Dawn in Sweetwater Gulch was not merely a transition from night to day; it was a small, daily miracle. The pale, lemony light of the rising sun washed over the collection of makeshift dwellings, burning away the chill of the wasteland night and coaxing the settlement into a vibrant, humming existence. After a night of relative safety and rest, the residents emerged, their faces turned towards the new day with a cautious optimism that was as precious as clean water.
The ritual was always the same. The women of each household, the true engines of the community, stepped out first, clutching new plastic buckets that gleamed garishly in the morning light. These buckets, emblazoned with the cheerful, desperate slogan 'Use Kill-Bug-Treasure! Bugs Don't Die, I Die!', were a bizarre symbol of normalcy. They moved towards the five public taps that stood like metal sentinels outside the three-story building that was the heart of the settlement—the home of their leader, the man they called 'Harry Potter'.
This building was the only one boasting the incredible luxury of internal plumbing. For everyone else, the taps, fed by a deep-well pump that filled a massive tank on the roof, were a marvel that never ceased to inspire awe, especially in newly arrived scavengers. The simple act of turning a handle and receiving a gushing stream of clear, cold water was, in this broken world, a form of magic. The pride the townsfolk felt at this sight was palpable, a shared secret that even the sullen captives from the raider gangs had come to share.
The area around the taps became a bustling, open-air forum. Five queues formed, noisy and chaotic as a market. This was the social hub, where news and gossip were exchanged as briskly as the water was collected. The air filled with the women's loud, raucous laughter and the sharp, affectionate scoldings they hurled at their playing children. The topic of the hour was the unlikely rumored romance between Old Gimpy, the community's cranky, dried-up administrator, and Elsa, the young widow with a trace of bear-blood in her veins who stood a full two heads taller and likely outweighed him by two and a half times. The sheer, hilarious incongruity of the pair fueled speculation that was as inventive as it was ribald, their laughter echoing off the walls of the buildings, a sound as foreign to the wasteland as birdsong.
This cheerful cacophony was suddenly shattered. The main door of the central building burst open and Old Gimpy himself hobbled out, his face a mask of uncharacteristic agitation, all traces of his usual long-suffering patience gone.
A hush fell. The pig-faced woman who had been most enthusiastically detailing her theories froze, her heart sinking. Had their gossip gone too far? Was this the moment he finally snapped?
But Old Gimpy's anger wasn't directed at them. "Clear the way! Move, you chattering magpies, move!" he bellowed, his voice cracking with urgency. "The Master's convoy is returning! They're coming in hot, with wounded! Don't block the path! Medical team! To me! Now! Drop everything and assemble!"
His words had the effect of a stone thrown into a pond. A bucket, freshly filled, slipped from a woman's grasp and hit the hard-packed earth with a hollow crack, spilling its precious contents in a dark, spreading stain. All eyes turned to the woman—a human with a shock of golden hair, the wife of the half-elf, Richard. A wave of collective sympathy washed over the crowd. No one knew if the returning wagons carried her husband among the injured.
Within ten minutes, the sound arrived before the sight: a high, desperate whine of overstressed engines growing rapidly closer. Then, a convoy of vehicles, caked in dust and darker, more ominous stains, hurtled into the settlement's central square. The lead truck, a small, battered pickup, screeched to a halt, its front bumper kissing the stone steps of the main building in a shower of sparks. The vehicles behind it jostled to a stop, one crashing into the next with the crunch of buckling metal, but the minor damage was utterly ignored.
Before the dust had even settled, Michael was out of the cab, yanking open the pickup's rear hatch. The smell that poured out was a physical blow—thick, coppery, and suffused with the sweet-rot stench of infection and death. His voice, hoarse and commanding, cut through the stunned silence. "Don't just stand there gawking! Move! Get them inside! Now! Assist the medics!"
The order unleashed a controlled frenzy. The women who served as the settlement's bartenders and caretakers, their experience from the previous siege still fresh, took charge. They were joined by other women, their earlier gossip forgotten, faces now set in lines of grim purpose. A well-rehearsed triage system swung into action. The wounded, some moaning, some terrifyingly still, were carefully extracted from the vehicles and carried into the building that served as a combination of town hall, barracks, and hospital.
The next three days were a blur of exhausting, heart-wrenching labor. Michael was a constant presence, a pillar around which the frantic activity swirled. His own medical skills were rudimentary at best, limited to barking orders and offering a steadying presence. But that presence was a potent medicine in itself. His mere existence in the midst of the chaos, his refusal to succumb to despair, lent strength to the women cleaning ghastly wounds, stitching torn flesh, and applying precious, scavenged antibiotics.
The critical window was seventy-two hours. The medical team knew that those who survived this period had a fighting chance, even if they would carry the scars, visible and invisible, for the rest of their lives.
On the evening of the third day, Michael made a final, weary round of the makeshift wards on the first and second floors. The air was thick with the smell of antiseptic, blood, and the shallow, ragged breathing of the injured. Finally, dragging a leaden exhaustion in his limbs, he retreated to his office. The clock on the wall showed just past midnight. He had slept in fitful bursts, totaling less than twelve hours since their return.
Fighting the urge to simply lay his head on the desk and surrender to sleep, he picked up the freshly compiled casualty report. The numbers, stark and black on the page, made his breath catch .
His own hand-picked fighters, his core team: eleven dead in the initial fighting. Three more had succumbed to their wounds here. Seven remained in critical care, and of those, at least two would be permanently disabled, their fighting days over.
The 'cannon fodder' volunteers had borne the brunt of the slaughter. One hundred and seventeen killed outright. Thirty-one more who had been dragged back to the trucks only to die during the bone-jarring journey or in the first terrible hours of treatment. Another sixteen would be crippled. That left seventy-eight, who, by surviving the hell of Detroit and paying their bloody dues, had earned the right to call Sweetwater Gulch home. Their loyalty was now beyond question. In a grim, cynical way, their sacrifice had, paradoxically, made his overall force stronger.
Then, the losses from Base 0005. Seven dead, including Captain Liu. One more from his wounds. But here, a sliver of light pierced the gloom. A full twelve of their wounded, against all odds, had pulled through the danger period. None were expected to suffer permanent disability. They would form the nucleus of a new, highly experienced veteran squad.
He set the report down, the weight of the numbers settling deep in his soul. It was a devastating price, but the primary objective, the thawing solution, was secure. The ledger, for now, was balanced.
All he wanted now was the profound, dreamless sleep of the utterly spent. And as he thought of sleep, his mind, with a will of its own, turned to the fox-eared girl, Kaoru. The nights were growing colder. It would be a kindness, a leader's duty even, to ensure she didn't get cold. His 'Harry Potter' persona was, after all, a model of equitable benevolence. Next time, he would extend this charitable concern to the long-legged wolf-girl, Linda.
He was halfway to his feet, a plan forming, when a soft but insistent knock came at his door. He opened it to find Zhang Tiezhu standing there, his face etched with a mixture of hope and fear. Michael didn't need to hear the question.
"Relax," he said, his voice flat with fatigue. "First thing tomorrow morning. We'll go. We'll wake your leader up."
Zhang's mouth opened, no doubt to pour out a torrent of gratitude, but Michael was already moving, a man swept along by a swift current, disappearing down the dimly lit hallway before a single word could be spoken. The night held one more promise he intended to keep.
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