Chapter 8: Wasteland Cuisine
In the second-floor double room, Finn sat on the rust-brown iron bedframe, pulled out his high-energy detector, and lit up the screen to search for any trace of the World Nucleus.
The display showed nothing but a mess of jagged, chaotic waveforms. No exact location. All he could confirm was that the World Nucleus was somewhere on this continent.
After a moment, he flipped through the Pioneers’ documents—a thick stack of printed pages. According to them, this wasteland continent lacked large-scale weapons like missiles and rocket launchers, so it placed heavy emphasis on each individual’s overall combat ability.
Combat strength was ranked from low to high: Tier 1 Vanguard through Tier 5 Vanguard. Mutants were humans who possessed special abilities but whose genes had not collapsed or gone into uncontrolled mutation.
Being a mutant didn’t automatically mean being strong in a fight. For example, a battle-hardened veteran with no special powers, equipped with all kinds of personal gear, could reach Tier 2 Vanguard combat ability and still pin a Tier 1 Vanguard mutant to the ground and grind him into the dirt.
There was no such thing as the strongest superpower—only the strongest warrior. That was the iron rule of combat in the wasteland.
Gurgle. Jimmy’s stomach suddenly gave an embarrassing growl.
Only then did Finn notice it was already noon.
Jimmy scratched the back of his head sheepishly and said to Finn, “Can I borrow a bottle of water? I’m gonna head out and grab something to eat.”
Finn casually pulled out a bottle of purified water and tossed it over. Jimmy dumped out his own radiation-contaminated bottled water, carefully poured one-fifth of the clean water into the empty bottle, then headed downstairs.
A moment later, Jimmy returned to the room upstairs, carrying a wooden tray. His expression looked grim.
On the tray were several ceramic bowls: one filled with fried fly maggots, each as thick as a thumb; another with dark, greasy rib meat; a third piled with palm-sized charcoal-grilled radiation cockroaches; a bowl of vegetable soup with withered yellow leaves floating on top; and finally, flat brown patties made from swamp crab meat.
“You wanna eat together?” Jimmy asked, at least remembering to include him.
“Nah, I’ll eat later,” Finn replied without looking up, still focused on the data from his high-energy detector.
Jimmy stared at the bizarre wasteland feast in front of him, his scalp tingling.
He let out a deep sigh, forced down the nausea rising in his throat, and started on his lunch. Jimmy decided to get the worst part over with first—might as well begin with the most disgusting thing: the charcoal-grilled radiation cockroaches.
Each one was the size of a human palm. Who the hell knew how these things had survived the nuclear blasts and mutated into monsters like this? Jimmy had zero doubt that if humanity ever went extinct, cockroaches would rule the world.
Face twisted in disgust, Jimmy tore off one of the cockroach’s legs and chewed carefully. The strange, gamey taste lingered in his mouth. He could practically picture the roach crawling in and out of garbage piles.
He forced the bite down, fighting back the urge to vomit, and gave himself a mental pep talk. This was a test from the Spacetime Destruction Bureau!
Jimmy encouraged himself inwardly: No pain, no gain! If I can’t even stomach a damn cockroach, how the hell am I supposed to achieve anything big? Look at Bro Finn… he’s so strong. Faced with that kind of food, he didn’t even bat an eye, like it was just a normal lunch. His willpower is insane. I’ve gotta learn from him!
Jimmy gritted his teeth, took a huge bite out of the cockroach’s abdomen, and chewed hard.
Just then, a mouth-watering aroma drifted over.
He turned to look at Finn. On the table in front of him was a full spread: self-heating Kung Pao chicken rice, milk, hot dogs, white bread, and a bag of potato chips.
All of it had come straight out of Finn’s storage space. Finn had always lived by one rule—clothes could be plain, gear could be basic, but when it came to food, he refused to shortchange himself.
He snapped apart a pair of disposable chopsticks, picked up a juicy piece of Kung Pao chicken, and popped it into his mouth.
The Kung Pao chicken rice was self-heating. All you had to do was tear open the box, pour in water, and the liquid would react with the bag of quicklime in the heating layer, releasing enough heat to cook the meal.
“Big Bro! I want some too!” Jimmy hopped right in front of him, staring at the feast with hungry eyes.
