Author - Story is going forward, slowly but it is, doing my best honestly not a lot of TLOU fanfics that dont follow Joel, Ellie etc. Maybe my story will inspire a better author to write a TLOU which will then lead to more people making them so I can have more good TLOU fanficts to read (my master plan. My genius is unparalleled. Also forgot to mention the main story started around March and its like mid april now, dont worry he wont stay 11 for like 80 chapters.
By the time most kids were groaning through their third math module, I was already nefariously plotting how to disappear while rubbing my hands together like a cartoon villain of skipping school and work.
School had been the usual circus of bored eyes and recycled propaganda. The topic of the day was "Community Obedience and You," featuring grainy slides of smiling FEDRA officers handing out rations to children who definitely weren't starving. I slipped out between slides three and four, right when the room lights dimmed for the projector. No one noticed. No one ever did.
Work detail was just as easy to dodge. A few mumbled excuses, a redirected clipboard, and I was free.
My feet carried me through alleys I'd mapped a hundred times, past cracked drainpipes and half-scorched fences, until I reached the entrance to my hidden paradise, as I descended to the all-too-familiar abandoned, I decided this is the best place to use the second summon token.
[Use Summon Token?]
Yes.
[Pick a summon]
1-2 level - Beggar/Scavenger
Warning! Summoning higher levels requires achieving level 10, with each 10 levels you get the ability to summon higher tiers.
Huh, good to know, so I need 4 more levels. Wonder if at level 90 do I get pet clicker that I can command? Probably not a good idea but would be funny to spawn one in that fuckers bedroom. the one that keeps using my dad like a servant in the officer. Winston whatever-the-fuck name.
[Summoning Initiating...][Assign Narrative (Optional)]
I thought for a bit before I muttered, barely above a whisper: "They were found squatting in a derelict dockside building. I smuggled them in through an old maintenance duct under the east wall. Gave them a deal: silence, work, and protection. In return, they don't ask questions. No FEDRA. No records."
[Narrative Assigned. Parameters Accepted.]
[Summoning Complete.]
The air warped. The glow was faint — barely more than a pulse behind the eyes — but the effect was always the same. A quiet hum of wrongness, followed by five very human silhouettes fading into place.
Five new people stood there in the gloom, blinking like they'd woken from deep, messy dreams.
The first was a woman in her mid-forties, favouring one leg as she adjusted her coat. Sharp eyes, sharper tongue by the look of her. Her face was lean, hard in a way that said she'd learned too many lessons too late. "You the one running this?" she asked, already sceptical.
"Yeah," I said. "Name?"
"Elsie," she replied flatly. "Don't expect me to babysit anyone."
Noted.
Next came a wiry guy who couldn't seem to stand still. Early twenties. Shaggy hair, oversized jacket, jittering fingers. He looked like someone who used to run messages and barely outran something once. "Donny," he said, eyes flitting to every shadow. "You, uh… got any smokes?"
"No," I deadpanned. "Next?"
The third figure was nearly silent, barely more than a presence. She was maybe late thirties, angular and alert, eyes scanning the ceiling, walls, my hands, then my face — all in one long blink. "Marta," she said, voice low. "You brought us in. That makes you responsible."
"Charming," I muttered.
Then came Kev.
Mid-fifties. Thick-armed, broad-shouldered, and wearing half a mechanic's toolkit strapped to a belt that looked like it used to belong to a lawn chair. He will get along great with Rusty I feel. His left eye was clouded over with old scar tissue, but the right one gleamed. "You got any engines down here?" he asked, voice deep and booming. "I don't fix feelings, but I can make a generator purr."
"Just crates and trauma," I said.
Kev laughed. "Even better."
Finally, a girl stepped forward. Fifteen at most. Hair tied back in a messy knot, face streaked with old soot. Her expression was wide-eyed and open, but the way she watched me — no, read me — felt surgical.
"I'm Tasha," she said sweetly. "This place smells like old people and secrets."
"Well I smell shit, piss and depression in this sewer."
Yep. That one was going to be a problem.
I took a breath and straightened up.
"Listen close," I began. "You were never registered in the QZ. You never went through a checkpoint or made contact with outside patrols. I found you in an old building, but if something I didn't pick you up from a building, I don't know your last names, and if FEDRA asks, we've never met."
