Day 43 of the apocalypse.
The once-bustling and radiant Chicago had descended into eerie silence, as though the soul of the city had been plucked away by an indifferent god.
Under the blanket of snow, the icy grip consumed everything above ground. The towering skyscrapers that had once defined the city's skyline now seemed humbled, their majesty muted by nature's merciless freeze.
Countless lives had been swallowed by the relentless blizzards, and the pride of human infrastructure lay in ruins, a mere shadow of its former glory.
Miles stood by the skylight, binoculars in hand, gazing at the endless white horizon.
"Should we head out to scavenge for supplies?"
He pondered over the inventory in his dimensional space. Food? Abundant. Energy reserves? Sufficient. But when it came to offensive weaponry, there was a glaring gap.
It was the apocalypse. Even with his extraordinary abilities, the lack of high-grade weaponry left him feeling vulnerable.
His mind drifted back to Alexande's ominous words.
Chicago's six air defense bases are now in the hands of powerful figures.
If true, these factions likely had military forces at their disposal, perhaps even access to advanced weaponry.
It was only a matter of time before his secrets were exposed. When that day came, these powerhouses would undoubtedly target him. His abilities might enable him to escape, but what kind of life would that be?
Miles had no intention of becoming a fugitive—not in his past life, and certainly not in this one.
He had a safe and serene haven, a place that stood as a bastion against the chaos—a home where spring seemed eternal.
He had a striking, devoted companion in Lisa, whose presence brought him royal comfort amidst the desolation.
He had a loyal friend in Ryan, who added warmth and camaraderie to his otherwise solitary days.
Even the residents of the enclave, as annoying as they could be, gave him a sense that the world hadn't completely ended—that life still clung to the edges of existence.
To protect it all, Miles knew he had to grow even stronger.
"Let's get to work."
After notifying Ryan over the radio, the two men set out in their snow vehicle, leaving the safety of the enclave behind.
Miles' destination was clear in his mind—about 20 kilometers away lay the South District Police Station. If fortune favored them, it might hold something worthwhile.
As they drove, glimpses of shadowy figures moving within the high-end residential areas along the way confirmed one thing—survivors remained.
Their persistence was a testament to humanity's unyielding will. Even in the face of inevitable death, the drive to cling to life persisted.
When the frozen world stabilized, those who survived would adapt to this merciless environment. Like Siberian wolves, which had become the undisputed rulers of the tundra after centuries of endurance, these survivors could one day reclaim dominion over their icy habitat.
Miles occasionally directed his attention to the broken public infrastructure along the roadside, swiftly absorbing them into his dimensional space.
He felt a surge of reassurance.
As a great mind once said: In the presence of absolute power, all schemes and conspiracies are mere illusions.
After more than 30 minutes of navigating snow-covered roads, they finally arrived at the South District Police Station. The place was eerily silent, as if abandoned long ago.
Most of the building was buried under snow and ice. Their only entry was through a window on the fourth floor, accessible by scaling a precarious slope of ice.
Miles pulled a cutting tool from his dimensional space and spent a good fifteen minutes carving out a passage. With a few swift movements, he leaped into the building, tossing a handgun to Ryan.
Guns no longer posed a threat to him, and he trusted Ryan enough to arm him. Giving Ryan a weapon also bolstered their overall combat capabilities.
"For me?" Ryan asked, catching the gun mid-air, his face lighting up like a kid on Christmas morning.
"How's your aim, Ryan?" Miles teased.
"Are you kidding me?" Ryan straightened, brimming with pride.
"I'm a former soldier. I might forget my ex-wife's name, but I'll never forget how to shoot."
To demonstrate, he took a step forward, assuming a textbook firing stance, hands gripping the gun with precision as his sharp gaze scanned the room.
But their enthusiasm quickly waned as they descended to the second floor. Ice had sealed off the space, leaving it in pitch darkness.
Undeterred, Miles retrieved two oversized floodlights from his dimensional space, connecting them to a portable power supply. The room was bathed in brilliant light, transforming the darkness into a simulacrum of daylight.
Still, the two men had no idea where the armory was. With no choice but to search every room, they began scouring the police station floor by floor.
The second floor mostly housed officer offices. It yielded little more than dusty files and defunct computers, far from the treasures they sought.
Pressing onward, they descended to the first floor. The level was buried in snow, leaving few passable routes. Locked doors were forced open, one broken window at a time.
Miles couldn't help but quip as they pried open the door to a holding cell.
"Note to self: never break the law. Imagine being interrogated when the apocalypse hits—what a way to go."
Inside the detention room were several suspects, huddled together in their thin, pre-apocalypse summer clothes. The sight was both absurd and pitiful.
Miles didn't linger. There was nothing of value here.
Finally, at the end of a dim hallway, they found a room with a reinforced steel door. Its imposing presence hinted at something valuable within.
Miles signaled to Ryan, who fired two shots into the lock. The door, stiffened by the cold, took considerable effort to breach, but eventually, they succeeded.
Their instincts were spot on—it was the station's armory. Rows of firearms lined the walls: Glock 17s, semi-automatic rifles, and even a pristine AW50 sniper rifle.
"This… this is the jackpot!"
Ryan's eyes gleamed as he grabbed the sniper rifle, cradling it with more affection than he had shown Betty the previous night.
Miles couldn't resist examining the weapon himself, marveling at its design before stowing it safely in his space.
No man could resist the allure of firearms, especially one as potent as the AW50. With its high-explosive rounds, it could neutralize any target within an 800-meter radius.
Imagining it mounted on his skylight, Miles saw a future where any threat within sight would be instantly neutralized.
But then he remembered his abysmal marksmanship and sighed. Some dreams, it seemed, would take more than a powerful rifle to realize.