Denver recognized him as one of the raiders who had attacked a base from their alliance a few weeks ago. He had escaped, but not before Denver had slashed his face with his sword.
The raider grinned wickedly, showing his yellow teeth.
"I've been looking for you, you bastard. You thought you could get away with what you did to me? You thought you could spy on us and report back to your pathetic base? Well, you're wrong. You're dead. And so is everyone you care about."
The raider pulled the trigger, but before the bullet could hit Denver, the bartender grabbed a shotgun from under the counter and fired at the raider, blowing his head off.
The pub erupted into chaos, as people screamed and ran for cover. The bartender grabbed Denver by the arm, and dragged him to the back door.
"Come on, kid. We've got to get out of here. Now."
Denver followed the bartender, who led him through a series of twists and turns, until they reached a secluded house away from the center of the base. The house looked old and rundown, but it had a sturdy door and a few windows. The bartender opened the door with a key, and ushered Denver inside.
"You're safe here, kid," the bartender said, locking the door behind them.
Denver looked around, and saw a few other people in the room. They looked like ordinary traders, but they had a determined look in their eyes. They nodded at Denver, acknowledging his presence.
"Why did you help me so much?" Denver asked the bartender, still puzzled by his actions.
"Because we know who you are, and where you come from," the bartender said. "We have a large network of contacts, and we know a lot about your base. You're famous here, after all. The base that took in a thousand of refugees, the one that raided the military base even though it was filled with zombies. You think that information won't spread around here?"
Denver felt a surge of pride, mixed with a hint of fear. He wondered how the bartender knew so much about him and his base.
"And what do you want from me?" Denver asked, feeling a bit wary.
The bartender knelt down in front of Denver, and looked at him with a sincere expression.
"Please, help us," he said. "We need your help to overthrow the military and their cronies. We need your help to free the slaves and the oppressed. We need your help to make this base a better place for everyone. We need your help to start a revolution."
Denver held the small radio in his hands, his eyes fixed on the device. He knew he had to make a decision, and fast. The fate of his mission, and his base, depended on it.
He pressed the button, and spoke into the radio.
"What do you say?" he asked, his voice tense but clear.
There was a brief silence, then a reply came through.
"We'll do it; however, you have to tell us every single detail you know about this base," Souta's voice said, sounding determined and urgent.
The bartender looked at Denver, unsure of what to do. He had risked his life to help him, but he didn't know if he could trust him completely. He knew too much about the trading market, and its secrets. Secrets that could get him killed, or worse.
"Alright," he said, after a moment of hesitation. "I'll share everything I know, but we need to act swiftly. The longer we wait, the more lives are at stake."
As he agreed to cooperate, a clandestine alliance was formed between the bartender, and Souta, the leader of a survivor community. The radio became a lifeline, a channel for vital information that would shape the outcome of both the trading market and Souta's base.
The bartender began to reveal the intricate web of deceit that enveloped the trading market. He told them about the corruption, the raiders, and the puppet leader. He told them about the military's involvement, and their hidden agenda. He told them about the trade hub, and the mysterious device that could change the course of the war. He told them everything he knew, hoping it would make a difference.
As the exchange of information unfolded, the alliance strengthened, transcending the boundaries of their respective worlds.
The night went on, and with each passing moment, the gravity of their decisions weighed heavily on them. The dynamic between the two groups changed from secrecy to collaboration, united by a common enemy. The radio waves crackled with shared determination, echoing through the darkness as Denver and Souta forged a pact born out of necessity in a world where alliances were as fragile as the remnants of civilization itself.
In the coming hours, their paths would converge, and the trading market would become the battleground for a clash between survival and exploitation. The fate of lives intertwined in this post-apocalyptic saga rested on the shoulders of those who dared to defy the shadows that threatened to engulf them.
In the dead of night, at the entrance checkpoint, a guard shift change was about to take place.
"Hey, it's my turn now," the tired guard in uniform grunted, rubbing his eyes.
"Good, I'm dying to go to bed. Good luck with that," the departing guard chuckled and strolled away, unaware of the danger lurking behind him. Denver's comrade, dressed in a stolen uniform, took his chance, having quietly taken out the guard meant to relieve him. He hid the body behind a dumpster, and took his place at the checkpoint.
