

He was going to blow their absolute last lifeline of food to throw a massive banquet.

As time ticked by, night fell completely.

The entire base was blazing with light.

For the past three years, to prevent light pollution from attracting zombie hordes, I had enforced a strict blackout after 8:00 PM. Aside from the mandatory searchlights, everything went dark.

But now, a colossal bonfire roared in the center of the plaza. Searchlights swept wildly and erratically across the night sky.

Swarms of survivors crowded around the flames.

Eating meat by the mouthful, laughing, and shouting without a care in the world.

I toggled the feed to the outer perimeter's defenses.

The seven main watchtowers across the northeast, west, and south walls were completely deserted. Not a single soul.

Over on the fringe of the plaza's crowd, I spotted Razor.

He sat quietly in an inconspicuous corner. A plate of distributed food rested in front of him, but he didn't take a bite. He just coldly observed the reveling masses.

A few of my loyal men were discreetly positioned around him.

Razor casually lifted his head and looked straight at a micro-camera mounted on the side of a building.

He was looking at me.

I knew what he was waiting for. Leaning back in my chair, I closed my eyes and downed the last drop of whiskey in my glass.