October 15th. 6:47 AM. Day -180.
Rain slammed my apartment window like buckshot. Heart still jackhammered from Miller's shotgun slug ripping my guts open—hot copper flooding my mouth, Yana's scarred knuckles pressing futile bandages against the pulsing wound, Harlan barking "Pressure!" as Patient Zero's Lich fog choked the Killbox vents. "User terminated." Final System drone fading into black.
"Fuck you, Miller," I snarled, kicking the thrift-store mattress aside. Muscles felt weak, human—none of that Quintuple Serum fire bulging my veins like rebar cables. No Reaper's Fang humming nanotube death in my grip. Just 34-year-old data analyst Jack Kincaid, stubble scratching my jaw, apocalypse blueprints carved into my skull from 187 days of blood and betrayal.
Bathroom mirror showed the reset: steel-gray eyes clear, no endless Appraisal blue-tint. Left eyebrow scarless. No gut cavity bubbling antibiotics across my boots. No Level 3 Armory haze, Yana's cropped black hair sweat-matted against my bare chest as her hazel eyes locked mine—"Stay with me, Warlord"—voice cracking for the first time.
Deep breath. Coffee brewing black sludge—no cream, no sugar. 180-day luxury countdown. Laptop fired up: real estate listings blinking the bankrupt textile mill 20 miles north, construction loans primed through shell accounts, demolition permits rubber-stamp ready. Six months to forge rustbucket into the Foundry—a Cold War missile silo that held Patient Zero's 5,000-mutant horde until that fat sheriff's betrayal on Day 187.
"Store." Blue hologram crisp over the chipped sink, menu glowing familiar:
BASE FORTIFICATION KIT - 450 pts
QUINTUPLE SERUM - 450 pts
REAPER'S FANG UPGRADE - 300 pts
500 points banked from pre-regression debt arbitrage—timeline bets no one else sees coming. Silo first. Empire foundation before personal power.
"Purchase Base Fortification Kit." Points dropped to 50. Temple pulsed—blueprint downloaded. Sector 1 coordinates locked: mill masking silo, perfect Killbox geometry waiting concrete veins.
Vanessa's text buzzed. Ex-wife. Downtown HR drone in glass tower heels. First timeline: turned Week 2 when Committee "tax collectors" swarmed her office. I'd prioritized the Gas Station node instead.
*"Jack divorce settlement talk. Rent due asshole."*
Fuck papers. She'd scrub Shambler guts as "Paige," manicured hands learning the weight of a pipe wrench.
*"Mill site 10AM. Job. Work clothes."*
Coffee scalded down. Gym bag packed: tools, protein bars, burner phone. Keys tossed on the counter. Data analyst Jack Kincaid died today.
***
The textile mill squatted like a gutted deathclaw—chainlink fence sagging under kudzu chokehold, shattered windows staring blind into the rain, weeds clawing through cracked asphalt like rad-roaches from the Wasteland. Perfect. No security cams blinking. Bankrupt holding company ripe for debt-leverage vultures like me.
"Claim." Orange pulse surged through rusting rebar and concrete bones. Neon territory line snapped tight around the 5-acre lot—Sector 1 birthed in pulsing orange glow. Dominion Map flickered live: Risk board overlay burned into reality, my slice dominant.
Vanessa's white Prius crunched gravel at 10:02 sharp. Blonde bob perfect despite the downpour, pencil skirt hugging hips that used to tangle in my sheets, designer flats sinking into mud like her career prospects. Corporate armor cracking already.
"Jack?" Botox horror wrinkled her pretty face. "This dump? Job opportunity? I filed the papers—you had... episodes."
Three more vehicles growled up behind. Travis first—gym-bro tank rumbling in a lifted F-150, tank top straining over 240 pounds of protein-shake bulk, babyface grinning like he owned the world. Gary next—IT weasel in a Civic, Star Wars tee clinging to his scrawny frame, taped glasses fogging with pre-panic sweat. Helen Voss rolled last—veterinarian in a battered Tacoma, lab coat flapping over OD green fatigues, unlit cigarette dangling from lips scarred by surgical precision.
Debts had summoned them. Construction loans I'd "personally guaranteed" through shell companies. Now my labor pool, chained or starved.
"Apocalypse prep," I stated flat as the concrete slabs stacked nearby. No sugarcoating. "Silo beneath the mill. Impenetrable fortress. You labor, you eat rations. Fail, you starve in the open."
Vanessa's laugh cracked like thin ice. "Apocalypse? Jack, the divorce mediator said you had... delusions. Blackouts."