"It's clear," he reported into the walkie-talkie, using a code word to signal the start of the operation. Within minutes, a convoy of trucks with the market place logo – a red circle with an 'S' in the middle – arrived at the gate.
The fake guard waved the cargo through without much thought, pretending to check the papers. But inside the trucks were soldiers from Souta's base, armed and ready. They had disguised themselves as traders, and loaded the trucks with weapons and explosives. They had been waiting for this moment, planning and preparing for the assault.
A guard at the checkpoint stifled a yawn, "I'm sleepy."
A sudden silent gunshot echoed, the guard dropping instantly, followed by others. The soldiers jumped out of the trucks, and opened fire at the unsuspecting guards. "Move, move, move," the soldiers whispered as they swiftly overran the checkpoint, clearing the way for the rest of the convoy.
The makeshift guard at the checkpoint approached them, "Hey, give me a gun." They grinned, handing him a weapon. "Good job," they commended, and he joined the assault.
Split into teams of four, ten teams scattered, silently eliminating guards. They moved with precision and stealth, using the cover of darkness and the element of surprise. Their objective was to reach the trade hub, where the slaves was hidden.
The soldiers from Souta's base had launched a surprise attack on the enemy's trading market, a hub of illicit activities and human trafficking. They moved with stealth and precision, blending in with the shadows cast by the flickering lights. Their mission was to liberate the slaves and cripple the enemy's operations.
The acting guard, who had joined them after witnessing the cruelty of the traders, he followed the soldiers closely. He felt a surge of adrenaline and excitement as he participated in the daring operation.
As they advanced through the market, they met with resistance from the enemy guards, who were caught off guard by the sudden assault. The guards tried to regroup and fight back, shouting orders and warnings to each other.
"We're under attack!"
"Fight back!"
But the soldiers from Souta's base were too fast and efficient, eliminating any threats without leaving a trace. They used their knowledge of the market's layout and their superior training to gain the upper hand.
In a narrow alley, Denver, anf the leader of the revolutionary group that had allied with the soldiers, signaled for a brief halt. He crouched low, listening to the distant sounds of sporadic gunfire echoing through the market. "We need to keep moving, but stay vigilant. Remember the plan," he reminded his team.
They nodded, and continued through the labyrinthine pathways, avoiding the main thoroughfares to maintain the element of surprise. The acting guard kept pace with them, his eyes darting between the shifting shadows. He wondered what awaited them at the end of their journey.
As they approached the central plaza, the heart of the trading hub, they felt a tense atmosphere hanging in the air. The plaza was surrounded by various buildings that housed the enemy's communication center, storage facilities, and trade hub. The trade hub was the largest and most fortified structure, where the slaves were hidden and sold to the highest bidder.
The soldiers split into smaller groups, each with a specific target. One team infiltrated the communication center, ensuring that any distress signals would be intercepted and jammed. Another team secured the perimeter, preventing any reinforcements from arriving. The rest of the teams, including Denver and the acting guard, headed towards the trade hub, where the most difficult part of the mission awaited them.
They moved stealthily towards the trade hub, facing sporadic resistance from the enemy guards who tried to defend their territory. Gunfire erupted in brief bursts, as the soldiers swiftly dispatched any opposition in their path.
"Move move move! They are trying to take over the base!"
"Don't panic! Get your weapons!"
The guards shouted, but their efforts were futile. The soldiers from Souta's base had the advantage of surprise, coordination, and skill.
As they reached the entrance to the trade hub, the looming structure came into view. It was a massive building, with multiple levels and corridors. A guard, posted at the door, was taken by surprise as the soldiers swiftly subdued him. They took his key card and used it to open the door.
The acting guard grinned as he looked at the soldiers beside him. He felt a sense of camaraderie and purpose. "Ready for this?" he asked them.
They nodded, determination etched on their faces. Together, they entered the trade hub, the epicenter of the enemy's operations. Somewhere inside, the slaves awaited them, hoping for a chance of freedom. The success of their mission rested on the next crucial steps. They had to find them, free them, and escort them to safety, without alerting the enemy or causing a bloodbath. It was a risky and challenging task, but they were ready for it. They had come this far, and they were not going to give up. They were going to make a difference.