Chapter 4: The World is Cruel
City D, September 6th? Year 0 of the Great Collapse
The late afternoon light filtered through tiny cracks in the warehouse walls, splashing streaks of red across the cold cement floor.
It was quiet inside the stronghold, with a soft hum of activity as people bustled about, sorting through supplies or lingering in small, hushed groups.
The stronghold was an impressive structure—a ramshackle fortress built with everything they had salvaged: steel barriers, barbed wire, and concrete slabs torn from the ruins of nearby buildings.
At its core was the decision-making process: a loose council, mainly formed of the strongest and most resourceful survivors.
They made decisions based on survival, rationing what they had left and using what they could scavenge from the nearby zombie-infested city ruins. But unlike the old world, there was no real democracy.
The loudest voices, the ones with the most power or influence, dictated the course of action. It wasn't perfect, but it was what they had.
And it worked; they had to make it work.
A man strode through the corridors, exchanging nods and brief words with people as he checked on things.
This was Winter, an ex-military officer turned apocalypse survivor. He paused, his eyes narrowing as he noticed a sizeable hole in the wall high above. We needed to get that patched; Mist could find its way in from there, he thought with a frown.
It was a home, the closest thing to stability they'd had in a long while. Winter couldn't help feeling pride as he walked its grounds.