Helen flicked her unlit cigarette, pale blue eyes squinting through the smoke that wasn't there. "Cold calculus, Kincaid. Korea vet triage style. What's the actual threat vector? Rabies? Bioweapon?"
"Worse." Sal's diesel F-350 rumbled final—foreman recruit #5, 62 years of union grease staining his coveralls, "George Romero" etched into his battered toolbox like a talisman. Perfect. Lights-on utility.
"Generator Level 2 first. Boyd assist incoming."
Sal nodded once—no questions, no bullshit. Old-school steel.
Labor grind began immediate. Cinderblocks to the entrance choke point. Travis bulldozed stacks like they were 20-pound dumbbells, sweat carving protein veins down his massive arms, babyface flushed with eager approval. Paige's manicure chipped bloody on rough edges—whimpers turning to gritted-teeth silence as soft corporate hands learned concrete weight. Gary fumbled blocks constantly, taped glasses slipping down his nose, panic breaths fogging the lenses while his loyalty meter bled red in my HUD. Helen triaged blisters with her vet suture kit, rasping CDC protocols between drags on that eternal unlit cigarette—"Compound fracture risk, sepsis 70%, waste of morphine."
Noon brought Ronnie uninvited—scrappy bartender hauling ass in a battered Jeep Wrangler, red curls wild under a torn bandana, gap-toothed grin flashing as she spat into the mud. "Heard you needed hands that don't mind getting filthy." Scrappy. Grit personified. Perimeter scrap detail test her immediately.
Dusk fell with foundation poured solid. Killbox walls knee-high already, maze geometry taking shape. Green energy threads ghosted between Nulls and the silo node—Labor Chain prototype humming at 1.2x efficiency multiplier. Exponential foundation primed for scale.
Night clamped hard. Chainlink rattled in wind gusts. Then a 12-year-old shadow slipped through the gaps—gaunt cheeks hollowed by starvation, vent-crawler eyes too old and haunted for that fragile frame. Boyd. Technomancer jackpot.
"Food?" His whisper barely cut the rain.
Private room authorization logged for later. Trauma shielded that talent.
"Machinery Level 2 tomorrow. Generators first."
He vanished into the silo vents like smoke, distant humming echoing up—piston rhythms warped through "Plants vs Zombies" nursery rhyme starvation filter.
Six Nulls chained now. Two User potentials locked (Boyd plus highway scout incoming). Sector 1 stirring alive.
11PM headlights sliced sodium-bright. Miller's sheriff cruiser. Belly spilling over duty belt, cop-stache twitching under the floodlights. First timeline Day 187 betrayer. Acquisition target Day 1 this cycle.
"Kincaid." Tobacco spit hit my boot deliberate. "Construction debt bullshit. Twenty years on the force—you don't fucking run me."
"Sledgehammer. Killbox perimeter. Dawn start."
Ugly laugh barked. "Sheriff Grimes don't take orders from data-nerd divorcés."
"Work or starve." No heat in the words. Reaper's Fang weighed light in palm—basic aluminum for now, nanotube upgrade waiting the right scrap pile trigger.
Miller snatched the sledge, muttering "Walking Dead protagonist" delusions under his breath. Loyalty meter crashed to 8%. Ticking bomb.
Midnight secured perimeter watch. Paige slumped against her own damn wall, raw-meat hands trembling as she bit her nails to bloody stubs. Travis chugged shakes from his cooler like a lifeline, massive chest heaving with post-labor flexes. Helen chain-lit her first real cigarette—medic ration approved with silent nod, whiskey rasp cutting the smoke: "Triage doesn't negotiate, Kincaid. You need vitamins for the kid." Sal tinkered generator schematics by truck headlight, humming classic rock riffs while patting his toolbox like a lover. Ronnie spat ritual before cracking knuckles, sharing contraband flask passes—"Shit's fucked already, laugh while you can." Gary paced manic circuits, glasses fogged with panic breaths, quoting Star Wars at shadows. Boyd's hum echoed steady from deep vents. Miller sulked by his cruiser, empty holster ghost-draw twitching.
Appraisal sweep confirmed chain integrity:
PAIGE: LOYALTY 40% (-5% for raw hands)
TRAVIS: 68% (+3% utility proven)
GARY: 15% (-3% useless fumbles)
HELEN: 82% (+2% essential triage)
SAL: 75% steady engineer
RONNIE: 70% pure grit
MILLER: 8% bomb ticking
BOYD: USER SYNCHRONICITY HIGH
Green Labor Chain pulsed 1.2x across the concrete pour—exponential base scaling primed.
"Day 1 complete. Rations in trucks. Level 1 bunks for sleep. Dawn maze walls rise."
