The toxic wind howled outside the town’s crumbling walls as the sun began its descent. In the fading light, the sound of an engine shattered the usual silence. In the distance, a sleek, all-black car emerged—a custom-built armored coupe with tinted windows that hid secrets behind its gaze. Its metal plating, expertly welded and perfectly contoured to the body, hinted at advanced modifications designed to handle the harsh wasteland. Unlike the rusted trucks and beat-up vans common in these parts, this vehicle exuded menace and precision. A robust ram bar—salvaged from pre-war police cruisers—guarded its front, a relic repurposed for survival. As the car approached, swirling dust trailed in its wake, and the town guards watched intently, uncertain of what this arrival might herald.

  As the car approached the gate, it came to a stop. Two guards moved forward as the tinted window rolled down.

  "State your name and business," one guard commanded.

  "My name is James Grayson, and I'm seeking refuge from the toxic storm that's on its way. I'll be on my way as soon as it passes," James replied, his voice calm and confident, his rugged charisma evident in a wry smile.

  James’s face bore a light tan and a rough-hewn quality—a prominent scar stretched from the middle of his left cheek down to his jawline. His hair, dusted with the remnants of the wasteland, was a muddled blend of blond and dark tones. He could be called handsome, though not enough to ever be remembered by most who saw him in passing. What truly set him apart, however, were his eyes—an unnaturally striking Cherenkov, radium blue. Their vivid glow hinted at a secret past, distracting onlookers from the vacant look that sometimes betrayed his inner thoughts.

  The guard’s eyes narrowed with weary suspicion as he scanned James. "What's your gene mod?" he asked.

  James smirked lightly. "Just the eyes. I got them from my parents before the war."

  The guard's expression shifted into one of measured skepticism. "I see," he said slowly. "Splicers like you aren’t looked upon kindly around here." With a curt nod, he added, "That's a three hundred-dollar toll."

  Before James could inquire about which bill was acceptable, the guard cut in, "We only take good old USD. In God we trust."

  Sighing, James reached for his wallet and pulled out the cash. "Here you go," he muttered as the guard waved him through.

  "You're going to want to head over to Fontels Bar," the guard advised. "They've got room and board."

  "Thanks for the intel," James replied, then shifted into gear, driving his sleek, armored car into town.

  As James drove through the shabby town, the structures around him seemed ready to collapse at the slightest breeze. Passing a large, weathered sign reading "Fontels Bar," he parked strategically—its front facing the way he had come, ensuring a quick exit if needed.

  James stepped outof his car. He wore a black, weathered leather jacket—its surface marred by time and trials—over a fitted, dark tactical shirt that accentuated his lean, agile frame. His slim-fit combat pants, loaded with numerous pockets for essential gear, and heavy-duty boots, worn in yet resilient, completed his look. Around his neck, a multipurpose scarf lay ready to double as a face cover or hood when a toxic storm or duststorm hit, while a discreet wristband with hidden compartments secured his small tools. He pulled on a pair of sleek sunglasses to shield his eyes.

  Despite his otherwise unassuming presence, something about his appearance betrayed him. His clothes, surprisingly clean and well-maintained, set him apart from the typical drifter this deep into the wasteland

  He retrieved his bag and a discreet device from the trunk before approaching a nearby SUV marked with the faded letters "GME." With a cautious glance to ensure he wasn’t observed, he affixed the device to the back bumper and stepped inside the bar.

  The interior was a dusty relic, reminiscent of old-west saloons. As James settled in, his thoughts wandered to the world that had been lost. Before the bombs fell, global tensions had reached a boiling point in what came to be known as the Second Cold War. The United Continents of America (UCOA) had been locked in bitter rivalry with the Socialis Republic of Europe (SROE), a conflict sparked when the European Union fully embraced its communist ideology. This move forced the United States to invade Canada and forge a continental alliance across the Americas—a union that held for about forty years under a single flag until that fateful day.

  The devastation did not come as a drawn-out military campaign but in one swift, catastrophic burst, leaving no one unscathed. Even nations like China, which had retreated into isolation after a brutal civil war, were not spared. On the last news station before it went down, he had seen reports that even Africa had been reduced to a nuclear wasteland—a grim testament to the wrath unleashed by a world leader whose ambition led to global ruin.