They were all listening. Mostly.
"You'll be taken to a secure location. You'll have shelter, food, work. But there are rules. You talk about this to anyone, I ghost you. You run your own side game, I bury you in a wall. Got it?"
Nods. Slow, uneven. Donny looked the least convinced. Marta was already halfway into calculating how to escape if needed. Kev was too relaxed. Elsie looked like she'd make a good enforcer if bribed.
Tasha just smiled, which was kind of disturbing not going to lie. Doesn't matter she's like 15, she creeps me out, oh system what kind of bullshit did you throw my way now.
"Good," I said. "Follow me."
They moved without complaint, their footfalls echoing behind mine as we made our way to the warehouse. One by one, they stepped into the belly of the beast, my secret, my operation, my gamble.
[Relationship Menu: 5 New Entries Registered]Updating...
Elsie: Wary-Assertive
Donny: Anxious-Compliant
Marta: Guarded-Calculating
Kev: Easygoing-Neutral
Tasha: Cheerful-Disturbing
Five new variables.
Let's see how long before one of them breaks something — or someone.
Also can I get a refund on Tasha?
System? Please.
After like an hour later, the warehouse loomed like a sleeping colossus as we emerged from the tunnel, 5 sets of footsteps trailing behind me, the new summons casting long shadows in the flickering light of my busted flashlight. The rusted metal door gave way with its usual clunk-thud, echoing through the cavernous interior like a warning shot.
Rusty was already moving near the main aisle, hunched over a pile of tools, muttering something unrepeatable about wiring and "crates full of false promises."
He looked up when he heard the door.
Paused.
Straightened.
Frowned.
"What the hell," he said flatly, staring at the growing crowd behind me. "Did you adopt an entire shelter?"
I held up a hand. "Ye something to that idea, but first calm. These are our new... associates."
One of the new summons — Kev, gave him a two-fingered salute. "Nice digs."
"Rusty," I said quickly, "this is Elsie, Donny, Marta, Kev, and Tasha. They're joining the operation. Long story. I'll brief you later."
Rusty didn't say anything for a long beat. He just looked at each of them like he was solving a complicated math problem with a missing variable and an extra landmine. Then his gaze settled on Tasha — the youngest — and his brow furrowed.
"Fifteen?" he asked quietly.
"She's sharper than she looks," I muttered. And disturbing to fuck, she hasn't let go of that weird smile since and her gaze never left the back of my head.
"I hope so," Rusty grunted. "Cause this place chews dull people up quick."
Elsie stepped forward, arms crossed. "So you're the old man in the shadows."
"Been called worse," Rusty said. "You got any experience, or just attitude?"
"Both."
"Good."
Introductions went about as smoothly as you could expect from 5 strangers and a guy with trust issues the size of a supply crate. Kev immediately began asking about electrical access, seems I got another maniac with electrocution fetish. Donny hovered near the doorway like a stray cat waiting for a noise to bolt. Marta said nothing but made a full visual sweep of the ceiling, corners, vents, the works.
I cleared my throat and stepped up onto an overturned crate.
"Alright, ground rules."
That got their attention.
"First, no wandering. You leave the warehouse without me or without damn good reason, you don't come back."
They all nodded, some slower than others. Marta didn't blink.
"Second, red-sealed crates are off limits. They're marked for a reason. You open one, you risk triggering something ugly. Ask Rusty."
Rusty gave a small grunt of agreement, still eyeing the lot like a parole officer grading a failed escape attempt.
"Third," I said, voice quieter now, but full of steel. "Don't you fucking dare touch that welded door on the right wall. Ever. No matter what you hear. No matter what it promises. You try to open it, I'll lock you outside myself."
That finally got a ripple. Donny's mouth opened and closed like he wanted to ask but thought better of it. Tasha looked at the wall with a strange, tilted smile, god please no. Elsie narrowed her eyes, good, the sceptical ones survive longest.
I continued. "Sleeping quarters, such as they are, will be set along the northeast corner, its the least cluttered also if any of you can open the janitor closet there I will give you a can of fresh-er beef. But for now you'll pick your spots, but don't crowd each other. I don't care what you do off-hours, as long as it's not dumb."
