I reached the base as fast as I could and left the enduro by the entrance to the shaft. Pushing open the door, I stepped inside. Walking through the narrow hall, I shrugged off my jacket and protective gear, pulled off the respirator, and grabbed a gas mask with fresh filters, fastening it onto my face with a practiced motion.
Sitting on the bed, I reached into the nightstand and pulled out a syringe of Compound B. The drug was created from engineered bacteria that literally attack fungal cells tearing them apart and destroying the cordyceps and its network. In the labs, they'd refined it into something less destructive: it kills the fungus, but not as violently as the original formula.
Good thing it still works. Though every time I hold it, a familiar anxiety creeps up my throat what if someday it doesn't?
The first time I injected it, it went straight for the fungal growth in my skull. The roots recoiled from my nerves, giving me back control. My body barely endured it nerves and tissue burned like molten metal was being poured through them. But my brain didn't die. The cordyceps kept it alive. It burned the tissue, but at the same time restored vital functions. Not to save me but to save itself. Indirectly, that kept me alive too.
For a whole year, I've been poisoning myself and it. This symbiosis this endless cycle of pain and dwindling strength keeps me suspended somewhere between death and life.
But it's only a temporary reprieve. It keeps rooting deeper, taking over inch by inch. My left arm no longer feels pain at all looks like it hijacked the nerve endings, and signals simply don't reach me anymore. But I can still move the arm, which means not all the nerves are infected yet.
Control over myself is only a matter of time.
Should I inject the compound again? The pain I felt the first time… it was unbearable. The memory alone makes me shudder, as if the burn is still under my skin. After thinking it over, I set the syringe aside for emergencies and decided to simply monitor the symptoms.
I remember that day vividly how the cordyceps nearly took over completely, how I was on the brink of disappearing. If it begins to surge again, I won't hesitate for even a second. I'll use the compound. But not before that.
Standing up, I grabbed another respirator the one with the side-mounted filters. I checked the straps, slipped it on, feeling the bands tighten across the back of my head. Approaching Buddy's food bowl, I noticed he'd eaten everything I'd left. I'd built a special passage just for him a narrow crawlspace no human could fit through. I poured fresh food in, and barely stepped back before he appeared, diving into the bowl with eager growls of hunger and joy.
While he ate, I went to change. Pulled on my gear, tightened the vest straps, adjusted the pouches, checked the buckles on the harness. Loaded grenades, spare magazines. Then grabbed another backpack a military one, sturdier, built for real weight.
Opening the weapons locker, my hand moved across the stocks. My collection was small just five guns but every one of them reliable. Two identical AR-15s. An AK-47 I found in a house with a gun safe; that same safe had an old hunting rifle and a pair of pistols. And last an M16A4 I had taken off a fallen soldier.
I grabbed both AR-15s with suppressors. The second one was for Eric.
From the bottom drawer, I pulled out another Glock. Just in case.
Once I was fully geared up, it felt like my body had gained an extra ten kilos but that was the cost of survival. Turning off the lights, I sealed the base and headed out toward Eric.
***********************
On the outskirts of Pittsburgh's industrial district stood a scattered lineup of armored vehicles. The place buzzed with activity people hauling crates, sealing containers, checking cargo markings. Everyone was armed, from light calibers to heavy weapons. The most imposing were two armored troop carriers, each with a mounted twelve-caliber machine gun on top. The gunners' nests were shielded with steel plates, protecting the shooters from all sides. And yet none of them looked anything like military.
"Move it, move it, boys! We need to load everything before those FEDRA clowns sniff out where we are!" a man shouted from atop one of the vehicles. A cigarette smoldered between his teeth, a smirk fixed on his lips as he surveyed his "creations" the gang he had built from nothing.
Before the apocalypse, his group scurried around like rats, hiding from federal agents. But once the laws crumbled, he flourished. Freedom hit him harder than any drug and he began taking everything he could get his hands on. At first he struck only the outskirts of the state, avoiding direct clashes with FEDRA. But the more weapons and supplies he gathered, the bigger his ambitions grew. He felt like the master of these territories.
