Ben Walker, wrapped in a bearskin coat, yawned. He checked his watch. 1:30 AM. "Are these guys ever going to show?" he muttered, glancing towards the car dealership. Suddenly, he froze. He snatched up his night vision binoculars, adjusting the focus. He wasn't mistaken. In the pitch black, faint beams of flashlights snaked towards the dealership's entrance. Further out, perhaps four or five hundred meters away – likely to avoid alerting anyone inside with the engine noise – twenty or thirty snowmobiles idled in the snow, each with a rider standing by, ready for extraction.
Through the binoculars, Ben saw a long line of figures trudging through the snow. Seventy, maybe eighty of them. Behind them, flickering in and out of view, several cloaked figures in black followed, their footsteps tracing the path of those ahead. Though their faces were obscured, the night vision revealed disturbing patterns and symbols etched onto their skin.
"Holy crap…are those freaking cultists?" Ben breathed. "This is insane!" He counted carefully. Four cultists, each with an unsettling gait. One in particular radiated a chilling aura that Ben could feel even from this distance. "No way…a Cultist Priest?" He was stunned.
Ben knew more about the Apocalypse Game's hidden details than most, a perk of being a seed survivor in the base city. Cultist Priests were terrifying. Their abilities varied, but their presence on any battlefield was a harbinger of death. Ben's carefully laid plans wavered. He hesitated. Then, he glanced back at the dealership. The hesitation vanished, replaced by grim determination.
"This is a golden opportunity," he thought. "If I play this right, the payoff could be enormous. My survival index will skyrocket, and it might even help Legend Smyth's operation." He continued, "It's a risk worth taking. As long as I steer clear of the Cultist Priest, the others aren't a major threat."
With renewed resolve, Ben donned his gear and retrieved a bowl of Nourishing Mutton Stew, imbued with the 'Invigorated' buff, a gift from Thomas. He devoured it, feeling a surge of warmth and energy. Grinning, he stepped out of his hideout. Light shimmered around him, and he vanished into the darkness.
* * *
Sparrow City, White Tower District. Inside the car dealership showroom, the vehicles were gone, replaced by roaring bonfires and refugees drinking and boasting. The blizzard raging outside had forced them to hole up inside, leaving them with little to do but indulge in these simple pleasures. They were oblivious to the corpse that had appeared in their midst just hours earlier. They were equally unaware of the armed refugees closing in on them from just beyond the perimeter wall.
The Bayonet, Mad Dog's right-hand man, had infiltrated the dealership. He found Stephen Chow tied to a chair in a back room, just as planned. But something was wrong. He checked Stephen's carotid artery. The skin was icy cold, the body stiff. Dead.
The Bayonet's eyes narrowed, his heart pounding. This was bad. Black Dog was dead. Now this. He could already imagine his boss's reaction.
As he stood there, a figure materialized in the room. Ghostface, his expression impassive, approached the dead Stephen. Ignoring The Bayonet's wary stance, he examined Stephen's jaw. Then, he turned to leave. "Inform Mad Dog," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. "Tonight, this place is razed. If he fails, he dies."
Ghostface vanished, leaving The Bayonet alone. The message was clear. If Mad Dog was going to die, he would too. There was only one option left: eliminate Caban. A nagging suspicion told him something was amiss. He was sure Ghostface felt it too. But…this was too big to ignore. Someone had to pay.
Without hesitation, The Bayonet contacted Mad Dog, relaying the information and Ghostface's ultimatum. Silence followed. Then, Mad Dog's weary voice crackled through the radio. "Bayonet, do it. It's our only chance. You're in command. Cripple Caban's forces fast. This is a fight to the death. Reinforcements are on their way. Tonight, we have one objective…leave no one alive."
The transmission ended. The Bayonet stared at the dealership, his eyes cold.
* * *
Across the street, Ben Walker navigated a debris-strewn hallway, reaching a room on the fifth floor overlooking the dealership. He surveyed the sightlines and angles of attack, nodding. "This will do." He retrieved a spool of thin wire, several small bells, and a handful of grenades, returning to the hallway to set up tripwires and booby traps.
