Day -178
. Gary's corpse rotted in the morning sun about fifty yards from the Killbox perimeter, his Star Wars tee shredded into bloody ribbons, his taped glasses crushed to powder under Shambler boots. Crows already circled overhead, black wings carving lazy thermals above the textile mill ruins. Nobody moved to retrieve him. Nobody even fucking suggested it. The object lesson had been carved deep into concrete and bone: panic kills, but chains keep you alive.
I stood at the center of the Killbox, Reaper's Fang cleaned to ritual perfection after last night's blooding, surveying my crew with cold calculation. Paige huddled in her corner position, biting her nails down to bloody stubs while her corporate mask cracked visibly with each passing hour. Travis flexed unconsciously, his massive frame still splattered with dried blood from tackling four Shamblers solo yesterday. His loyalty had spiked to 72% overnight after proving his raw utility. Helen chain-smoked her third cigarette of the dawn hour, those pale blue eyes squinting as she performed clinical assessments of every Null's movements and mood. Sal tinkered with generator cables at the mouth of the Level 2 shaft, humming Zeppelin riffs while patting his toolbox in that steady ritual of his. Ronnie spat into the mud before returning to weld scrap metal reinforcements at choke point three, her gap-toothed grin defiant against yesterday's horror show.
Miller sulked by his distant cruiser, his empty holster drawing compulsively in ghost motions while he muttered "Sheriff Grimes should've led this" under his breath. His delusion was spiraling faster than I'd anticipated.
Boyd's humming echoed up from the vents deep below, that "Plants vs Zombies" tune twisted through the machine heartbeat of the Level 2 generator syncing perfectly.
"Perimeter walk. Now." My command was flat, boots crunching gravel as I led the crew along yesterday's bloodline. The orange dawn painted our concrete barriers in rust-deep hues, the maze geometry sharpening into something truly lethal under our construction progress. Choke points narrowed into perfect funnels of death, while the elevated Factory Floor platforms rose skeletal, waiting for the future labor chains I'd bind there. Green energy threads ghosted faint between the sleeping Nulls and our claimed silo node. The 1.6x efficiency multiplier had been proven under blood pressure yesterday. The exponential scaling foundation was holding solid.
I stopped at Gary's corpse location. The crows scattered with angry caws. His shredded tee flapped in the wind like a pathetic grave flag, cricket bat splinters scattered around him like funeral flowers for an idiot.
"Lesson etched," I said, my voice ice cold and carrying through the maze's echo. "Panic fractures stealth. Stealth fractures, the horde multiplies. The horde multiplies, and you feed them while screaming. Any questions?"
Paige whimpered, small and broken. "Jack, he just... he broke so fast."
"He questioned direct orders. He grabbed loot like a panic-stupid amateur. He alerted twelve Shamblers to our position." The truth was brutal, but necessary. "These chains don't carry dead weight. Either your labor value proves itself, or the open world starves you out there."
Travis's massive chest heaved as he nodded grimly. "Rules saved our asses, boss. Gary fucked himself."
Helen exhaled a long drag, her voice raspy from decades of smoking. "Triage accepts casualties. Cold calculus keeps the living breathing. That kid Boyd needs vitamins down in Level 2, not sentiment over corpses."
"Approved." I logged the micro-function silently. Boyd would get vitamins from the scavenged med packs Helen had been hoarding.
Miller spat tobacco juice, his jowls twitching with barely concealed resentment. "Twenty years on the force, we had procedures. Chain of command. This Wild West bullshit you're running—"
"Your procedures turned into zombies. Your precious chain of command fed itself." I cut him off sharp. "My rules hold this concrete together. Adapt to them or join Gary in the dirt."
His loyalty crashed another 2% down to 3%. A live bomb visibly ticking in my HUD.
Ronnie's gap-toothed grin split wide with defiance. "Grit respects the cold, boss. These beautiful idiots learned real fast yesterday."
Sal patted his toolbox in that steady way of his. "Generator's heart is pulsing strong. Lights are holding. The empire breathes."
"Perimeter's secure. Back to work." I dismissed the crew, but Paige lingered, trembling.
"Jack, do the rules stick this cold? Always?" Her voice carried traces of that corporate polish, but it was cracking completely now.
"Always unbroken. The chains survive." There was no softness in my delivery. She needed steel spine, not comfort. "Housekeeping duty, Level 1. Those blood buckets need rotation. Move."