  In the wake of this sudden collapse, corporate entities, cartels, and remnants of former governments scrambled to seize power, reshaping the shattered world into a patchwork of wary alliances and lawless territories. James’s thoughts were interrupted when the bartender approached and asked, "What’ll it be?"

  "A glass of water is all I need—and perhaps a room," James replied. The bartender handed over the drink and went off to fetch the inn's owner.

  As James sipped his water, his mind shifted back to the task at hand. One of the factions he worked for—a company known as Sentinel Defense Systems (SDS)—controlled a significant portion of the east coast, with its capital located where Norfolk once stood. SDS had contracted him to track down one Ryan Qwincy, a man notorious for leading multiple raids on their warehouses and for killing the son of a high-ranking leader during one such assault. Needless to say, SDS wanted Qwincy alive and were willing to pay a handsome sum for his capture.

  The only complication was that Qwincy had fled into the wasteland formerly known as Virginia. It had taken James three grueling weeks to finally pin him down, but the promise of 100,000 SDS Credits made it worthwhile. With that payout, he could upgrade his car and stock up on the fresh ammunition.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  James looked up to see an older man, about sixty years old, approaching with the bartender in tow. The man spoke, "The name's Fontel. I heard you're looking for a room?"

  "Yes, I'm only staying the night to ride out the toxic storm," James replied in an easygoing tone.

  "That's understandable—several others like you have come for the same reason, so we don't have many rooms left," Fontel said.

  James raised an eyebrow. "No need to put on an act to upcharge me—just tell me the price."

  Fontel smiled wryly. "A direct man, I see. It'll be 150 USD."

  James handed over the cash and received a key. "The second door to the left," Fontel instructed.

  James nodded and took his leave, feeling the weight of many eyes on the back of his head. Something felt off—not just the usual disdain for Splicers, but something deeper, he thought as he made his way to his room.

  Instead of going straight to his room, James scanned his surroundings for anything useful and spotted a window overlooking his car. He knew Ryan was here he had pretty much headed directly here, but James couldn’t decipher the reason. James wasn’t a lightweight; his experience had taught him to never ignore the subtle signs of impending danger. He wouldn’t stick around long—he planned to leave under cover of night during the storm. His car had been built with air scrubbers precisely for situations like these. He’d grab the target and vanish before anyone even knew what hit them.

  With that resolved, James returned to his room and opened the door. The space was shabby and filled with dust—a bed that looked uncomfortable, a nightstand that barely passed muster, and not even a window, just a single light bulb hanging overhead. James hated leaving the comforts of the city and the tamed lands; the wasteland settlements always left a taste of dust in his mouth, both metaphorically and literally.

  He set his bag down and sat on the bed. Opening the bag, he revealed a collection of carefully curated gear. His prized possession was a 1911—a metal-gray pistol with a dark, stained wooden grip. Over 200 years old, it had survived World War I, World War II, the Union War, and even the end of days, yet it still kicked ass. Its design was timeless, though its ammunition was drastically different now. The pistol was loaded with seven rounds of Durasteel armor-piercing ammo—bullets nothing but five inches of armor could stop the round.

  Also tucked inside the bag was an HK416, chambered for 5.56 rounds. Loaded with anti-Splicer rounds that were designed specifically to take out splicers; unlike conventional ammunition, a direct hit would temporarily destabilize a splicer's system, sending them into a coma until their body could recover. Of course, if the shot didn’t kill them outright, it would still be devastating. As for normal humans, James had never seen exactly what happened when they were hit—he assumed they simply died.

  James holstered his pistol at his side and slid on his plate carrier beneath his leather jacket. He then donned his kevlar gloves and began his pre-mission ritual. With meticulous care, he disassembled his cherished 1911, inspecting each component before reassembling it. Everything was set—now he just had to wait.

  Hours had passed since the storm struck, and as the tempest reached its most violent peak, James knew it was time to act. He rose, turned off the lights, and his eyes glowed in the darkness—until he slid on his sunglasses. His vision was unnaturally acute, seeing as clearly as if it were daylight; his eyes needed no extra light.

