Chapter 4

The extreme cold had turned the Montana plains into a massive, silent graveyard. There was no wind, only the sharp hiss of ice crystals colliding as the temperatures plummeted. On the surveillance feed, the moving shadows were stark—filthy ink blots on a white canvas.

It was the "Anvil Gang," a pack of strays that survived by looting the remains of the living. The leader, Cole, was a quintessential wasteland warlord with deep, bone-exposed scars carved into his rugged face. He dragged a fire axe behind him that tore a jagged trench into the permafrost, even at -70°C. Mike trudged behind him, wearing a blood-stained, scavenged parka. Half his face was a sickening, necrotic black-purple. In his eyes burned not the will to live, but pure, twisted malice.

"This is it... Cole, I swear, this is the place." Mike pointed toward the reinforced silo hatch, his voice grinding like dry leaves. "That bastard has fuel, cans, and a greenhouse that’ll feed us until spring. Just break the door... just break it..."

I sat in the command room, listening to the wheezing through the external mic. The espresso in my hand had lost its heat long ago.

"Jack, they’re in the perimeter sensor range." Thomas stood behind me, his voice grave. Despite his years of service in the combat engineers, the image of these intruders clearly weighed on him.

"Don't worry, Dad." I watched the display, my fingers dancing across the touch panel. "The logic of men like Cole is simple—they never trust 'allies,' they only trust 'leverage.' Mike is clever, but unfortunately, his greed has blinded his intelligence."

I pressed the red dial on the console, engaging the pneumatic transport tube. Fifty meters outside the shelter, under a layer of snow, a muffled hiss of pressure release erupted. A gray plume of smoke rose as an reinforced supply crate was ejected, landing precisely in front of the predators, kicking up a mist of diamond-dust ice.

Cole stopped, his men fanning out into a standard defensive formation. With a vicious scowl, he used the edge of his fire axe to pry open the seal.

Inside weren't lethal traps, but two bottles of vintage single-malt whiskey and a stack of inventory manifests, sealed in plastic.

Cole squatted, ripping the waterproof casing with his massive, fur-covered hands. He ignored the alcohol, unfolding the list instead. As he read, his savage face transformed into a mask of volatile suspicion. On the forged documents I’d meticulously prepared, it listed the contents of my silos in obsessive detail. And at the bottom, written in bold red ink:

"To Cole: Do you think Mike brought you here to share the spoils? Think again. Before coming here, this guy stashed a cache of core medicine and precision navigation gear at the abandoned lumber yard in the west valley. He’s just using you to clear the path. Once you're exhausted and bleeding, he plans to make off with the real prize while you die in the cold."

On the screen, Cole raised his head, glaring at the shivering Mike.

They were the eyes of a beast. Once the seed of suspicion is planted, and catalyzed by hunger and extreme cold, it blooms into lethal, poisonous thorns.

"Cole... Boss, don't listen to that bastard," Mike’s face twisted in extreme terror, pus leaking from his necrotic skin. He reached out to grab Cole’s fur coat. "This is Jack’s trick! He’s trying to divide us! Don't fall for it!"

"Divide us?" Cole’s voice was raspy and chilling in the sub-zero air. He lunged, his speed inhuman, slamming his fist into Mike’s throat and hoisting his skeletal frame into the air. "I've been on this ice for three days. My brothers are starving so badly they're thinking of chewing their own fingers. If this paper is true, Mike, what makes you think I'd keep you alive?"

"No... Cole... I was wrong..." Mike struggled in the air, his fingernails digging deep into Cole’s fur.

I watched this with no pity. In my view, this wasn't a tragedy; it was the most basic law of predation in the apocalyptic ecosystem.

I opened the external broadcast system, magnifying my voice across the frozen wasteland with the cold indifference of a god: "Hey, Cole. If you deal with this garbage now, I might consider leaving you a crate of high-calorie fuel. After all, there’s no shortage of corpses on this tundra, but fuel is scarce—don't you think?"

That sentence was the final pressure on the trigger.

Cole looked at the blast door, then at the struggling Mike. The temptation of profit was too great. He finally stopped hesitating, slamming Mike to the ground and hoisting the fire axe high. The "sunlight"—if it could be called that—refracted a cold, metallic glint off the razor-sharp edge.

Mike looked at the sealed hatch, the manic greed in his eyes finally turning into utter void and despair. He had never imagined that "Jack"—the man he’d once seen as a mere supply-fetcher, the man he’d once sliced the throat of—could so easily toy with his fate.

"JACK—I’m not lying! He has so many resources!!!" Mike’s roar shattered the silent tundra, followed immediately by a dull thud.

The axe fell, cleaving the permafrost inches from Mike's head.

He gasped, breathing as if he’d just been resurrected.

In the biting wind, under the blinding white, Mike’s eyes were filled with nothing but terror and agonizing hatred.

I shut off the monitor and nodded to my father. "Let’s get dinner ready, Dad. The wolves are coming to collect their 'payment.' Of course, it’ll be the last fuel they ever consume."