She fled back to her corner position, raw hands gripping the mop handle with white-knuckle intensity. Her loyalty wobbled at 38% but held. The corporate shell was shedding slowly. The apocalypse was forging brutal replacements.
Noon brought the first major System unlock. "Node assessment." I tapped my temple to activate the full Warlord's Appraisal sweep of our claimed silo. A massive blue hologram unfolded before my eyes. This wasn't just floating stat cards anymore. This was the full Dominion Map expansion I'd been waiting for.
TERRITORY CLAIMED: FOUNDRY SILO - SECTOR 1 - NODE 1 OF 10
The Risk board overlay snapped into crisp, reality-wide focus. Sector 1 pulsed in dominant orange around our 5-acre mill perimeter. The surrounding sectors ghosted faint in my vision: Sector 2 to the north showed suburbs and a hospital, the future Committee territory marked in blue. Sector 3 to the west displayed the highway interchange where the 101s bikers would stake their claim in red. Sector 4 to the east held the tech park that Validus Corporation would seize in white. Sector 5 to the south showed downtown, but it was shrouded in Patient Zero's impenetrable black fog.
But now the detail sharpened brutally clear. Resource nodes blinked with orange potential across the entire map. Gas Station Tier 1 to the west, only 3 miles away. Hardware Store Tier 1 to the north, 5 miles out. Hospital Tier 2 to the northeast, 8 miles distant. Power Plant Tier 3 far off at 15 miles. Each node pulsed with countdown timers displaying their spawn events. "SPAWN EVENT: GAS STATION - 6 DAYS."
The Labor Chain visualization crystallized perfectly. Green energy threads connected Paige, Travis, Helen, Sal, Ronnie, and Miller to the central silo node. A floating efficiency percentage hovered above them all: 142% OUTPUT - 6 NULLS CHAINED.
"Fuck me sideways," Ronnie breathed, catching the blue glow reflection in her welding mask. "Boss, your eyes just went full Terminator blue."
My Appraisal reflex scanned her automatically: LOYALTY 78% - LABOR VALUE BLUE SCAVENGER - COMBAT POTENTIAL MEDIUM.
"System upgrade. Territory mapping is now active." I dismissed the glow casually, but internally I was cataloging this massive tactical advantage. In the first timeline, the Dominion Map hadn't unlocked until Chapter 5, after the Hardware Store raid. This regression was creating butterfly effects, accelerating my schedule. Had Gary's early death triggered the advanced unlock? Was the System adapting to regressor variables?
No time for philosophy spirals. I seized the advantage immediately.
"Sal, generator status report."
"Seventy percent capacity, boss. Boyd's running copper wire miracles down there in the dark. We'll hit full power in two days, guaranteed."
"Ronnie, scrap metal inventory."
"Enough rebar to weld three more choke barriers solid. Maybe some spike strips if we get creative and nasty with it."
"Helen, medical supplies count."
"One week of antibiotics, two weeks of bandages, one morphine shot for a single traumatic injury. Triage priorities only from here on out."
"Travis, heavy lift capacity assessment."
He flexed unconsciously, those massive biceps bulging. "Stacked forty blocks yesterday, boss. I can double that today, easy."
"Paige, housekeeping efficiency report."
She hesitated, then spoke stronger than before. "Level 1 bunks are sanitized. Blood buckets rotated on schedule. Water rations distributed to every station. I can... I can handle more tasks if you need."
Her loyalty ticked up to 40%. The corporate shell was shedding faster now.
"Miller." I waited. He spat tobacco instead of answering. "Sledgehammer productivity yesterday."
A gruff mutter: "Adequate."
My Appraisal detailed the grim reality: LOYALTY 3% - BREAKING POINT 4 DAYS - MUTINY RISK CRITICAL.
Not yet. I still needed his muscle through the next node raid. Mutiny management would come post-Gas Station.
The afternoon brought escalating Killbox reinforcement work. Our concrete maze walls climbed to waist height with brutal geometric precision, the funnel of death narrowing with each passing hour. Ronnie welded scrap rebar into spike strips at choke point three, sparks showering in orange cascades. Travis wrestled fresh concrete mix drums solo, veins popping along his protein-carved physique like a living statue. Sal finished snaking cables through Level 2, and suddenly the generator's roar became thunder shaking our foundation. Sodium flood lights blazed brilliant across the Killbox.
"POWER ONLINE!" Sal's shout echoed up from the shaft depths.
