Chapter 3

The dawn of the third day brought no hope, only a heavy, leaden shroud of smog crushing down on the ranch.

The air smelled of nauseating scorching—the lingering embers of towns that had been "formatted." Grandfather and I set up an observation post in the attic. Through the binoculars, I saw a column of ghosts appearing on the small trail leading to the border.

It was the first wave of refugees. About thirty of them, dragging fire-scorched luggage, rags for clothes, their eye sockets sunken like skeletons. Each one bore the trauma of the Phoenix evacuation—burns, cuts, and the hollow despair of those abandoned by civilization.

At the head of the pack was a tall, hulking man named Carson. In my previous life, he had led a party into our tunnel, using a rusted crowbar to force Grandfather to hand over the antibiotics. He died later of a fever caused by an infection, cursing us with his final breath because we hadn’t opened the door.

"Those are our old neighbors, Jack," Grandfather lowered the binoculars, his voice low, the battle-hardened shell he’d built for years stripped bare. "Some were teachers in Phoenix, some have children. We have enough MREs to last three months. If we don't save them, we're watching them turn into corpses before our very eyes."

I set down my rifle and turned to him, my gaze so cold he actually took a step back.

"Grandfather, this isn't a charity banquet," my voice sounded like sandpaper dragged over stone. "You aren't looking at neighbors. You're looking at walking biohazards, a storm eye that will destroy our entire defense system within three hours. Once they step onto this ranch, your airflow sensors will fail, and your damp-proof walls will start growing mold from their body heat and waste."

"Those are living human beings, Jack!" Grandfather roared, his face flushing crimson. "I failed to save my brothers-in-arms—do you expect me to watch my neighbors hang themselves on our wire fence?"

"If you open that gate, you save thirty 'neighbors,' and three thousand lunatics who hear the news will pour in behind them. Your supplies will be looted in a day, and your tunnels will become their mass grave." I stepped forward, pinning his shoulders. "Either kill me now and play the saint, or get back and guard your ammo depot, and let me handle the rest."

Grandfather went silent. With trembling hands, he lit a cigarette, the smoke curling around his withered fingers. Finally, he turned his back to me, looking ten years older in that single moment.

I grabbed the binoculars again, tracking Carson’s route. They hadn't spotted us yet, but in this land, hunger acts as a homing beacon to water and shelter.

I hauled the blue metal canisters out of the basement—a trick I’d learned in the ruins of my past life. Using the ammonium nitrate from the fertilizer mixed with a specific organic catalyst, I could create a high-concentration tear-gas stimulant. It wouldn't kill, but it would incapacitate anyone for half an hour and leave their skin feeling like it was being pierced by needles.

I set up three air-cannon traps along the perimeter, covering them with camo netting.

"Jack, don't play too dirty," Grandfather muttered from behind me.

"War was never clean, Grandfather."

Three hours later, they crossed the trigger zone. Carson waved his wooden club, shouting something—though I couldn't make out the words, his frantic movements betrayed he had smelled the grain in our warehouse. It was the desperate, manic hunger of a predator.

I pressed the trigger.

The air cannons didn't roar; they simply unleashed a pale yellow cloud of smoke. Carried by the wind, the mist perfectly engulfed the column.

"Ah! My eyes!"

"Help... it's poison gas!"

Soul-piercing screams tore through the silence of the wilderness. The thirty people panicked like they’d been thrown into a meat grinder, dropping their luggage and falling to their knees, clawing at their skin. Snot and tears mixed with mud, making them look like ghouls climbing from the abyss.

Carson tried to charge, shielding his nose and mouth with his sleeve, face flushed, rushing the fence. His bloodshot eyes locked onto my window, filled with a hatred that made me shiver—it wasn't just hunger; it was the conviction that this ranch belonged to the strong.

I didn't fire. I picked up the megaphone, my voice ice-cold:

"Keep moving. There's rainwater five kilometers ahead in the creek valley. Follow the wire fence west, there are empty farms that haven't been cleared yet. Step one inch closer to this line, and the next thing hitting you won't be tear-gas—it'll be buckshot."

Carson lay in the dirt, convulsing from the agonizing pain and fury. But eventually, upon seeing our cold, steady rifles, his survival instinct overcame his greed for plunder. Helping each other along, they stumbled away toward the edge of the horizon.

As night fell and I watched the silhouettes disappear past the hills, Grandfather sat in the shadows, not even noticing the cigarette butt burning his fingertips.

"Even if it's for survival," he whispered, "this feels like a massacre."

"Survival is the only massacre." I walked into the basement and slammed the heavy lead door shut. This eviction cemented my authority over the ranch, but it also severed our last ties to the old world.

We were no longer farmers. We were ghosts of the wasteland.