Rifle steady against my chest, pockets heavier than when I'd left.
Behind me, the houses stood silent, looted, offended, and probably relieved.
Genesis floated alongside me, arms crossed so tightly she looked like she might implode.
"I swear,"
she muttered,
"one day your dumb shit luck is going to run out."
I smirked, eyes forward.
"Yeah,"
I said lightly.
"But today's not that day."
The veteran camp came into view a minute later.
Barricades of welded scrap and overturned vehicles formed a jagged perimeter just like I remembered.
Reinforced with sandbags and old road signs that still read things like SCHOOL ZONE and SLOW CHILDREN.
A watchtower rose above it all, cobbled together from scaffolding and prayer, a single silhouette standing guard at the top.
The moment I stepped into the open, a voice barked down from above.
"Hey!"
The veteran leaned over the railing, rifle resting casually against the tower's edge.
"Heard gunshots you alright? Did you manage to find anything useful out there?"
I stopped just short of the gate and looked up.
"Nope,"
I said plainly.
"I cleared all the houses. Area's clean. The fucking bugs and Insects are dead. The are Is safe."
Hearing this he squinted at me, clearly waiting for the but. I sighed and added,
"You can send the civvies in. They can haul back whatever scrap's left."
That made him pause. He glanced back over his shoulder at the camp.
At the cluster of tired faces watching from the fireplace then back down at me.
"…Got it."
A few seconds later, metal groaned as he climbed down the ladder. Chains rattled.
The gate cracked open just enough to let me through before slamming shut again behind me with a final, protective clang.
Inside, the camp smelled like oil, sweat, and boiled disappointment.
As I passed the barricade, the veteran jogged up beside me, slowing to match my pace.
He looked me over, my scuffed boots, bug-stained pants, the faint smear of green ichor on my sleeve, then focused on my face.
"Hey,"
He said, scratching the back of his head.
"You, uh… think you could accompany them? Just in case."
I stopped walking. Turned my head slowly. Met his eyes with the deadest, flattest, most lifeless stare I could muster.
The kind of look usually reserved for expired fish and customer service employees five minutes before closing.
"Look, man,"
I said, voice hollow,
"I just killed my way through overgrown Insects and cockroaches."
Genesis made a soft tsk sound behind me.
"I think,"
I continued,
"That earns me a little rest."
The veteran froze. Then laughed awkwardly. Not the funny kind.
The oh shit, yeah, fair kind. He rubbed the back of his neck, nodding.
"Right. Yeah. That's, yeah. Got it."
He straightened, turned on his heel, and waved toward the huddled survivors waiting near the fireplace.
"Alright!"
He called out.
"Let's go. I'll take point."
A few of them looked relieved. A few looked terrified. All of them moved.
I stayed where I was, watching as they filtered past.
Clutching sacks and makeshift carts, heading back toward the houses I'd already bled for.
Genesis hovered closer, voice smug.
"Congratulations,"
She said.
"You've successfully weaponized exhaustion."
I didn't respond. Instead, I turned toward the watchtower.
The ladder groaned the moment I put weight on it, metal rungs complaining like they'd been holding grudges since before the world ended.
I climbed anyway, slow, deliberate, boots ringing dull clang clang notes up the frame. Halfway up, I could feel the wind more clearly, colder, cleaner, scraping the stink of bug guts off my clothes one layer at a time.
At the top, I pulled myself over the edge and dropped into the busted upp chair held by ductape the veteran had been using.
It creaked. Loudly. Judging me. I sank into it, crossed my legs, and propped my boots on the edge of the railing like I owned the apocalypse.
The rifle rested across my chest, familiar weight, comforting in the way only tools of violence ever were.
Then I reached into my pocket. Cigarettes. Crushed box. Bent corners.
Miraculously still dry. I slid one out, stuck it between my lips, and fished out my lighter.
Click. Nothing. I frowned. Click. Click. Click.
"Oh for fucks sake"
I muttered around the cigarette.
"Now you decide to be a traitor."
Genesis drifted into view, peering down at it.
"Oh no,"
She said sweetly.
"Is your emotional support fire failing you meat sack?"
I ignored her and smacked the lighter against my palm. Hard. Click. Still nothing.
