Chapter 2
Raymond's blood-veined blade came down again.
A second crack. Deeper than the first.
I stood behind the floor-to-ceiling glass in the control room, watching the beast lose control outside. Raymond, post-Awakening, reminded me of the junkies I'd seen in Iraq — eyes filled with nothing but madness, utterly incapable of assessing his own situation.
That was good. Madmen don't retreat. They don't take detours. Madmen just charge headfirst into traps.
"Billy!" Raymond howled, slamming the flat of his blade against the hood of the Ford pickup, leaving a dent. "Go cut the high-voltage box on the east side! Sarah, take some guys and find the water main, shut it down!"
Billy jumped out of the truck bed, gripping wire cutters, trailed by two cannon fodder I didn't know by name — one fat, one skinny, both wearing the same stupid look that said I'm here to loot and get rich. The three of them crept toward the perimeter fence on the east side.
Raymond kept hacking at the gate. The third crack.
I looked down at the system interface.
[DOE Wasteland Manor System | Commander: Jack Thomas]
[Starter Pack: Unclaimed ▼]
I opened the pack. The system gave three things: Permanent Farm Binding, Basic Food Production Line Activation, Plasma Dome First Activation Free.
I stared at the third line for two seconds, then walked to the control console.
In the center of the console was a red button labeled: [Plasma Dome: Activate].
I pressed my palm down on it.
[Warning: Upon activation, all perimeter contact points will conduct high-voltage pulse current. Unauthorized contact will result in target carbonization. Confirm?]
Confirm.
No roar. No tremor. The air around the farm just shivered slightly. Then a translucent blue energy field rose from the ground, climbing the perimeter, threading through the chain-link fence, arcing over the barn roof, converging in the air above into a complete dome.
The fence began to hum. Blue arcs of electricity danced along the wire like countless glowing snakes.
I turned to the east-side monitor.
The fat guy was in front, wire cutters raised, aimed at the connection between the fence and the electrical box. He looked back and grinned at Billy, his face greasy under the flashlight beam.
"This piece of shit fence? I'll cut through it in three sec—"
The instant the cutters touched the wire—
White light.
Not flashbulb white. White phosphorus white. It exploded at the east fence line, less than a second, then contracted.
The fat guy disappeared.
Not collapsed. Not thrown backward. Not charred. Just gone. There wasn't even a scream. Only a small pile of black powder on the ground, slowly scattering in the night breeze.
The skinny guy instinctively jumped right. The right side was also fence.
Another flash of white light. Another pile of black powder.
Billy stood frozen. I watched his face on the monitor — mouth hanging open, the light in his eyes snuffed out like a candle in the wind. Then his crotch started leaking.
I picked up the radio and switched to external broadcast.
"Billy."
His body jerked violently.
"Pick up your wire cutters. Walk north. Walk until you can't see my farm lights anymore. Then tell your father exactly what happened here, word for word." I paused. "If you're still in my surveillance range in thirty seconds, you'll see a third flash."
Billy looked at the two piles of black powder on the ground.
He started running. Not walking — running. The kind of running where you lose a shoe and don't stop. His flashlight flew off into the dirt. In the darkness, only the sound of panicked footsteps faded into the distance.
I put down the radio.
Raymond was still hacking at the gate. Seventh crack. Eighth. Then he stopped. Billy had stumbled back, collapsing in front of him, trembling as he said something.
I watched Raymond's face change on the monitor: mania, rage, then something uglier than rage.
Wariness.
He looked up at the blue arcs dancing along the dome's edge, at the black powder still settling on the ground, and finally his gaze landed on the control room window — on me.
I didn't hide. I just stood there, behind the bulletproof glass and the glowing blue dome, and looked back at him.
Raymond gripped his blade. The blood veins pulsed violently. But he didn't advance.
He grabbed Billy and retreated into the darkness. Engines roared. Dust clouds rose. Taillights vanished into the wasteland.
Three minutes later, I walked into the bunker living quarters carrying two tomahawk steaks and four beers.
The cast iron skillet was still sizzling. The smell of butter and rosemary filled the bunker — completely disconnected from the bloody world outside.
Dad sat on the couch, clutching his worn-out Bible, staring at the wall. Mom leaned on his shoulder, eyes red, gripping a handkerchief.
I set the steaks on the coffee table. "Dinner. Still medium-rare."
Mom picked up her knife and fork, cut the first piece, put it in her mouth, and closed her eyes.
"It's very good," she said softly. "Thank you, Jack."
I leaned against the wall and cracked open an ice-cold beer. The liquid slid down my throat and exploded in my stomach with a cool fizz. Outside was the apocalypse, the wasteland, a wilderness freshly scoured by radiation. But inside the bunker was the scent of butter, the sound of my parents eating dinner together.
The things worth protecting — this was it. It was enough.
Before I finished my beer, the control console chimed.
[Public radio channel activity detected — 101.7MHz]
I walked back to the control room and tuned in.
The first voice was a trembling old man: "...please, anyone, we're at the town clinic, twenty-three people, food for three more days, the monsters outside keep increasing..."
Then a woman, sobbing in broken fragments: "My husband went for water, he hasn't come back in six hours..."
Then static.
Then Raymond's voice — oily, deliberate, like a snake's head sliding out from the grass.
"Neighbors, friends. This is Raymond Thomas. I know everyone's in a tough spot right now, and I want to help. But I need to tell you all something—"
He paused.
"My nephew, Jack Thomas, the one at Wasteland Farm — he's hoarded massive amounts of food and supplies. But he's locked the door and left all of us out here to die. He's a selfish lunatic. If you want to survive, go find him. Force him to open up. He's just one man. He can't handle all of us."
Silence on the channel for a few seconds. Then people started responding. Angry. Desperate. Stirred up.
I squeezed the beer can a little tighter.
Raymond, you son of a bitch. You're pretty good at this.
But I also heard other voices — that old man, that woman, a few others who were just crying. On the first day of the apocalypse, some people chose to become beasts. Others just hadn't found a way to survive yet.
I stared at the frequency indicator. My mind started turning.
This game was a little more complicated than I thought.
But also a little more interesting.