Marta spoke up, her voice level. "You keep food here?"
"We're working on it," I said. "There'll be a ration schedule. And if you waste water, I make you lick the damp tetanus covered pipes"
Kev raised an eyebrow. "You joking?"
"Nope." I said cheerfully.
He grinned. "Fair enough."
I mentally called up the Relationship Menu again as the group began to disperse, each picking corners to claim or inspect. I saw new traits flicker into place — likes, dislikes, tolerance levels, authority respect.
Elsie respected strength but hated micromanagement.
Donny wanted approval but feared confrontation.
Marta obeyed logic over emotion.
Kev craved utility. Purpose.
Tasha? Tasha was a puzzle. Every input came back scrambled. Either she was hiding something very well, or her heads scrambled and doesn't know what she wants herself.
I watched them settle in like foreign pieces dropped into an already cracked puzzle.
Rusty came up beside me after a few minutes, arms crossed. "You sure about this?"
"Nope," I said.
"You're in deep now."
"I was already drowning. This is just... building a raft. From trash but a raft nonetheless."
He let out a sharp laugh and gave me a pat on the back that almost knocked me off the crate.
"Then let's hope your raft doesn't leak."
Too late for that. But I wasn't about to say it out loud.
I didn't sleep much that night. The kind of insomnia that isn't about nightmares or cold floors — just too much motion behind the eyes. My brain refused to shut up.
By next early morning, the warehouse had turned into something halfway between a bunker and a halfway house. Crates reorganized. New bodies occupying space. Elsie had claimed a stack of mats by the northeast pipe wall and was already shouting at Donny to "stop touching everything like it's a damn museum." Marta slept light — if she even slept — her blanket barely creased when I passed her.
Kev was already tinkering with the busted lamp Rusty found last week, now wired into something that buzzed like an angry wasp. Tasha had moved into the shadows near the storage side, eerily quiet. She watched me from the other side like she was studying a an escaped chimp from the zoo.
Rusty handed me a cup of hot... something. I think it was boiled weed water and a hint of actual coffee. I didn't ask.
"You sure know how to throw a housewarming," he muttered, nodding toward the new residents.
"Five new mouths to feed, two that might kill me in my sleep, and a girl who probably sees ghosts. Yeah, we're thriving."
Rusty just grinned into his mug. "You'll adjust."
Maybe. Maybe not.
After checking inventory, which now included an updated crate list, one functioning desk lamp, and exactly 3.5 units of edible material, I made my way back topside. The tunnel crawl felt tighter now. Not physically, but mentally. Like the walls were watching. Like the warehouse wasn't a secret anymore, just a waiting problem.
The sun was already burning through the Boston haze by the time I hit the street. Normal people noises drifted by. Ration stall chatter. Someone shouting at a dog. FEDRA boots clunking through the checkpoint behind me.
I moved fast. I had to keep the rhythm believable.
School was duller than usual. Civics was just a recycled speech about patriotism. Math was missing the last two pages of the assignment. I copied random numbers into the workbook to make it look like effort.
Lia caught up to me by the time we hit our lunch slot if you can call it lunch when it's two biscuits and an off-brand vitamin chew.
She leaned in, whispered just loud enough. "You look wired."
"Bad dreams. Or maybe I saw your aunt smile."
"She did smile. When the power came back on."
"Thats one for the history books." I deadpanned.
We chewed in silence for a bit before she jabbed a thumb toward the Spine, the old rail skeleton near the admin sector. "That's twice this week you've dipped early. You know your dad's gonna notice."
I glanced away, voice casual. "I had extra shift work."
"Since when do you take extra anything?"
I shrugged.
She gave me a long look. Not hostile, but suspicious. Like she was running numbers in her head and didn't like the total.
"You're up to something."
"Always."
"Is it dangerous?"
"No more than usual."
She stared harder. Then, quietly, "If you need help... or backup, I can cover. Just don't get stupid and disappear. You're not subtle."
"You saying I'm sloppy?"
"I'm saying you're an 11-year-old with a chronic 'mysterious behavior' problem."
I flashed her a grin. "Good thing you're not easily distracted."