Ten minutes later, back in the room, Ben drew the curtains. He pulled out a five-foot-long case, revealing a sniper rifle and its components. Methodically, he attached the suppressor, high-powered scope, and other tactical accessories. He chambered a round. Propping his feet on a chair, he rested the rifle on the backrest, aiming towards the dealership. Popping a candy in his mouth, he peered through the scope. The Bayonet's head filled his crosshairs. A smirk played on his lips. "Come on, baby," he whispered. "Daddy's long gun is getting hungry."
Sparrow City, White Tower District. Inside the car dealership showroom, Caban was enjoying himself. Downstairs, his men feasted on canned beef and sardines, washing it down with whiskey and lemonade, warmed by the bonfires. They were a stark contrast to the blizzard raging outside. But in the shadows beyond the firelight, figures moved swiftly, closing in, their eyes gleaming with a predatory excitement. Days of watching their comrades die had fueled a burning rage, and tonight, they finally had a target. They would paint the dealership red.
Following The Bayonet's orders, they moved into position. Their goal was to eliminate the enemy in the first volley, leaving no room for retaliation.
Across the street, Ben Walker watched through his scope, observing The Bayonet's deployment. He frowned. "This won't do," he muttered. "If they finish setting up, it'll be a slaughter." That wasn't what he wanted. Chaos was his ally. Only in chaos could he maximize his gains.
His eyes narrowed, a mischievous glint appearing. "Nah…this isn't fun. I don't approve." He shifted his aim, acquiring a new target. A slow smile spread across his face.
Bang.
The sharp crack of the rifle echoed through the night, cutting through the howling wind. Inside the dealership, a refugee sitting with his back to the entrance slumped forward, his head exploding in a shower of gore. For a moment, there was stunned silence. Then, all hell broke loose.
"Ambush! Ambush!" "Enemy contact! Find cover!"
The shouts reverberated through the showroom. Refugees dropped their food and drinks, scrambling for weapons. And in that moment, they saw them – Mad Dog's men, less than thirty meters away.
The air erupted in a cacophony of gunfire and explosions.
Upstairs, Caban, alerted by the first shot, leaped out of bed. He rushed to the window, just in time to see the body of his man hit the floor. "Fucking hell!" he roared, slapping his bald head. He quickly donned his gear, his movements surprisingly agile for his bulky frame. The sounds of battle intensified below. Bullets pinged off the second-floor windows.
"Let's see who's messing with me," Caban growled. "They must have forgotten I'm called 'The Bull'!" He patted his body armor, pulled a red sweater over it, and finally, draped himself in a mink coat. His gaze fell upon the PKM machine gun and its massive 100-round drum magazine. A savage grin twisted his lips. He lit a cigar, kicked open the office door, and unleashed a torrent of fire upon the intruders below, the PKM's roar echoing through the showroom.
The Bayonet, momentarily stunned by the initial shot, thought, "Which idiot fired first?" But he instantly recognized the distinct sound of a sniper rifle. Before he could warn his men, the dealership's occupants had spotted them, and the firefight began. His carefully planned ambush was ruined.
"Someone's working from the shadows…" he thought, diving for cover. His instincts screamed of a hidden player. He reached for his radio to alert Mad Dog, but another explosion rocked the dealership, sending a mangled body flying.
"Mines! Watch out for mines!"
More explosions followed. Mad Dog's men faltered, caught off guard. Caban's men, however, erupted in laughter. "Idiots! You think we wouldn't defend those approaches?" "I love seeing them fly! Beautiful!"
The Bayonet realized Mad Dog's reinforcements had arrived and attacked from a different direction, only to run into Caban's minefield. "Damn it! How could this happen?"
Mad Dog roared up to the dealership entrance on a snowmobile, his face grim. One of his men had taken the blast meant for him. He was fully armed now, his usual clumsiness gone.
The Bayonet ran to his side. "Boss, it wasn't us who fired first. There's someone else here…"
Mad Dog cut him off. "Doesn't matter. Ghostface is dealing with the rat. Our objective is Caban." He raised his Remington M870 shotgun, aimed, and fired.
The blast ripped through the showroom, spraying blood. "Shotgun! Buckshot!" yelled one of Caban's men, scrambling for cover.
Mad Dog grinned savagely. "Die!" He emptied the magazine, ducked back, and reloaded. As he prepared to emerge, the second-floor door exploded inward. A stocky figure appeared, and the showroom was filled with the deafening roar of the PKM.
Mad Dog heard the familiar sound and snarled, "Caban!"