Thomas Smyth watched, concealed. The two figures, their flashlights cutting through the room's darkness, swept over him. The dense foliage of the Paradise Palm provided perfect cover. They were focused, intent on their objective.
"Find the hidden room yet?" one hissed.
"Yeah, the client said the switch is by the desk, on the side."
The first man reached the desk, his fingers finding the inconspicuous button with practiced ease. Under their watchful gazes, the button clicked. A section of the bookcase whirred, grinding against the floor as it rotated, revealing a small, square room. Barely a meter wide.
"Got it!" The flashlight beam pierced the darkness, illuminating a gleaming safe within. Thomas felt a pang of both annoyance and relief. "Annoyance at the hospital director's precautions – a hidden room and a safe?" Relief that he hadn't attacked prematurely. Finding the switch would have been one thing, cracking that safe another entirely.
One of the men produced a peculiar key, fifteen centimeters long and intricately carved.
"Keep watch. This lock is complicated. Two minutes."
"Got it." The lookout turned towards the corridor, scanning for any sign of trouble.
His partner, a miniature flashlight clenched between his teeth, crouched before the safe. He inserted the ornate key, his other hand meticulously manipulating the dial. Clicks and whirring filled the room, punctuated by the subtle scrape of equipment against clothing.
Thomas, moving silently through the palm's fronds, reached the wall behind the lookout. He held his breath, waiting.
"Are you done yet? Hurry up!"
"Almost! Almost!"
The lookout started to turn, but a hand clamped over his mouth. A stiletto flashed, a swift, silent cut.
"Got it! What was that noise? Keep it down!" The lockpicker, triumphant, swung around at the sound of a thud. A dark shape lunged at him.
Pfft. Pfft. Pfft. Thud. The muffled gunshots echoed briefly.
Thomas, breathing heavily, swept the safe's contents into his backpack. He quickly bandaged his leg, stemming the blood flow, and popped an ibuprofen. The pain receded. Finally.
He was pale, sweat plastering his forehead. It hurt.
Working fast, he looted the bodies, stuffing his pack until it bulged. Two rifles, too large for the bag, were slung over his back. He moved towards the ground floor, constantly checking for movement from the three looters upstairs. They remained oblivious.
Reaching the emergency room lobby, he swallowed another painkiller and pulled out his emergency surgical kit. These weren't your average looters. Even with the element of surprise, the second man had reacted fast. Two bullets in the leg. Lucky it wasn't the chest or head. Game over.
He extracted the bullets, carefully bandaged the wounds. His precarious health bar slowly began to refill. The Pain, Bruised status effects vanished, replaced by Fresh Wound.
It had been risky, but successful. He had the prize, plus two new sets of gear. His depleted supplies were replenished.
Five minutes later, the Fresh Wound status disappeared. He didn't linger. Sticking to the shadows, he made his way back to his hideout, hyper-aware of his surroundings.
Near Garden Station, rain began to fall, quickly turning to sleet. The ground became slick with ice. The warming effects of the Nourishing Mutton Stew had long worn off. Despite the exertion, a chilling cold seeped into his bones. He was sweating, losing heat, while the icy air clawed at his pores. The uncomfortable dichotomy of internal heat and external cold made him shiver.
Finally, inside the station tunnel…
"Achoo! Achoo!"
Back in his hideout, unloading his haul, the sneezing continued. No [Chill] status yet, but years of experience told him it was coming. Serves me right, he thought ruefully.
Minutes later, the dreaded [Chill] icon appeared.
Thankfully, he'd made a double batch of stew. He reheated the second bowl, devouring the meat and broth. Warmth spread through him. The shivering stopped. His legs steadied. The ache in his joints eased. Bliss.
The stew hadn't triggered the perfect [Chill] removal, but it granted him two precious hours of healthy status. He felt a surge of optimism about the stew's market potential.
1:00 AM. Riding the stew's warmth, he fell into a deep sleep.
Elsewhere, in a hidden room, someone waited for the promised delivery.
"Trelin, when did those two leave? Why aren't they back?"
"Sir, perhaps they encountered… complications. That's Mad Dog's territory. And the hospital… I hear they have people stationed there."
Day Six of the Apocalypse.