"Are you bribing me with gossip again?"
"No, this time I'll owe you."
She blinked. "You never say that."
"Exactly. That's how you know I mean it."
Lia didn't push further. But she didn't stop watching either.
By late afternoon, work was over, the guards rotated, and I ducked back through my usual crawlspace exit. I waited five full minutes before slipping into the tunnels making sure no one followed.
But someone had.
I felt it first, that slight shift in air behind me, the faintest shuffle.
I ducked low, spun and there he was.
The old mad drunkard Joe.
Old, wiry, and somehow looking like a drunk scarecrow that had learned stealth.
He froze.
I stared.
He scratched at his patched coat. "You move like a rat, kid."
"You followed me?"
"Not on purpose. Just... saw you slip past the guard post again. Curiosity kills cats, you know."
"And gets old men beaten to death with a crowbar by 11 year olds in a sewer."
Joe smiled, wide and a little too knowing. "Relax. Didn't see anything. Just saw you go down here. Thought maybe you were stealing something worth selling."
I stared him down.
He stared back.
Then added, "Look, I'm not a snitch. Just old and bored. You need a lookout? I got time."
I exhaled slowly. Tension bleeding out in controlled drips.
Not today.
But maybe soon.
"Just don't follow me next time," I muttered, stepping past him.
"Scout's honor."
"You were never a scout."
"Exactly. Lower expectations."
This motherfu-
Sigh
I didn't say it out loud, but the idea was already forming. Joe wasn't a liability — not if I shaped the story right. Not if I controlled the access, and to control it I need someone watching it and guarding it in the future.
And he was watching.
Joe didn't follow me again. Not that day.
But the damage — or opportunity — had already been seeded.
I spent the walk back down into the sewer rehearsing what I'd say if he showed up again. Not the truth, obviously. That was never on the table. But something plausible. Something crooked enough to be believable in this world, but far enough from the real mechanics to keep the system buried where it belonged.
The warehouse greeted me like always, a heavy door, the scent of rust and dust, and faint arguing from the east wing. Kev and Donny were trying to reassemble a fan using what looked like coat hangers and wire stripped from an old radio. Rusty supervised with a bottle cap stuck in his teeth like a cigar.
"Where've you been?" he asked without looking.
"School. Work. almost beating an old man with a crowbar."
He snorted. "Back to normal, then."
I stepped inside and did a quick check. Marta was inventorying the marked crates again — she'd taken a shine to cataloguing like it was therapy. Elsie had constructed a proper divider out of stacked panels and tarp, carving out a private corner like a true queen of boundaries. Tasha, as usual, wasn't where I expected her. I spotted her minutes later sitting halfway up a rafter ledge with a notebook made from salvaged pages. How she got there I have no idea.
Still watching everything.
Still silent. With that smile of hers
They were settling. And that made things... complicated.
I was about to check the north side of storage again when I heard it. Not footsteps. Not voices. Just the subtle drag of worn boots over concrete, echoing off the tunnel entrance.
Joe.
I met him halfway down the corridor. He looked less scrappy than usual, maybe because he'd actually tried to wash his hands for once. He held them up — not like surrender, more like invitation.
"You told me not to follow. So I waited instead."
I crossed my arms. "You said you wanted to help."
"I meant it."
"Why?"
He rubbed his jaw, fingers skimming the scar just under his chin. "Back at the beginning when some of the smaller zones first fell apart, I knew a guy who ran a crew. Smart, careful. Made it a year longer than the rest of us. You remind me of him, only smaller and more annoying and ugly."
"That's comforting, but also go eat shit"
He chuckled. "I didn't come down here to blackmail you, kid. I'm not FEDRA. I'm not Firefly. I'm just… me. If you're building something, whatever it is, I want in."
I didn't answer right away.
Instead, I stepped aside and motioned toward the door.
"I'll show you the place. That's it. No questions, no wandering, no touching."
He nodded solemnly, but I caught the gleam in his eye. Curiosity. Hunger. And something else, that weird old-man intuition that you can't fake.
I led him inside.