I smacked it again. Harder. Like it owed me money.
"Fucking piece of shit..."
I hissed. Genesis tilted her head.
"Maybe it's tired. You should let it rest. You're very big on rest today after all."
I growled, gave the lighter one final, violent smack and it sparked to life like nothing had ever been wrong. I didn't even question it.
I leaned forward, cupped the flame, lit the cigarette, and inhaled deep. Bad idea.
The smoke burned like regret and poor life choices, scraped my lungs on the way in.
And settled there like it was planning to stay rent-free.
I coughed once, quietly, then forced myself to keep it in out of spite. Exhaled slow.
A thin gray ribbon drifted out into the open air, immediately torn apart by the wind.
"That's the stuff,"
Genesis said.
"Slow suicide. Vintage.Truly original"
I watched the survivors in the distance.
They moved through the houses like ants through a corpse.
Careful, methodical, poking at debris, hauling scrap, dragging twisted metal and half-collapsed furniture into piles.
The houses I'd cleared earlier looked smaller from up here. Less threatening.
Like they'd finally accepted their fate.
Every now and then someone would pause, look around nervously, then keep working.
Good. Fear kept people alive.
I took another drag, this one steadier, and let my shoulders relax for the first time in hours.
From up here, the world felt quieter. Distant. Like all the violence and noise had been shoved a few streets away and told to wait its turn.
Genesis floated beside me, arms uncrossed now, expression unreadable.
"You know,"
She said, softer than before.
"For someone who complains a lot, you do tend to get things done."
I flicked ash off the cigarette, watched it spiral down into nothing.
"Don't get used to it,"
I replied.
"Sets unrealistic expectations."
She smirked. Below us, the camp held. The scavengers worked.
The wind howled low and steady, like it was bored of screaming.
I leaned back in the chair, cigarette glowing faintly in the dusk, rifle warm against my chest.
And kept watch, just another man on a tower, guarding a world that absolutely did not deserve it.
Time passed in the vague, sticky way it always did when nothing was actively trying to kill me. One cigarette turned into two.
Two turned into "why do my lungs feel like sandpaper."
By the third, I was coughing hard enough that Genesis leaned away from me like secondhand smoke might somehow corrupt her code.
"Wow,"
She said dryly.
"You're really committing to the aesthetic. Half-dead, exhausted, and slowly poisoning yourself."
I waved a hand weakly, coughing into my fist.
"Shut up,"
I rasped.
"This is… tactical lung damage."
"Mhm. Very tactical. You sound like a haunted accordion."
By the fourth cigarette, I was drifting.
That weird half-awake, half-asleep state where one eye stays stubbornly open because paranoia refuses to clock out, while the rest of your brain starts powering down.
One eye closed. One eye open. Breathing slow.
Rifle still hugged to my chest like a security blanket, trigger finger on the frame.
The camp noises blurred into background static. Then finally movement.
My open eye focused. The survivors were coming back. Clutching scrap.
Dragging bent metal. Hauling doors, frames, pipes, half-crushed bedframes.
Shopping carts welded to other shopping carts in crimes against engineering.
They funneled through the gate and dumped everything into a growing pile near the center of camp. Metal clanged. Wood thudded. Someone dropped something heavy and swore. That was my cue.
I stood up with a groan, spine popping like it was filing a formal complaint.
I stretched until my shoulders cracked, yawned wide enough to feel my jaw threaten dislocation, and flicked the cigarette bus off the tower.
"Alright,"
I muttered, climbing down.
"Let's see…"
Boots hit the ground. I walked over to the pile, circling it slowly, eyes half-lidded but sharp enough to judge. Twisted bedframes. Rebar. Fence posts. Scrap sheets. Springs. Bolts. Enough rust to give tetanus a boner.
"…yeah,"
I said finally, nodding to myself.
"This'll do."
Genesis floated beside me.
"Oh good,"
She said.
"You remembered."
"Don't sound so surprised."
"I'm shocked. Truly."
I rubbed my face, exhaled tiredly.
"Alright,"
I sighed.
"Time to get to work. No rest for the wicked, huh?"
"For you? A sorry of an excuse of waste of oxygen?"
She replied.
"Absolutely none."