Tonight had been a resounding success. Thomas, despite his exhaustion, had made four trips to Room 903, stripping it bare. His second and third trips focused on the tactical vests and the contents of the gun cases, each vest now bulging with scavenged food. He was maximizing every available cubic centimeter.
The biggest surprise was the grenade case, which turned out to be another inventory container.
[Grenade Case]
Type: Container
Size: 3x3
Capacity: 64 slots
Note: Can only store grenades, shells, and fuses.
An invaluable asset, especially given the case's current contents: a full complement of various grenades. He wouldn't have to worry about explosives for a while. This windfall had necessitated the extra trip.
By his fourth visit, the living room was empty, save for some remaining food in the second bedroom. He packed it all into a suitcase, then into his backpack. Room 903 was officially cleared out. He did one last sweep, then stepped out, a satisfied grin on his face.
Tonight's haul was historic, rivaling even yesterday's massive loot in terms of sheer value. The inventory containers alone were a game-changer, alleviating his storage woes. And the blueprints… the possibilities they represented were staggering.
It was 3 AM. He'd been at it for six hours. Despite regular food and water breaks, he was running on fumes. He downed an energy drink, then melted back into the shadows, heading for the hotel exit.
At the street corner, he glanced back at Apartment 15. He'd planned to explore it tonight, but exhaustion had won. He was about to turn away when he noticed a faint, flickering light in one of the windows. Small, but unmistakable in the pre-dawn darkness.
Someone's there. He doubted it was a survivor. They wouldn't be so careless. He memorized the window's location and continued on, filing Apartment 15 away for future exploration.
An hour later, he was back at the Garden Station. He stumbled into his hideout, unloaded his loot, and collapsed onto the heated floor, the warm wool blanket a welcome embrace. I'll sort it out tomorrow, he thought, drifting off to sleep.
But tonight was a night for interruptions. He jolted awake, all traces of sleepiness gone, replaced by a cold dread. A pitch-black dot had appeared on his mental map, entering the station. It moved silently through the corridors, past the control room and staff lounge, then into the tunnel where he'd staged the refugee ambush.
What the… He'd never seen a completely black dot before. Even the cultist had only registered as a dark red. Wait…cultist…dark red…black dot…
Another cultist? He knew the color coding on the map. Red meant hostile. But this…this was pure, unadulterated malice. What could this person possibly have against him? But he'd never met them. Everyone who'd seen his face was dead. Was this…pure, unmitigated evil?
He cycled through several theories, but none fit. One thing was certain: if this person was connected to the cultists, he couldn't afford a confrontation. A regular cultist had been dangerous enough. This…this was a whole different level of threat.
He was suddenly very grateful he'd returned from the hotel early. He'd used that tunnel multiple times tonight. A chance encounter with this…entity…didn't bear thinking about. He wasn't confident he could win.
The black dot moved erratically through the tunnel, searching. What are they looking for? He mentally retraced his steps, certain he'd left no trace. Then a chilling thought occurred to him.
What if they were here last night too?
The possibility was unsettling. He watched, helpless, as the black dot continued its search. Thirty minutes later, it left the station. He exhaled slowly, the tension easing. Exhaustion returned, and he finally fell asleep.
Elsewhere, Ghostface, fresh from a ritual sacrifice, hurried to the site of Black Dog's death. He searched the tunnel, finding nothing. Frustration gnawed at him.
"Damn it, Black Dog! Where did you put it, you imbecile? You had all those men, and you still managed to get yourself killed!"
He was in a bind. His master was away, unaware of his nephew's death. He dreaded his master's reaction when he discovered the valuable items entrusted to Black Dog were missing. He'd hoped to find a key, a clue, anything. But the tunnel was bare.
"Even in death, you're a thorn in my side!" he snarled, glaring at the darkened entrance to the Garden Station.
Day five. Thomas was jolted awake by a flurry of messages from Ben Walker.
Ben: Pro! Emergency! It's pouring outside! A deluge!
Ben: Pro, the temperature is plummeting!
Ben: Pro, the event is going to hit early!
Ben: Pro…
It was 11 AM. Ben had been messaging him since 7 AM. He's definitely a chatterbox. He was concerned about the rain and the temperature drop, though. He climbed out of bed, a noticeable chill in the air. The hideout, nestled deep underground and insulated, was still relatively warm, around 17-18°C. He dressed quickly, skipping his gear – the station was deserted – and went to check the entrance.
He opened the soundproofed door and winced. The station floor was submerged under several inches of icy water, flowing towards the tracks. Water seeped into the hideout. The door's tight seals had prevented a full-blown flood, but he quickly slammed it shut. Water had already reached the corridor. He grabbed a blanket and mopped it up.
Twenty minutes later, despite the relative warmth of the hideout, he was shivering. The outside temperature must be close to 10°C. The sudden downpour was a clear harbinger of the blizzard. He remembered the ominous clouds from last night.
Good thing I salvaged all that loot from Room 903, he thought.
Worried about getting sick, he lit the fireplace, adding only a small amount of wood. The hideout quickly warmed up. He sent a brief reply to Ben, then opened the Zone Chat.
The sudden storm had thrown the other survivors into a panic. They hadn't expected such a drastic change on day five. Many, especially those with low-lying hideouts, were flooded out. The survivor he'd traded fuel with, the one with the sewer hideout, was among them. He was now holed up in an abandoned building, loudly lamenting his misfortune in the chat. But Thomas knew he'd traded for plenty of supplies and weapons. He wasn't as desperate as he claimed.
Most survivors, however, had enough resources to weather the storm. Thomas had seen a fair amount of valuable items and blueprints being traded. Some were likely out of desperation, but many were simply survivors offloading excess resources.
He ignored the panicked chatter and opened the World Chat. The storm was global. The price of wood, heating supplies, and warm clothing had skyrocketed. Even food prices were inflated, some items costing more than basic warm clothing. A single winter coat was now worth a submachine gun and a knife.
He checked his wood supply: 158 units. At this rate, it might not be enough. He contacted Howie Wang, the survivor he'd traded with before.
City - Thomas: You still alive? Still have wood?
Ten minutes later, a reply arrived.
Forest - Howie Wang: Alive. Was busy. You need wood, Pro? Price went up. High demand. Gotta go out in the rain to chop it…
City - Thomas: I understand. I'll pay the current price. 200 units.
Forest - Howie Wang: Deal. But it'll take half an hour. Gotta chop it fresh. Food only for trades. High-energy or something with broth preferred. 40 units for that. 80 units for dry stuff like bread or crackers.
City - Thomas: What about canned food? [Images of beef, salmon, and herring cans]
Forest - Howie Wang: Whoa! Meat! Two units of broth per can. So, 20 cans for the wood.
City - Thomas: Deal.
Howie Wang stared at the message, stunned. Meat…in cans… Even in the city, canned food was a rare luxury. And for someone in the forest…
Canned food was the king of apocalypse cuisine. Long shelf life, high in protein and fat, and crucial salt content. Plus, the broth could be used to make other food more palatable. And the empty cans could be used for cooking.
He put on his dripping wet poncho, grabbed his axe, and headed back into the rain. This deal is mine.