Where there should have been four seasons, in this new era they still exist - though their meanings have shifted.
Spring means awakening. From massive creatures like Bearclaws and Stone Dragons to tiny bloodflies and bioluminescent fleas, all emerge from hibernation. Hungry after a long winter, they're especially ferocious. Smaller threats like bloodflies are no less dangerous than armored Bearclaws - in this era, who knows how many instant-kill plagues exist? Almost every bacterium or virus uses bloodflies as perfect vectors. And every year, new plagues mutate exponentially. Doctors have never been so vital - or so powerless.
Still, spring remains the best season.
Summer brings searing heat. Intense UV radiation in sunlight is lethal to most life, even mutated humans and animals. Autumn is no longer harvest time - ancient crops and fruits died out long ago. All creatures now struggle for food. The few plants that thrive in extreme conditions are often deadlier than Stone Dragons. Winter means surviving until spring without starving.
Thin gray clouds shifted overhead, revealing patches of brilliant blue sky. Sunlight poured down like liquid fire onto parched earth cracked by heat.
The moment sunlight hit, Turner lowered his goggles.
His vintage tactical goggles filtered glare and UV rays. Though modern UV was exponentially stronger, surviving humans had adapted - the weak already bones in the wastes. The filtered light was blindingly bright, but Turner's enhanced vision handled it. The eight soldiers behind him were tough enough to endure the discomfort.
Gripping his refurbished M3A automatic rifle, Turner scanned the terrain. Signaling with his left hand, the squad followed. Each wore tattered camouflage and carried mismatched weapons - everything from old M3As to AK variants. But their discipline marked them as professional soldiers, not ragtag bandits. This was a real army - with ranks, tactics, and logistics. Only a major organization could sustain them.
Forty-three-year-old Turner had two decades of military experience. Leading his squad along a barren ridge, he valued the panoramic view over shade. Dense vegetation often hid unknown threats.
Carrion wolf howls echoed through the mountains. Turner's pupils dilated and contracted, his enhanced vision locking onto distant specks. Raising binoculars, he saw half a dozen ash-gray carrion wolves pacing restlessly on rust-colored cliffs, occasionally lifting their muzzles to howl.
Turner's eyesight was 1.5 times normal, thanks to an evolution point spent on ocular enhancement - a rare choice compared to strength or durability. But in the wastes, spotting danger early meant survival.
"Dammit, they're getting bigger every season."
Cursing, Turner led his men toward the valley. Carrion wolves were nocturnal, so their daytime activity worried him. Experience told him a den lay ahead - likely with nursing pups. His mission: monitor mutations, check for new species, and retrieve carrion wolf corpses every three months.
Normally a routine two-week patrol, but this region was changing. Turner watched carrion wolves evolve rapidly. What once died to a single bullet now needed sustained fire. Their size, speed, and resilience increased exponentially. According to base scientists, adult carrion wolves had gained 12% mass, 23% muscle strength, 18% agility, 35% durability, and 50% radiation resistance in just a year.
Turner didn't care about stats - he knew his squad could handle 150 carrion wolves last year, but only 100 now. Each mission left him more uneasy. Could these creatures evolve human intelligence? He'd dreamt of tiger-sized, cunning carrion wolves too many times.
The kilometer-long descent took half an hour. At their approach, the male carrion wolves lowered themselves, growling menacingly. This territorial display confirmed a den with vulnerable pups.
Turner signaled. A veteran opened fire, two bursts sending a carrion wolf flipping backward. The remaining wolves fled into the valley.
"Lucas, track them."
A young soldier with an enlarged olfactory organ stepped forward. Despite the overpowering stench, Lucas' enhanced nose followed the pack's trail. The squad advanced carefully, spotting a cave entrance littered with bones.
Leaving two guards at the entrance, Turner led the rest inside. They found only dry bones and hay - no pups. Turner's jaw tightened as he sliced open fresh dung.
"Move out! This is a trap!"
Back at the entrance, the guards backed into the cave, trembling. Turner pushed past them - and froze.
The valley floor seethed with carrion wolves. Hundreds.
A fetid stench hit him. Instinctively diving backward, he fired a long burst. A shadow blurred past where his neck had been. Five bullets tore open the attacker's abdomen, spraying entrails.
The dying wolf staggered upright, still growling, until another carrion wolf snapped its neck. Turner lay gasping, drenched in sweat.
"Three hundred at least," someone whispered.
Communications were dead. Ammunition was low. The squad huddled in the cave as carrion wolves surrounded them, staying just beyond effective rifle range.
"Looks like they're waiting us out," Turner said grimly. "Two-man shifts. Save ammo. Maybe the base will send help."
Soldiers settled in, but few slept. The carrion wolves' disciplined behavior was eerie - almost military.
"Boss!" Lucas hissed. "Look."
At the valley's edge stood the alpha - a massive black carrion wolf, upright on its hind legs. It barked commands, directing the pack with growls and gestures.
"A language?" someone breathed. "They're communicating."
Turner stared, mind racing. "We have to kill it."
Berger, the squad's sniper, positioned his SVD. At 1000 meters, the alpha was a tiny target. His old scope wavered as the alpha paced. Finally, it paused, sniffing the air.
Bang!
The alpha dropped instantly. But the bullet struck another carrion wolf instead. The alpha had ducked at the last moment.
"Dammit," Berger muttered. "It moved like it knew."
Three days passed. The alpha continued directing the pack, killing dissenters. Turner's squad rationed food and water, morale sinking.
Then, a single shot cracked from the ridge.
The alpha's chest exploded. It collapsed, dead.
Chaos erupted. Carrion wolves milled aimlessly. Some charged the cave, only to be cut down. Others fled.
An hour later, a figure emerged from the rocks - a hunter in a tattered cloak, carrying a massive modified rifle. He moved with deadly grace, dispatching remaining carrion wolves with a customized handgun.
Turner approached cautiously. The hunter removed his hood, revealing a scarred face and a cybernetic eye.
"Thanks," Turner said, extending a hand. "I'm Turner."
"Kael," the hunter replied, shaking his hand. "Saw your trouble from the ridge."
The squad loaded carrion wolf corpses onto their backs. Kael joined them, silent and watchful.
As they hiked, Berger studied Kael's rifle - a jury-rigged antique with primitive optics.
"How'd you hit that shot?" he asked.
Kael smiled faintly. "Lucky."
But Turner noticed the hunter's cybernetic eye glowing faintly - likely enhanced with targeting algorithms.
They trekked through the night, the mood tense. Kael moved like a ghost, scanning the darkness.
At dawn, the base came into view - a fortified compound surrounded by electrified fencing. Guards waved them through.
Inside, Turner turned to Kael. "Stay for supplies?"
Kael nodded. "I'll resupply and be gone."
As the hunter walked away, Turner noticed a strange symbol burned into his cloak - a stylized wolf's head with a crown.
"Never seen that sigil before," he muttered.
Berger shrugged. "Probably a freelance hunter."
But Turner couldn't shake the feeling that Kael was more than he seemed. In this era, even saviors carried secrets.
The squad headed for debriefing, leaving Kael to vanish into the wastes - a shadow in the dawn.