He wanted power real, unchallenged power. Wanted to mold the ruins of this city into his own little state with his own rules and his own name stamped on it.
"Right now, power belongs to those willing to take it," Sebastian Crow said, grinning as if he already had the whole world by the throat.
He had organized raids on FEDRA units more than once, seizing their vehicles, supplies, and weapons. His military power kept growing, while FEDRA looked helpless: his mobile squad, riding the same stolen trucks, easily outran any pursuit. Those who tried to chase them down always ended up in traps. After that, all pursuit attempts stopped. They now acted with complete impunity.
"Boys, to the trucks. We're leaving," Sebastian growled as he climbed into his heavy jeep. Another man silently took the seat beside him.
Engines rumbled to life one after another, the air filling with the smell of oil and exhaust as the convoy moved through the city streets. They left Pittsburgh and followed the highway until they reached the outskirts. Soon the convoy rolled onto airport grounds. Sections of the fence were broken, replaced with hastily welded sheets of metal. By the main building work was bustling: people darted between vehicles, some welding armor plates, others cutting metal. It looked like they were preparing for something big reinforcing their vehicles and fortifying their positions.
Sebastian chose this place for their camp precisely because the building was enormous, surrounded by wide, open fields. No one could sneak up unnoticed. Not when he had two hundred heavily armed thugs under his command.
"Boss," the men nearest to him began greeting him.
"Another load of spoils," someone called, and an approving murmur rose from the crowd as people gathered around the vehicles, hungrily inspecting the haul.
Sebastian barely glanced at the loot and headed inside the building. Inside, his crew was scattered everywhere: some killing time with cards, others throwing knives at a crudely painted target on the wall, a few sitting around a TV, squinting at the flickering picture. Walking deeper, into the storage area where all their supplies were kept, he stopped.
His gaze fell on an open crate stuffed to the brim with explosives.
"So that's what FEDRA wanted so badly," Sebastian muttered. They had captured several soldiers during that raid, and under torture the men revealed the purpose of their mission. When Sebastian came to the warehouse and saw it with his own eyes, he had nearly burst with excitement: there was enough weaponry to start a small war.
"Boss, we've prepped all the charges. We can blow up their barricades," one of his men reported.
"They'll die from their own weapons. And we'll feast on their remains," Sebastian replied.
He knew perfectly well: although his people regularly took bites out of FEDRA patrols, they still weren't equal to soldiers in a real fight. Professionals had training, discipline, skill. Unlike this rabble. Soldiers were ready to fight to the end, even in a hopeless situation. His thugs, on the other hand, bolted at the first sign of real danger. He constantly had to punish anyone who showed weakness.
The only thing holding this mass together was their faith. Faith in victory and in Sebastian.
When he first saw the explosives, he considered laying traps and slowly wearing FEDRA down. But soon a far bolder idea struck him: what if he used the infected? Those locked-up monsters once released in a huge swarm would head straight for the camp. So many people lived there. All that remained was to blow a hole in the wall, and FEDRA would fall. And in the end, he would be the one ruling the entire state.
"Has a nice ring to it… Mayor of Pittsburgh, Sebastian Crow. No, no… better Governor of Pennsylvania, Sebastian Crow," he said dreamily, as if already imagining his name etched on a government building.
"Sounds good," one of his closest men eagerly agreed.
"I know without you," Sebastian snapped.
He ran his hand thoughtfully over the crate of explosives.
"We need people who can sneak into the city and lay charges at the walls," he said, mentally mapping the route. "Send a few. Let them look for a way into the quarantine zone."
"Right away," the underling replied and hurried off.
As soon as he left, the smile vanished from Sebastian's face as if it had never been there. In the beginning he'd recruited anyone just to grow his numbers. Now his people included many he wouldn't want anywhere near him not even in passing. But pointless executions would damage his "leader's reputation."
He had a plan that solved all his problems at once. He would get rid of the trash, strengthen his power, and glorify himself. All that nonsense he fed people about freedom and wealth was just empty talk.