Thomas Smyth awoke with a throbbing headache, his body a symphony of aches and pains. His joints, in particular, felt like unoiled machinery, protesting with every movement.
A cough ripped through his throat, raw and painful. He shook his head, trying to clear the fog, but his brain felt like sludge, sloshing around in his skull.
He checked his status. [Chill], [Fever], [Bacterial Infection]. Three bright red icons mocked him.
He stumbled to the kitchen, starting another batch of mutton stew. While it simmered, he lit the fireplace, cursing his forgetfulness. The cold night had exacerbated his illness. The radiating heat slowly eased his shivering.
He drank two cups of hot water, then swallowed an ibuprofen and an amoxicillin. The pain subsided. The [Fever] and [Bacterial Infection] icons vanished.
Minutes later, he savored the stew, feeling life flow back into him. A surge of relief washed over him as he noticed the [Chill] icon was gone. He'd hit the 25% chance of perfect removal.
His body was recovering, but the drain on his stamina remained. He needed rest.
"This is rough," he muttered, pulling on the rabbit-fur greatcoat despite the [Invigorated] buff. He took the indoor thermometer outside. After a few minutes, it read 3°C. Close to freezing.
He sighed. Day six, and it was already this cold. Snow tomorrow, probably. The hardest part was just beginning.
He checked the chat channel. The grim news confirmed his fears. Over 3,000 dead overnight, mostly from hypothermia-induced Chill, picked off by looters or wild animals. Desperate pleas for help scrolled past, unanswered. The first wave of the extreme cold had taken its toll.
There were attempts to organize mutual aid, but self-preservation reigned supreme. Nobody was willing to risk their own survival for a stranger. In this apocalyptic game, survival was the only rule. Morality, law, shame – all irrelevant.
Thomas wasn't about to play the saint. He was just trying to survive, to carve out a comfortable existence in this hellish new world. He respected those who chose selflessness, but he wouldn't burden himself with others' problems.
His grim reflections were interrupted by a surge of excitement. He hurried to the kitchen, laying out the ingredients for the [Nourishing Mutton Stew]. Every second counted. This was his chance.
He contacted Sandy about the five sheep he'd pre-ordered. She was just leaving, she said. Two hours.
He used the time to examine the loot from the hospital director's office. Two blueprints. Jackpot. Blueprints were the fastest way to gain power in this world.
[Medical Workbench Construction Blueprint]
Type: Rare Blueprint
Effect: Construct a Medical Workbench in your hideout to craft medical items.
Requirements: Level 1 Generator, Level 1 Water Collector, Level 1 Bathroom, 50,000 Apocalypse Coins, Beaker x1, Test Tube x1, Tourniquet x1, Surgical Kit x1, Ibuprofen x1
Construction Time: 30 minutes
---
[Medical Workbench Modification Blueprint – Medical Station]
Type: Rare Blueprint
Effect: Upgrade the Medical Workbench to the advanced Medical Station.
Requirements: Level 1 Generator, Level 1 Medical Workbench, Level 2 Bathroom, Level 2 Ventilation System, 200,000 Apocalypse Coins, Medical Intelligence Document x1, Assorted Pills x3, Sterile Bandages x5, Tourniquets x4, Surgical Kit x2, Blood Transfusion Kit x1, Portable Defibrillator x1
Construction Time: 120 minutes
The requirements for the Medical Station were daunting. The portable defibrillator, especially. He'd been lucky to find one in the hospital.
But the complexity also hinted at the station's potential. He had everything he needed. He cleared a space in his hideout and started construction on the Medical Workbench. Thirty minutes, then the upgrade.
The Medical Intelligence Document, also from the safe, was the third item. Another stroke of luck.
The final item was a white keycard, stamped with the letters "CBS."
[CBS Laboratory Access Keycard]
Type: Laboratory Key
Size: 1x1
Use: Grants one-time access to the CBS Laboratory.
The word "laboratory" jolted him. He remembered Black Dog's diary entries. The laboratory, possibly producing the Transformation Potion used to create the cultists. And Black Dog's uncle, the shadowy figure pulling the strings of Sparrow City's looters and cultists, was somehow connected to it. Now, the hospital director had a keycard. The city, the laboratory, the director… it was all intertwined.
"And that mysterious client," Thomas mused, his eyes narrowing. There was more to this than met the eye.