Boyd's vent humming shifted into perfect machine sync with the generator's heartbeat. "Generator stable. Lights holding strong. Good girl..." His whisper-soft machinery love carried up the vents.
Helen lit a real cigarette now, not just the unlit ritual. "Power means refrigeration. Those antibiotics will last months now instead of days. Medical bay is viable."
"Level 2, southwest corner. Set up your triage station there." I logged the micro-approval.
Paige mopped through Level 1 barracks with systematic efficiency, her corporate training finally pivoting to embrace the filth. She found a crude carving on one bunk wall: "Atlanta Safe Zone?" An echo of first timeline survivor desperation. An unintended Easter egg. Previous silo occupants had failed here before my regression. My Appraisal pinpointed their corpse locations in Level 3: three skeletons sealed in the Command Deck, starvation deaths before the first horde ever arrived.
"Jack, what does this carving mean?" Paige traced the letters with one finger.
"Dead hope." The truth was flat and final. "Atlanta burned in Week 1 of the outbreak. That was carved by the corpses sealed in Level 3."
She went ghost pale. "There are... there are bodies here? In this place?"
"I cleaned Level 3 yesterday before you all arrived. Just skeletons now. The Foundry is mine, not theirs."
"Did they... did they suffer?"
"Starvation is slow. Much worse than being torn apart by the horde fast." No sugarcoating. "The chains keep you fed, Paige. Remember what happened to the Atlanta failures."
Her loyalty wobbled but held at 40%. Fear motivation was proving effective in the short term.
Dusk brought perimeter test number two. Miller swung his sledgehammer lazy and resentful, his every strike bleeding contempt. His loyalty sat at 3%, blinking critical red in my HUD. Mutiny vector calculations ran automatically in my mind: Days until betrayal - 4. Optimal disposal timing - post Gas Station raid, when his utility would be maxed and the threat could be eliminated.
But my instincts screamed an early warning.
"Miller, take the northwest barrier position." I pointed to a distant solo post.
"The fuck does northwest need—"
"Move. Now." The authority cracked through my command. He slouched toward his destination, muttering Grimes delusions under his breath.
My Appraisal tracked him in real time: BREAKING POINT 4 DAYS - MUTINY COORDINATION NONE - ISOLATED.
Travis lumbered close, chugging a protein shake. "Boss, Miller's been shit-talking you. I heard him by his cruiser at midnight saying you're just some 'data nerd pussy' running this whole operation wrong."
"Noted. Keep your distance from him going forward. Mutiny spreads like infection."
"You want me to... handle it?" Those massive fists flexed with eager violence.
"Not yet. We need him for the Gas Station raid first. Utility before disposal." Pro gamer cold efficiency. Travis's loyalty spiked to 75% from the direct trust I'd shown him.
Ronnie spat as she approached. "Miller's a ticking bomb, boss. My grit instincts say cut your losses early on this one."
"Calculated risk. He's got four days of breathing room."
"Your empire, your rules. I'm just saying, bombs explode at random times." Her gap-toothed grin carried a serious edge now.
Helen's raspy voice cut through the cigarette smoke. "Triage recommends preemptive amputation. Gangrene spreads to healthy tissue if you wait."
"Recommendation logged. Final decision is mine." I dismissed the trio, but the mental note crystallized solid: crew consensus against Miller was unanimous now. Disposal post-raid had shifted from optional to essential.
Sunset bled orange across the Killbox walls, painting them blood-vivid. The Dominion Map pulsed with an update in my vision: FOUNDRY PROTOCOL - DAY -177 - SECTOR 1: 1/10 NODES - EFFICIENCY 142%
The Gas Station node blinked its countdown: SPAWN EVENT: 5 DAYS
Night brought an unexpected discovery. In the northeast corner of Level 1 barracks, half-buried under concrete rubble, I found crude red spray paint: "DON'T DEAD OPEN INSIDE"
Easter egg jackpot. In the first timeline, I'd never found this location. I'd been too busy securing the perimeter for Committee first contact. This regression timeline shift was revealing hidden areas I'd missed before.
"Sal, get a crowbar on this rubble."
Ten minutes of grunting work exposed a blast door underneath. Thick Cold War vintage steel with a manual wheel lock rusted and seized solid. Boyd emerged from the vents, curious, his grease-stained fingers tracing the mechanism with fascination.
