The heavy machine-gun fire echoing from the brass radio speaker was deafening. It rattled the polished mahogany desk and vibrated through the floorboards of the CEO's office.
Jason gripped the brass microphone hard enough to turn his knuckles white.
"Sarah!" Jason shouted over the deafening noise of the broadcast. "Sarah, talk to me! What happened to the gates?"
The comms crackled wildly. A massive, concussive explosion shook the audio feed so hard the speaker popped. The agonizing sound of thick steel tearing under immense pressure followed instantly. Someone screamed in the background, a raw, wet sound cut brutally short by another burst of automatic fire.
Then, dead static.
The silence in the office hit harder than a physical blow.
Jason's brief, intoxicating moment of victory shattered completely. The adrenaline from surviving the AI swarm vanished, replaced instantly by a cold, terrifying hyper-focus. The Exhausted Architect was gone. The cold, ruthless tactician who had collapsed the old world took over.
He dropped the microphone onto the desk.
Hemingway and O'Malley stepped away from the cracked glass faceplate of Gates's dead proxy body. They saw the shift in Jason's eyes.
"Boss," O'Malley said, his voice tight. "Give the order."
Jason didn't hesitate. He didn't look back at the radio.
"We're going to Detroit," Jason said, his voice flat and hard. "We leave in twenty minutes."
Hughes spun away from Amelia's unconscious body. He looked at Jason like he had lost his mind.
"Twenty minutes?" Hughes stammered, his hands shaking violently as he gestured to the bloody, bullet-riddled office. "Jason, we have no vehicles. We have no fuel. We just walked across the Glass Desert, and we don't have an army to fight a Cartel siege!"
Jason turned slowly. He looked at the massive, green-lit computer console built into Hitler's desk.
"Hitler had an army," Jason said coldly. "Now it's mine."
Jason reached past the radio and flipped the master override switch for the Germania Meat & Power PA system. He grabbed the heavy, gold-plated microphone meant for the dictator's daily broadcasts. He left a smeared, bloody handprint on the polished metal.
He pressed the broadcast button. His voice boomed out over every single loudspeaker in the massive, rusted slaughterhouse. It echoed down the bloody stairwells, across the meat-processing floors, and deep into the chemical drainage pipes.
He didn't give a political speech. He didn't offer a manifesto. He gave them brutal, indisputable facts.
"Listen to me," Jason's voice thundered through the factory. "Adolf Hitler is dead. The machines outside are gone. The furnaces are shutting down."
The roaring sound of the massive green fires in the lower levels was already beginning to die. The silence replacing it was shocking.
"The old rules are over," Jason continued, his voice echoing off the concrete walls. "You are no longer meat. If you can hold a rifle, or drive a truck, or turn a wrench, you work for me now. I am opening the armory. I am opening the food stores. Anyone who wants to leave this slaughterhouse alive, meet me on the main processing floor in five minutes."
Jason released the button. He dropped the microphone.
He looked at Hemingway. "Grab the Commandant's hat."
The big writer didn't ask questions. He walked over to the dead Germania officer, picked up the blood-soaked, stiff-brimmed officer cap from the Persian rug, and shoved it into his belt.
Jason led the crew out of the office. They left the dead AI and the dead dictator bleeding onto the expensive rug.
They took the heavy industrial elevator down to the main processing floor.
The doors hissed open. The stench of rendering fat and old blood hit them instantly, but the heat of the massive green furnaces was already fading.
It was a powder keg.
Hundreds of starving, emaciated workers in filthy gray jumpsuits were crowding the massive, open floor. They were armed with rusted pipes, heavy wrenches, and butcher knives. They formed a massive, angry ring around a dozen heavily armed, veteran Germania guards.
The guards had their rifles raised, their backs against the cold steel of the shut-down conveyor belts. They looked terrified, but their fingers were tight on their triggers. One wrong move, and the floor would turn into a slaughterhouse again.
Jason stepped out of the elevator.
The crowd of workers parted slowly, staring at the American in the bloody coat.
A scarred Germania lieutenant, the highest-ranking officer left on the floor, immediately swung his rifle toward Jason's chest.
"Stop right there!" the lieutenant screamed, his voice cracking. "I heard the broadcast! It's a trick! The Führer is secure in the spire. I don't take orders from an American scavenger!"
