A Feast for the Fodder

Ethan Cross arrived at the Liberty Hills Shopping Complex in the Bayview Economic District.

As expected, only the rooftop was visible above the snow.

He repeated his usual process—smashed the skylight and lowered himself in using a climbing rope.

Inside, the ruins of a once-bustling consumer paradise greeted him. Stores lined the circular atrium, their windows still displaying designer clothes, luxury shoes, and high-end lifestyle goods.

Now? Worthless.

He looted a few stores with practical supplies—bags, tools, basic gear—and dumped everything into his dimensional storage.

The real prize was in the sublevel supermarket.

After a quick sweep, he descended to the basement level.

Bingo.

Since this mall was far from residential areas, the shelves were still fully stocked.

But the condition of the food?

Absolutely disgusting.

A partial collapse had cracked the roof, letting cold air pour in. Every surface was crusted in frost.

Bags of chips and cookies had frozen into brick-like shapes.

The produce section was a wasteland—no rot, but everything was desiccated, shriveled like paper. Flavorless.

The meat section? Literal blocks of frozen flesh.

Zombie meat.

As for the fish tanks—they'd exploded under the expanding ice.

Forget seafood.

All in all, the food here would've been considered trash in normal times.

Maybe sent to low-tier factories to be repackaged into frozen "meal kits." Maybe.

Ethan shrugged.

"You couldn't pay me to eat this crap."

He didn't even bother putting it into storage.

He had more than enough food for himself. Why lower his standards?

But of course, this wasn't about him.

To the starving neighbors back in Crestview Heights, this was gourmet.

So, Ethan pulled out two large duffel bags and started scooping in wilted cabbage, zombie meat, stale crackers, and bread so waterlogged it had expanded like a sponge.

It didn't take long to fill the bags.

He left the rest.

Maybe it could save some other desperate soul later—not that he cared.

After finishing up, Ethan checked the Rolex on his wrist.

It had been specially modified for extreme cold. Might not be accurate to the second, but it worked.

3:30 PM.

Getting back to Crestview Heights would take another hour or so.

He decided to call it for the day.

There would be more scavenging runs later—plenty of untouched targets. No rush. No competition.

He strapped the duffels onto the snowmobile and headed home.

By the time he reached the edge of Crestview Heights, the sky had darkened to slate gray.

RUMMMMMM

The roar of the engine echoed like a monster's growl through the still neighborhood.

Windows lit up.

Curtains twitched.

Dozens of eyes followed him.

In Building 26, fifteenth floor, a burned, scarred face pressed against the glass.

Harold Fang, the boss of the Terra Gang, squinted at the sleek snowmobile.

His burned half-face made him look even more twisted.

"A damn snow vehicle that actually works... If we had one of those, we could finally leave this hellhole. No more rotten meat."

A large, fat man next to him piped up. "Uncle Harold, back where I'm from, we call that a sled-bike. Like a motorized sled."

Harold didn't care what it was called. He locked eyes on Ethan's ride.

"Whatever it is, I want it. And I'm gonna take it."

And he wasn't the only one thinking that.

Every starving, half-insane survivor watching Ethan had the same thought:

We need that vehicle. We need what he has.

People were cracking from isolation. Dying slowly. They needed a way out.

And Ethan's snowmobile?

It was hope on treads.

Ethan could feel their eyes—hungry, jealous, murderous.

But he also felt the cold metal of his handgun against his ribs… and remembered the dozens of weapons now stashed safely in his vault.

He was untouchable.

He parked in the underground garage behind the building, out of view, and quickly stored the snowmobile in his dimensional space.

Then, duffel bags in hand, he made his way inside.

The bags were heavy. His footprints deep.

And that made the neighbors even more excited—they were literally hanging out of their windows, shouting his name like crazed fans.

Even across the way, in Building 26, Harold Fang's eyes widened.

"Uncle Harold! You think he found food?" the fat man gasped.

"Of course, you idiot! What else would he be carrying—makeup?" Harold barked.

The men behind them leaned in, drooling.

"Food?"

"He found food?"

"Then let's kill him and take it—and the bike!"

But Harold raised a hand.

"Not yet. That's Ethan Cross. He's the one who iced Tony Chen."

"Guy's lethal. Took out half our crew last time."

"And rumor says… he's armed."

"If we're going for it, we do it quiet. Fast. Clean."

Harold was cautious.

Smart.

Between the two buildings was a field of deep snow—charging in was suicide.

Still, not everyone in the gang shared his patience.

A few of the younger thugs were already whispering. Plotting.

"If we wait, he'll be inside. We'll never get a chance."

Knives. Wrenches. Rage.

They slipped out the back door.

Meanwhile, Ethan stepped through the window into the hallway and texted Uncle Ray.

"Back. Come get me."

Not that he needed to say it.

The engine noise had already alerted Uncle Ray, who was sprinting over.

He reached Ethan just as he stepped inside.

Eyes wide.

"Ethan… Holy hell, man. You actually brought back supplies?"

Two huge duffel bags, packed tight.

Uncle Ray was beyond impressed.

"Most people wouldn't survive five minutes out there. You? You made it look easy."

"Guess it's true what they say—some jobs are best left to the professionals."