"Sealed tight. Inner chamber is pressure locked." His whisper carried technical precision. "Hydraulics are dead. I'll need generator power for an override."
"Can you crack it open?"
Those dark eyes calculated invisible machine code. "Two days. Maybe less."
"Approved. Make it priority after Gas Station prep work." This could be a hidden cache. Weapons, rations, maybe even serum components. Could this be Chrono-Cache item number four? Boyd's circuit board trigger arriving early?
Helen approached, her cigarette glow cutting through the darkness. "Sealed blast doors mean something valuable inside... or something dangerous that got trapped."
"Risk accepted. Curiosity rewards the prepared." I dismissed her concern, but privately I ran calculations: 70% chance of valuable cache, 30% chance of trapped Shambler nest. Acceptable gambit odds.
Miller watched from a distance, his jowls twitching with suspicion. His loyalty dipped another percent to 2%. We were approaching critical threshold.
Midnight brought the final perimeter check. The exhausted crew crashed hard into Level 1 bunks on concrete that felt like stone. Boyd nested in his vents with the generator hum as his lullaby. Miller isolated himself by his cruiser, muttering defeat spirals into the night air. Helen set up her medical bay triage station with methodical precision. Ronnie shared her contraband flask in low circles, defusing lingering tension with dark humor. Sal performed his ritual toolbox pat while humming Zeppelin as he faded toward sleep. Travis's protein crash sent his massive frame into snoring thunder. Paige huddled in her corner, nail-biting and trembling, but adapting slowly to this new brutal reality.
I stood alone at the Killbox center, Reaper's Fang ritual-cleaned and gleaming under the harsh sodium floods. The Dominion Map overlay pulsed with full detail now in my vision: every resource node, every efficiency thread, every countdown timer ticking merciless toward the future. Timeline knowledge combined with System upgrades equaled exponential advantage compounding with each passing day.
Gary's corpse lay crow-picked fifty yards away, a grim memorial to panic. The rules had been etched in blood and made permanent. The chains had proven their utility under pressure. The mutiny vector had been calculated with disposal ready. The empire's foundation was iron-forged on Day 3.
Apocalypse clock: 177 days remaining.
Gas Station raid: 5 days out.
Miller's optimal disposal window: 4 days and closing.
I was a pro gamer dropped among noobs. And this timeline? This timeline was absolutely mine.
The Territory Update materialized in blue-glow command format:
FOUNDRY PROTOCOL - DAY -177
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
SECTOR 1 (JACK) █░░░░░░░░░ 1/10 Nodes
SECTOR 2 (UNCLAIMED) ░░░░░░░░░░ 0/10 Nodes
SECTOR 3 (UNCLAIMED) ░░░░░░░░░░ 0/10 Nodes
SECTOR 4 (UNCLAIMED) ░░░░░░░░░░ 0/10 Nodes
SECTOR 5 (FOG OF WAR) ????? [PATIENT ZERO]
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Next Resource Node Spawn: 5 Days (Gas Station)
Labor Chain Efficiency: 142% (6 Nulls)
Mutiny Risk: CRITICAL (Miller - 2%)
Dawn of Day 4 broke weak through the mill windows. Coffee sludge rations were distributed alongside cracked protein bars turning to dust. Paige adapted to her housekeeping duties with systematic efficiency, her corporate training finally pivoting to serve survival. Travis's bulk stacked blocks at double yesterday's pace, veins carved into promises of violence. Helen's triage station preserved antibiotics in the new refrigeration. Sal maintained the generator with his steady toolbox ritual. Ronnie welded spike strips with vicious creativity. Boyd whispered machine code calculations at the sealed blast door. Miller swung his sledgehammer lazy and isolated, a visible bomb still ticking down.
The empire's concrete veins pulsed stronger with each passing hour. The Fallout Wasteland throne was rising, forged in rust and blood. Sector 1 was claimed in iron. Nine more nodes waited for conquest. Miller's disposal countdown stood at 3 days.
Reaper's Fang thirsted for its nanotube upgrade. The Gas Station scrap pile held the Chrono-Cache trigger, waiting patient for my arrival.
The rules of the game had been carved bone-deep and made permanent:
Panic dies. Chains survive. Empire conquers.
FOUNDRY PROTOCOL - DAY -177
SECTOR 1 (JACK) █░░░░░░░░░ 1/10 Nodes
Next Spawn: Gas Station - 5 Days
Labor Efficiency: 142%