  Silently, he made his way to the door and slipped out into the hall. Each step was measured until he reached the room where Ryan was holed up. Earlier, James had tracked Ryan's location by intercepting encrypted communications—a rare miscalculation on Ryan's part that left a digital breadcrumb leading directly to this room.

  Waiting until the booming thunder from the storm provided the perfect auditory cover, James kicked down the door as if it were made of tissue paper. However, the scene that greeted him was not what he had anticipated. Ryan was not alone, nor was he unprepared. He was surrounded by a group of five armed men, their eyes as vigilant as his own, clearly waiting for his arrival.

  "Well, well, well, if it isn't the—" Ryan began, but his words were cut short by the staccato burst of James's HK416. In one heartbeat, five shots rang out, tearing through the group before they had a chance to react. Ryan’s eyes widened in disbelief. "H-how—" he stammered.

  "And why would I tell you that?" James replied coolly, his voice steady. "Now, you can either come quietly or end up in a coma. Trust me, the hangover after isn’t fun." It had only taken a millisecond for his enhanced body to see, interpret, and act on the threat—but even James felt a brief flicker of disappointment at the split-second delay in his reaction.

  "As if I'd ever go," Ryan started, only to be interrupted by a sharp pain in his shoulder. Before James could secure him, a heavy fist slammed into his back, sending him crashing into the wall.

  James whirled around, his gaze locking on one of the remaining attackers. The man bore a bruised forehead—a splicer, and not just any splicer, but one with some sort of skin-thickening modification. James knew that while his anti-splicer rounds worked wonders when their serum entered a splicer’s bloodstream, if they couldn’t penetrate the skin, they were no more effective than ordinary bullets.

  In a heartbeat, James was back on his feet with his 1911 in hand. Before he could fire, the attacker threw a wild punch. James blocked the blow with precision—it stung, but he managed. In one fluid motion, he leveled his pistol and fired a Durasteel round straight into the man’s chest. The bullet tore through him, and the assailant collapsed instantly. James grimaced; those rounds were expensive, and this job was spiraling out of control. Without missing a beat, he hoisted Ryan over his shoulder and headed for the door—only to be met by what seemed like half the damn town waiting in the corridor.

  A storm of shouts and rattling boots erupted around him, forcing James to fall back. A thug rushed in from the side, but James pivoted and unleashed a burst from his HK416. The 5.56 rounds tore into the attacker, sending him to the floor in a spray of crimson. In the melee, a second assailant emerged from a side passage, catching James off guard. A sharp crack rang out as a bullet slammed into his shoulder, pain lancing through his body. He ignored the burn, pressing on to protect both himself and his bounty. Two more men charged from opposite ends; James dropped one with a well-placed shot from his 1911, while a brutal elbow strike sent the other crashing into a wall. Amid the chaos, James’s vision narrowed to each target in turn, his enhanced senses detecting the slightest movement in the dim light.

  With the corridor littered with bodies and the sound of more reinforcements echoing from behind, James knew he had to leave. He sprinted toward a narrow window, slamming his shoulder into the glass and shattering it.

  Landing on a heap of debris outside, James cradled his wounded shoulder but hauled Ryan with him. The icy night air and the roar of the toxic storm galvanized him, driving him to limp across the yard toward his car. Each step was powered by adrenaline and the urgent need to escape. At last, he reached his vehicle and heaved Ryan into the back. Sliding behind the wheel, he started the engine and gunned it, screeching out of the settlement.

  Within moments, a black SUV roared to life behind him, joined by a couple more. Gunfire peppered the reinforced plating of James’s car, sparks dancing in the rearview mirror. He gritted his teeth and aimed for the main gate. The flimsy barrier splintered under the car’s momentum, and the SUVs followed close behind. With a grim smile, James thumbed a button on his console. The lead SUV exploded in a blinding fireball, taking two more vehicles with it and obliterating the gate and wall in a single, thunderous blast.

  He probably just signed the death warrant for that settlement, but that’s what they got for being a bunch of cousin-fucking hillbillies, James mused as he sped into the toxic fog. The wind howled around his car, swallowing him in the swirling darkness as he vanished from sight.