“Sure.” Finn waved his hand and pulled out a pack of self-heating pasta, tossing it over.
Jimmy caught it like treasure, grinning from ear to ear. He quickly boiled some water, cooked the pasta, and began twirling the strands around his fork in pure joy.
……
Finn finished his lunch first. After the meal, he took out two apples, rinsed them clean, bit into one, and chewed slowly. In this wasteland, life could be as cozy and enjoyable as you made it.
Knock, knock, knock.
Someone rapped on the door.
“Who is it?”
“It’s me. Open up—I’m here to fix the water pipe.” It was the old innkeeper’s voice outside.
Jimmy took a massive slurp of his pasta, his face glistening with oil and his cheeks puffed out, then eagerly went to open the door.
The second the door swung open, five dark gun barrels thrust inside, freezing Jimmy mid-chew.
Cold sweat instantly beaded on his forehead as he struggled to swallow the half-chewed strands of pasta.
“What’s that weird smell?” A burly man with slicked-back hair shoved Jimmy aside and strode into the room. Behind him, the gunmen lowered the submachine guns they’d been pressing against the old innkeeper’s forehead.
Six more gunmen filed in right after, barrels trained on Finn and Jimmy, fingers resting on the triggers, bullets ready to fly. Except for the slicked-back guy, they were all wearing matching black combat uniforms.
Finn stayed seated in his chair, staring coldly at the seven of them. He took a huge bite of the apple in his hand, showing zero intention of getting up.
“Mutant freak, I heard from Olivia you killed three of our Refuge Security Force brothers all by yourself? One of them was even a Tier 3 Vanguard?” The slicked-back man crossed his arms and glared at Finn, his face twisted with hostility.
Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud!
A burst of urgent footsteps pounded up the stairs and rushed toward the second-floor room.
The one who came running up was Olivia.
Her short blonde hair was messy, and she was breathing hard. “Sector Commander, I swear on my life—he acted in self-defense!”
“Self-defense? Hmm, let me think…” The slicked-back man tapped his forehead. “Yeah, the city lord’s laws do include that rule: kill in self-defense and you don’t have to pay with your life.”
His expression turned ice-cold. “But I’ve already looked into it. These two outsiders are drug dealers! According to the rules, we can execute them on the spot!”
Finn: “???”
Olivia’s face darkened. She leaned in close to the slicked-back man’s ear and whispered, “I’ve seen him fight. I guarantee you—if we open fire, he can wipe all of us out in under a minute.”
The slicked-back man’s face twitched. He turned slightly and asked the gunman behind him, “Did you bring the rocket launcher?”
“No,” the gunman answered. At the same time, several of them unconsciously took a step back.
Crunch. Finn took a huge bite of the apple and kept chewing calmly, his white teeth crushing the juicy flesh as sweet juice filled his mouth.
Everyone’s eyes instantly locked onto the apple in Finn’s hand. A few gunmen couldn’t help whispering:
“What kind of fruit is that?”
“Looks like… an apple. I’ve seen pictures of them before.”
“Rich bastard! He actually has real fruit…”
Gulp. The shortest gunman, watching Finn enjoy the apple so blissfully, was already swallowing hard.
His loud gulp made the slicked-back man feel like he was losing face big time. He’d stormed in with guns to corner them, but the guy wasn’t scared at all—he was still sitting there casually munching on an apple like it was nothing. This was straight-up humiliating.
Finn’s gaze slid past the dark gun barrels and landed on the gunman who was swallowing.
The kid was a full head shorter than the others, wearing a black combat uniform that was obviously a size too big. His face still had that soft, boyish look—he was just a teenager, maybe thirteen or fourteen years old.
“You want one?” Finn asked the boy who was pointing a gun at him.
“Yeah,” the boy answered without thinking.
Finn reached into Jimmy’s backpack, pulled out a round object, and tossed it over.
All the gunmen instantly stepped back and tightened their grips on their guns—except for the boy. He caught what Finn threw, cradling it in both hands. It was a big, perfectly round apple, bright red and looking irresistibly fresh.
Then Finn pulled out another apple from the backpack, tossed it lightly in his palm, and asked:
“Anyone else want one?”