Told him about the main work area, the rest area and didint really need to tell him about the fuck ton of crates here, showed him the small room in the corner and the still unopened janitor room near the rest area. The left room is still mostly untouched by us but its in bigger mess, with crates, rafters and others just littered around making an unstable maze, when he asked about the room to the right, the one with welded doors I told him not to even try and think about opening it.
With introductions being mostly quick. Rusty looked Joe up and down once and just grunted, "Another stray, huh?" Like he is any better, meanwhile Kev nodded. Elsie barely glanced up from her corner. Marta actually offered him a seat, rare generosity.
Only Tasha frowned when he walked in.
She tilted her head and whispered, "That one doesn't walk like the others."
Whatever that meant.
Joe took it in stride, settling on an overturned crate and lighting a cigarette he definitely wasn't supposed to have. "Nice setup," he muttered, admiring the makeshift bunks, the work corner, the light rigs duct-taped into semi-reliability.
I gave him the same ground rules I gave the others.
"No opening red crates."
"No touching the welded door."
"No wandering past the marked lines without clearance."
He raised an eyebrow. "You've got clearance zones now?"
I looked him dead in the eye. "Yes." Mostly the unstable places or trying and climbing the rusty rafters and other places that didn't have stairs or ladder, something miss creepy seemed to ignore, well if she falls and dies maybe I will get a refund?
He didn't laugh.
Didn't mock.
Just nodded once, flicked ash into a tin cup, and said, "Good."
Later that evening, when things calmed down and the rest were busy squabbling over a found tin of beans, I pulled open the Relationship Menu.
Sure enough, a new entry had appeared.
[Joe – Suspicion: Low | Loyalty: Conditional | Curiosity: High]
Not ideal.
But workable.
Joe adjusted quicker than I expected.
By the second day, he was already working with Rusty to identify safer walk paths around unstable shelving. He didn't ask questions about where the others came from, or what they were doing there, which made me like him more and trust him less — if that makes sense. People who ask too much are dangerous. But people who ask nothing? Those are the ones already making their own assumptions.
Meanwhile, the others were settling into their respective zones like mismatched puzzle pieces, not a perfect fit, but close enough.
Elsie had taken control of the rest area entirely. She dragged discarded mattress frames together, reinforced them with crate lids, and stacked rags into something resembling communal bedding. She ruled that corner with a sharp tongue and a sharper broom handle she now used as a cane.
Kev and Donny were building a "tool wall" more rusted junk than actual tools, but the intent was there. Kev had also rigged an old radio to catch static frequencies. It didn't work, but that didn't stop him from sitting in front of it every night like it might one day sing again.
Marta preferred corners, always scribbling something into a scavenged binder. Notes, crate logs, or personal ramblings, I didn't pry. But she'd become the unofficial quartermaster. Even I started asking her what was where.
Tasha had taken to shadowing me. Not openly. She just had a knack for popping up wherever I was. Reading me. Reading the others. She asked no questions, but every once in a while, she'd say something like:
"You lie better when you're tired."
Or:
"You should teach the others how to lie too. You're going to need it."
Yeah. Totally normal fifteen-year-old behaviour. Though I guess she could be a spy or someone who runs intelligence? She already has the creepy vibe to it.
The warehouse — our warehouse was slowly becoming something bigger. A nest of ghosts and drifters with barely aligned priorities, stitched together with duct tape, paranoia, and something resembling coffee.
And it was working.
Kinda.
One morning, I stood in the work zone with Joe and Rusty, looking over a rough sketched layout of the crate zones we'd cracked and logged. Joe had added his own notes smart ones. He spotted patterns even I'd missed. Like how the crates labelled with Eastern Bloc markings tended to have better condition contents, or how certain sealed bins had subtle sound differences when tapped.
"You ever think of opening a business?" I asked.
He grinned through his stubble. "I did. Once. Got shut down by people with better guns."
"Nice. I'm aiming to beat them on both counts."
Rusty leaned over the sketch. "We need better lighting. I found a junction box near the southeast wall. Power line's dead, but if we get a car battery or something…"
I jotted it down. Add that to the list: find old battery that doesn't explode on contact.
Later that night, while rationing some semi-melted jerky and flatbread with Kev, Marta spoke up quietly.
"Do you have a plan, Cal?"
I froze.
Then pretended not to.
"A plan for what?"