Jason didn't stop walking. He didn't raise his hands.
He stopped ten feet from the barrel of the lieutenant's rifle. He stared the man directly in the eyes.
Hemingway stepped out from behind Jason's right shoulder.
The writer didn't say a single word. He reached into his belt, pulled out the dead Commandant's blood-soaked officer cap, and tossed it onto the concrete floor.
The stiff-brimmed hat landed heavily at the lieutenant's boots.
The lieutenant stared at the blood-stained silver skull insignia on the cap. He recognized it instantly. It belonged to the man who controlled the keys to the upper levels. The man who was supposed to be untouchable.
The lieutenant's hands started to shake. He looked from the bloody hat back up to Jason's cold, dead eyes.
He slowly lowered his rifle. He unclipped the heavy ammunition belt from his waist and let it drop to the floor with a loud, heavy clatter.
Then, the lieutenant dropped to his knees in the grease-stained concrete.
The dozen guards behind him immediately lowered their weapons.
The silence on the factory floor lasted for exactly one second. Then, the hundreds of starving workers erupted in a deafening, raw cheer. They slammed their rusted pipes against the steel conveyor belts. The noise was incredible.
Jason didn't smile. He had just acquired an army of a thousand desperate, fiercely loyal men, but they were useless without mobility.
He pointed at the kneeling lieutenant.
"Where is the transport?" Jason demanded over the cheering. "Where are the vehicles?"
An old, soot-stained worker pushed his way past the kneeling guards. He was missing three fingers on his left hand. He pointed a trembling, grease-stained stub toward the very back of the massive facility.
"Sector Four," the old man whispered reverently. "The Führer's Garage. He sealed it a month ago to hoard the diesel. No one goes in."
Jason looked past the crowd. At the far end of the processing floor, set into the thick concrete wall, was a set of massive, sealed steel vault doors. Faded yellow paint marked the metal: SECTOR 4 - RESTRICTED.
"Hughes," Jason snapped. "Open it."
Howard Hughes didn't hesitate. He practically ran toward the vault, pushing through the cheering workers. He pulled a small set of wire cutters and a voltage meter from his pockets.
Hughes knelt in front of the heavy electronic keypad beside the vault doors. He didn't bother trying to guess the code. He smashed the plastic casing of the keypad with the butt of his screwdriver, exposing the thick bundle of wires underneath.
He spliced two wires together. Sparks showered over his hands.
"Bypassing the primary lock," Hughes muttered rapidly, his hands moving in a blur. "Jumping the hydraulic relays. Hold on."
He touched a raw copper wire directly to the exposed steel of the door frame.
A massive blue spark snapped in the air.
A loud, heavy clunk echoed from deep inside the concrete wall. The locking mechanism disengaged.
The massive steel vault doors hissed. A cloud of thick, preserved, unburned diesel fumes rolled out from the crack, smelling like raw power and old-world machinery.
The heavy hydraulic arms slowly pulled the thick steel doors apart.
The fluorescent lights inside the massive garage flickered on, one row at a time, illuminating the cavernous space.
Jason and the crew stepped inside. The workers went dead silent behind them.
It wasn't just a garage. It was a warlord's private armory.
Parked in perfect, pristine rows were a dozen heavy, armor-plated half-tracks. They were painted matte gray, untouched by the war outside. Twin-linked, heavy-caliber flak cannons were mounted on their reinforced flatbeds. Racks of high-explosive ammunition lined the walls, stacked floor to ceiling.
But that wasn't what made Jason stop breathing.
Sitting dead center in the massive vault, resting on reinforced pneumatic jacks, was a monster.
It was a massive, fully repaired armored war-rig. It was twice the size of the truck they had lost in the Glass Desert. The cab was heavily up-armored with thick steel plates and bulletproof glass grids. A heavy, rotating machine-gun turret was bolted directly to the roof.
Hitler had built an escape vehicle for the apocalypse, and he had never gotten the chance to use it.
Jason walked slowly toward the massive steel grille of the war-rig. He ran his hand over the cold, heavy armor plating.
He turned back to his new army.
"Load the half-tracks," Jason ordered, his voice echoing off the concrete walls of the vault. "Grab every bullet, every shell, and every drop of diesel in this room. We're marching on Detroit."