The Warehouse District

Ethan Cross glanced at Dr. Chloe, flashing a lazy smile.

"Yeah, it was me."

He slurped up a mouthful of noodles. Her cooking was passable—nothing fancy, but noodles were hard to mess up.

"Found a sniper rifle yesterday while I was out."

He said it as casually as if he'd picked up a new umbrella.

Dr. Chloe's eyes lit up with interest.

"A sniper? You know how to use one?"

"Not just know. I'm pretty damn good at it," Ethan said, pointing to the window.

"Seven shots last night. Seven kills."

There was a trace of pride in his tone.

Men loved showing off their weapons. Always had.

And Ethan had just proven he was the apex predator.

Dr. Chloe looked at him with renewed awe.

"Ethan, you're amazing…"

She cupped her chin in her hands, eyes sparkling.

"Aren't you curious how I know how to use it?" Ethan teased.

Chloe shook her head.

"What's it matter? You could be a murderer or a psycho for all I care."

"I've already chosen to follow you. Beats dying out there."

Ethan nodded, genuinely impressed.

"Smart girl. Not like those idiot women always asking dumb questions."

—

Building 26. Terra Gang Headquarters.

By the time Harold Fang saw the bodies of Vincent and his men, it was already morning.

He'd heard the gunshots the night before. Felt it in his gut—something had gone wrong.

But caution kept him indoors.

Now, staring at the ten mangled corpses half-buried in bloodstained snow, his pupils contracted in rage.

But beneath the fury?

Was fear. Bone-deep.

They were down to nine men now.

Even if they forced the remaining residents to fight, there was no replacing the combat strength they'd lost.

If any of the other buildings made a move now, they were screwed.

"Whoever did this had a rifle. A long-range one. Probably a sniper."

"Judging by the fire rate last night, they've got plenty of ammo too."

Harold's jaw clenched.

His men shifted uncomfortably, eyes darting nervously.

"Boss, what now? Half our guys are dead. Do we keep pushing?"

Harold stared across the lot at Building 25.

"Push with what? Our bare hands?"

"They've got rifles. What the hell are we supposed to do?"

"Run at them with sticks?"

Someone tried to argue.

"But without his snowmobile and supplies, our people won't last more than a few days!"

Harold was silent for a long moment.

Then:

"Tonight… we go back and collect the bodies."

Everyone looked at one another, faces tight with grief and hesitation.

Brothers. Comrades. Gone.

But they said nothing.

Because in the apocalypse, survival trumped everything.

—

Back in Ethan's apartment, he stood from the table.

"I'm heading out."

Dr. Chloe quickly stuffed a bag of chips into her pocket.

Ethan didn't say anything.

He'd stopped hiding the food lately. Left two full crates in the kitchen.

He trusted Chloe—for now.

Unless someone more powerful came along for her to cling to, she wouldn't risk betraying him.

Downstairs, the moment Ethan appeared, the sentries on guard straightened up.

"Morning, Ethan. You heading out?"

Ethan glanced at them—he could see the awe in their eyes.

They respected him now. Feared him, even.

He nodded. > "Hold the line."

He slipped out through the fourth-floor window and looped around toward the garage.

Minutes later, he was on the snowmobile, vanishing into the storm.

Behind him, curtains shifted.

Dozens of eyes watched him go—some in admiration, others in jealousy… a few in predatory silence.

—

Building 21. Wolfpack Crew Headquarters.

Warren King, leader of the gang of twenty-something delinquents, stood at the window, a rust-stained machete resting against the wall beside him.

He watched Ethan ride away, frowning.

"Where the hell is he hiding that bike?"

His second-in-command, Sean Lowe, shrugged.

"No clue. Our guys looked all night—he's got it hidden real good."

Warren crossed his arms.

"I don't care what it takes—we need that snowmobile."

"If we can get out of this death trap, we can scavenge supplies. Recruit. Expand. Build an empire."

Sean nodded, eyes bloodshot.

"Yeah, man. This is our chance. New world, new rules. It's our era."

He stared into the distance, fists clenched.

"But first… get me a damn pack of smokes. I haven't had a cigarette in two weeks. I'm gonna snap."

—

Across Crestview Heights, the leaders of other buildings were also starting to stir.

Ethan Cross wasn't just a wildcard anymore.

He was a threat—because he had firepower.

But he was also an opportunity—because he had transportation.

Some were considering war. Others… diplomacy.

But one thing was certain:

Contact with Ethan was inevitable.

—

Ethan's first stop was a few nearby supermarkets.

No luck.

Most had collapsed or were buried in snow.

Small ones were one-story—completely submerged.

"Unless the snow melts, the only places left are standalones."

"And… warehouses."

Suddenly, he remembered his old job.

To the southwest of the economic district was a massive industrial park.

Back in the day, cheap land had attracted businesses to build warehouses out there.

He'd already cleared the Walmart distribution center, but there were plenty more.

Food, medical supplies, auto parts, toys—anything was possible.

"Might as well take a look."

Ethan spun the snowmobile around and headed southwest.

Ten kilometers.

Twenty minutes later, he arrived.

It was wide open. The buildings here were taller—not buried like the downtown core.

And best of all?

Still untouched.