The warehouse was swallowed by the deep indigo of a late autumn evening, the air turning sharp and cold enough to mist the breath. Inside the vast, echoing space, under the feeble glow of a single hanging bulb that threw long, dancing shadows, Michael waited. The scent of damp concrete, diesel fuel, and the faint, metallic tang of rust filled his nostrils, a familiar perfume of transition. He checked the cheap digital watch on his wrist—a little past eight. The time was nearing.
The sudden growl of an engine cut through the silence, headlight beams slicing the darkness outside before a battered van, its bodywork streaked with grime, rumbled into the warehouse. It came to a halt, and from the driver's seat emerged a figure who seemed entirely constructed of wiry tension and nervous energy: Zhang Kai, known in less formal circles as Little Knife. His face was sheened with a film of sweat that caught the weak light, and he moved with the jittery haste of a man performing a task under duress.
"Boss," Zhang Kai greeted, his voice a notch too high. He gestured to the van's open rear doors with a thumb. "Got the stuff. Just like you said."
Michael stepped forward, peering into the vehicle's dim interior. There they were: two small, industrial boilers, their steel surfaces still smudged with soot and grease, and a tangled nest of pipes that gave off a pungent, chemical odor that stung the eyes. Reaching out, Michael placed a hand flat against the side of one boiler. A residual warmth, a ghost of recent operation, seeped into his palm. These hadn't been sitting in a warehouse; they had been ripped, still hot, from their moorings, likely from some clandestine, back-alley refining operation. The sheer speed and audacity of the acquisition sent a thrill of satisfaction through him. This Zhang Kai, for all his thuggish exterior, was undeniably effective.
The man then fumbled in his jacket pocket, retrieving not a phone or a weapon, but two sheets of paper, folded carefully. He handed them over with a reverence usually reserved for holy texts. "The process," he said, his eyes darting. "For the… the black oil. Had a guy write it down. Everything. Temperatures, catalysts, the works."
Michael unfolded the pages. The handwriting was cramped and messy, but the information was there—a step-by-step guide to alchemizing waste plastic and rubber into usable diesel. It was a recipe for independence, for power. A slow smile spread across Michael's face. Having a crew like this on the modern side of things, a group that operated in the shadows with such efficiency, was an advantage he hadn't fully appreciated until this moment. His decision to formalize this arrangement under the banner of the "Sweetwater Gulch Trading Company" felt increasingly inspired. He would be a legitimate businessman, of sorts. They would pay taxes. Zhang Kai and his men would be… rehabilitated. Productive members of a very peculiar supply chain. The alternative, of course, involved the trunk of a car and a one-way trip to the Wasteland, a fact he knew needed no verbal reinforcement.
"Excellent," Michael murmured, carefully tucking the precious papers into his own coat. He eyed the boilers again, then turned his gaze back to Zhang Kai, who was shifting his weight from foot to foot. A thought occurred to him, casual yet pointed. "Tell me, Manager Zhang. This equipment. It wasn't… liberated without the previous owner's consent, was it?"
The effect was instantaneous. Zhang Kai flinched as if struck, his entire body stiffening. "No! Boss, no! We paid! Good money!" he blurted out, the words tumbling over each other. A wave of genuine indignation seemed to wash over him. "An absolute fortune for this scrap! Six thousand! The thieving bastards wanted ten, can you believe it? Haggled them down, but it's still a robbery." He looked genuinely pained, the financial insult momentarily overshadowing his fear. He'd fronted the cash himself, undoubtedly expecting to never see it again.
Michael said nothing for a moment, letting the anxiety build. He watched the play of emotions on the other man's face—fear, resentment, a touch of betrayal. Then, with a deliberate slowness, he pulled out his phone. A few taps, a soft chime from Zhang Kai's pocket, and the matter was settled.
Zhang Kai stared at his screen, his jaw going slack. The display showed a transfer—not six thousand, but six thousand one hundred. He looked up, confusion warring with disbelief. The man who had once beaten him with a shoe and taken his cash was now… reimbursing him? And adding a bonus?
Michael clapped a hand on his shoulder, the gesture firm, almost paternal. "A job well done, Manager Zhang. But in the future, we do things properly. Invoices. Receipts. For fuel, for meals. Everything. We are a company now." He gave the shoulder a final, approving squeeze. "The extra thousand is for you and the men. Get dinner. Maybe a foot massage. Consider it a company benefit. And don't forget—the other tasks. Registering the company, finding office space. And keep your phone on. A manager must always be available."
Zhang Kai simply nodded, muttering a quiet affirmation before herding his bewildered-looking subordinates back into the van. As the vehicle disappeared into the night, Michael was left alone in the cavernous silence, the weight of his next journey settling upon him.
He walked a slow circuit around the warehouse's perimeter, his boots echoing on the concrete. Through the grimy window of the security booth, he could see the night watchman engrossed in a melodramatic television series on his phone, the world outside forgotten. Satisfied he was unobserved, Michael returned to the core of his operation.
His gaze swept over the payload for this trip, assembled under the harsh fluorescent lights: thirty tons of 525-grade cement in neat, heavy sacks, stacks of PVC pipes, and pallets of other vital materials. It was a significant haul, yet as he surveyed it, a familiar, grinding pressure began to tighten in his chest. The arithmetic of desperation was cruel. Thirty tons of cement? In the modern world, it might build a modest bungalow. For the reconstruction of an entire settlement in the Wasteland, it was a pathetic drop in a very large, very dry bucket. The demand for everything—cement, rebar, piping, agricultural supplies—was astronomical. Each journey through the portal, a frantic race against its unpredictable duration, allowed for a transfer of perhaps a hundred tons. It was like trying to fill an ocean with a teacup.
A wild, fleeting fantasy surfaced in his mind: a train. A single, solid train, running on a sealed track, could solve everything. But the logistics of acquiring a functioning locomotive, laying track, securing a terminal—it was a dream of another lifetime. The sheer impracticality of it was suffocating. The only sliver of light was the prospect of the black oil process; if it worked, the relentless need to import diesel would vanish.
With a sigh, he pushed the thoughts aside. One problem at a time. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his latest acquisition: a pair of oversized, ridiculously dark sunglasses, the price tag still stuck to the lens. A ten-dollar purchase from a market stall. He slipped them on, the world plunging into a manageable twilight. No more squeezing his eyes shut against the blinding light of the portal. It was a small innovation, but it was his.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, he focused his will. The air in the center of the warehouse began to shimmer, to distort. The familiar sensation of reality tearing open prickled along his skin. A doorway of pure, brilliant light erupted into being, its intensity now comfortably filtered by the dark lenses. He could watch it happen, could see the shimmering veil between worlds.
Without hesitation, he climbed into the cab of the heavy-duty truck, its trailer laden with the hopes of a town. The engine turned over with a confident roar. He eased his foot onto the accelerator, and the vehicle rolled forward, crossing the threshold into the luminous unknown. The pressure remained, a constant companion, but for now, it was overshadowed by the simple, profound satisfaction of a problem, however small, successfully solved. The sunglasses worked. Sometimes, the simplest solutions were the most elegant.