Paige hesitated, smoothing bloody hair back. "Jack... this apocalypse. When exactly?"
"179 days. Horde virus drops Day 1."
She paled ghost-white. Travis flexed silent approval. Helen triage-nodded once. Miller spat again into mud.
Reaper's Fang cleaned ritual on pant leg. Basic aluminum now. Nanotube hunger waited scrap node trigger.
Apocalypse clock ticked merciless. No mistakes this timeline.
Yana scouts highway Day 7—bike messenger shadow slipping chainlink like she owned it. Ronnie earns Shadow Step loot Ch6 hardware raid. Travis Bloater-acid melts Ch16—prevention priority. Miller Day 187 antibiotics betrayal—preempted Day 1.
Dawn broke weak through rain clouds. Coffee sludge rations distributed: protein bars cracked open, water jugs passed hand-to-hand, Helen hoarding vet-meds in her surplus bag. Level 1 bunks—cots on cold concrete—Nulls crashed exhausted into thin mattresses. Boyd nested deeper in vents. Miller defied with cruiser backseat sleep.
Maze walls rose hungry. Travis wrestled concrete-mix drums solo, gym-roar echoing off rising barriers. Sal snaked generator cables down Level 2 shaft, grease-smeared face lit by worklight halo. Ronnie scrap-welded choke points, sparks flying like fireflies in dusk. Paige mopped blood-buckets systematic, corporate efficiency adapting to apocalypse filth. Gary fumbled blocks endless, loyalty bleeding to 12%, taped glasses slipping constant. Helen cigarette-ash triaged fresh blisters, rasping "Sepsis risk 70%, waste of morphine on crybabies."
Noon brought first anomaly. Treeline groaned low—not wind through pines. [Assess Threat] instinctive.
Single Shambler flickered orange at treeline edge. Timeline early—Day -179 scout? Pre-virus strain?
"Test run." Fang pointed, skull-base weak point pulsing clear.
Aluminum whistled arc. Crunch pulped gray flesh. Pre-serum strength—no gore fountain yet. First loot ring hovered three seconds over twitching corpse.
Pickup dissolved into palm heat. SYSTEM whisper: BASIC GEAR ACQUIRED (duct tape x10).
Nulls froze solid. Paige whimpered high. Travis flexed biceps harder reflex. Miller's sledge paused mid-swing.
Helen rasped: "Fuck me sideways. That's not rabies mutation."
"Keep moving." Pro gamer calm—no panic fracture. Gary's loyalty dipped to 10%, glasses fogging fresh panic.
Second groan layered third. Wireframe trajectory overlaid perfect swing arc—two skulls queued.
Double loot rings dropped shimmering. Gary bolted trunk-sprint for his "Shaun of the Dead" cricket bat replica. Wild swing splintered on first contact.
Shout echoed chamber-wide. Orange glows multiplied exponential—ten Shamblers lumbering from woods premature.
Killbox test live. Early blooding.
"Choke point! Paige, Helen—back wall now! Travis, block left flank!"
Travis tackled three-man swarm with gym-bro roar echoing off fresh concrete. Paige screamed useless, soft hands clawing air. Helen scalpel-dragged her rearward, vet instincts kicking surgical.
Miller swung wild sledge—missed clean. "I got this shit!"
Gary car-bolt panic. "Fuck this nightmare!"
Appraisal flashed terminal: GARY DEATH TIMER: 8 SECONDS.
Shambler lunges piled. Cricket bat splintered final. Horde engulfed. Screams cut abrupt wet-gurgle.
No rescue attempt. Object lesson delivered cold.
Fang cleared remainder systematic. Orange weak points popped glowstick-style. Five rings harvested. Gary's corpse yielded null—no panic loot for liabilities.
Nulls stared shellshocked. Miller loyalty crashed 5%. Paige trembled 38%. Helen spiked 85%—essential recognized essential.
"Rules set permanent," flat delivery. "Stealth breaks, you fucking die. Labor chains or open starve."
Travis blood-splattered nodded grim. "Got it, boss. Solid."
First blood consecrated. Killbox held architecture sound. Sector 1 foundation iron.
Rations doubled Travis utility. Helen cig ration silent-approved extra pack. Boyd's generator hum heartbeat steadied Level 2. Ronnie spat approval grin gap-toothed. Sal patted toolbox lover-tap. Paige bit nails bloody stubs self-soothe. Miller muttered "Sheriff Grimes" defeated.
Apocalypse 178 days sharp. Empire dawn breaking.
FOUNDRY PROTOCOL - DAY -179
SECTOR 1 (JACK) █░░░░░░░░░ 1/10 Nodes
Next Spawn Event: 178 Days