The whispers of the two guards faded into the distance, but the chilling truth they'd revealed hung heavy in the air. The Black Fort Storm had never been a natural disaster. It was a carefully crafted lie, a bloodstained trap set by the fort's remaining forces to lure in clueless scavengers like me. Those who came looking for easy supplies never left—they became resources themselves, their gear, water, and even lives taken to keep the real rulers of the fort alive.
I pressed my back against the cold, cracked concrete wall, forcing my racing heart to slow. Panic would get me killed here. Years of scraping by in the wasteland had taught me that much. Calm, caution, and silence were my only weapons now, aside from the rusted crowbar in my hand.
After confirming the corridor was empty, I moved forward again, sticking to the deepest shadows. The faint glow of firelight grew brighter ahead, casting long, flickering shadows across the ruined walls. I could hear more voices now, rough and loud, mixed with the clink of metal cups and the crackle of burning wood. A small camp was set up in the middle of the collapsed hall, guarded by at least three armed men.
They wore patched leather armor and carried real guns, not just crude melee weapons like mine. Ammunition and backpacks were piled carelessly by the fire, and a few full water bags hung from a nearby nail. It was the kind of wealth I'd only dreamed of as a lowly scavenger.
But it was also a death trap.
I ducked behind a pile of fallen steel beams, my eyes fixed on the supplies. My water bottle was still half-full, and the first-aid kit had eased the pain in my arm, but greed wasn't what drove me. I needed more supplies if I wanted to escape this fort alive and survive the journey back across the wasteland. I couldn't leave empty-handed.
Just as I was weighing my chances, a loud shout cut through the air.
"Who's there?!"
One of the guards by the fire had noticed movement. He stood up, gun raised, his eyes scanning the shadows straight toward me.
My blood turned to ice.
I froze, every muscle tensed. The man took a step forward, finger hovering over the trigger. The other two men by the fire also stood, grabbing their weapons.
I was seconds away from being caught.
There was no time to run, no time to hide.
In one desperate motion, I grabbed a small piece of rubble from beside me and threw it as hard as I could in the opposite direction. The stone clattered against the far wall, echoing loudly in the silent hall.
The guards' heads snapped around instantly.
"Over there!"
The three men rushed toward the noise, guns raised, shouting threats into the darkness.
I didn't hesitate.
I bolted from my hiding spot, sprinted low past the abandoned camp, and snatched one of the full water bags and a small pouch of dried food from the pile. The items disappeared into my backpack in an instant.
Then I ran.
I didn't look back. I just ran through the narrow corridors, jumping over debris and ducking under hanging wires, the sound of angry shouts and gunshots echoing behind me. Bullets hit the walls around me, sending chips of concrete flying.
I didn't stop running until I'd put dozens of twisted corridors between myself and the camp. I collapsed against a wall, gasping for breath, my chest burning. The stolen supplies in my backpack felt heavy and precious.
I had made it. I had stolen from under their noses and escaped.
But I also knew I'd just made myself a target.
They knew someone was inside the fort now. They knew someone had heard their secret.
And they would hunt me down until I was dead.
Somewhere in the dark depths of the Black Fort, a new hunt had begun.
And I was the prey.