"For all this," she said, gesturing to the sleeping forms, the flickering corner light, the new stacked storage wall.
"For us."
The warehouse was quiet.
I didn't answer right away.
Instead, I stood up, walked to the southern wall, and tapped one of the sealed crates gently with the crowbar.
Then I said, "The plan is to survive. Everything else is just... extra."
Marta didn't reply. But she nodded once.
And went back to her notes.
The foundation was there now — not just for a base, but for something bigger. But bigger meant louder. And louder meant people noticing.
Which meant I had to be smarter than the lies I was stacking like bricks.
Lia arrived later than expected, boots clicking down in the distance like a ticking clock in a quiet room. I was crouched near the old south eastern breaker panel, trying to figure out if the wiring was fried or just pretending to be. I heard the door groan open and took a moment to prepare myself.
The past couple of days had been chaos layered over barely-controlled chaos. I had five new half-strangers in my hideout, a warehouse with more mystery than oxygen, and now the one person I actually trusted to help me navigate it all was finally arriving to meet the new crew.
About time.
Lia descended with the posture of someone already suspicious. She didn't say anything at first. Just let her eyes roam across the wide floor of the warehouse: over the makeshift rest zone where we'd stacked bedding, past the dim glow of Rusty's modified lantern, and finally over the cluster of new arrivals who were half-working, half-loitering in their own little pockets of unease.
"I'm gone for two days," she said flatly, "and now we're running a halfway house?"
I gave her the weakest smile I had left. "Refugee relocation program. Underground division."
"Funny." Her eyes narrowed. "They don't look like smugglers or traders."
"They're not," I said. "They're workers. Survivors. I found them east of the docks, holed up in some rundown place. Said they were trying to get into the QZ. I… offered them a job. Help me run salvage, earn a cut, stay quiet."
She stared at me.
I stared back, trying not to blink too much. How in the hell can she stay unblinking like that for so long, god damn.
"And how'd they get in?" she asked. "No one's that lucky."
I gestured vaguely. "Don't know, didn't really ask but Donny said something about being sneaky so no going through the gates."
Technically true, if you squint hard enough.
Lia folded her arms. She didn't buy it completely, but she also didn't press. Instead, she turned her full attention to the new faces.
Kev noticed her first. Mid-fifties, grease still in his beard, voice like gravel in a blender. "Well now," he said with a broad grin. "Didn't know the boss had a boss."
Lia's brows twitched upward. "And you are?"
"Kev. Mechanic. Mostly retired. Still know which end of a wrench to hold."
"He is also an electrocution masochist like Rusty" I whispered lowly in her ear, which gained me the faintest of lip curls.
Elsie wandered closer, limping just slightly, eyes sharp as nails. "That your girlfriend?" she asked me bluntly, jerking a thumb at Lia.
Lia's expression didn't flinch, but I caught the flash in her eyes.
"No," I said, voice bone-dry. "She's the one who keeps me from screwing this whole place sideways."
Marta nodded once from her post near the storage crates, quiet and watchful, as always. Donny gave a jerky wave and immediately knocked over an empty can, flinching when it rattled.
But it was Tasha who caught everyone's attention.
She was perched on a crate like she'd been born there, one leg dangling, head tilted slightly. Big eyes. Calm. Observant in that unnerving, too-quiet way.
She stared at Lia. Flatly. No challenge, just... reading her.
Lia, to her credit, stared right back. Not hostile. Not soft either. Just one long, unblinking evaluation. Like two cats passing in a hallway.
Fuck now there's 2 unblinking robots in here.
No words. No movement. Just tension, thick enough to slice.
After a long pause, Tasha gave a slow blink, then hopped off the crate and wandered off toward the rest zone.
Lia turned to me, voice low. "She always like that?"
"Define 'like that.'"
"Creepy. Like she's memorizing my face for a future threat assessment."
"She's fifteen. Probably just doesn't like being bossed around."
"She'll love me, then."
I smirked and gave a sarcastic little bow. "Welcome to the family."
"I want hazard pay," she muttered, stepping around a bucket.
I let her settle in while the others got back to half-work. Rusty emerged a few minutes later, gave her a nod, and handed her a chipped mug of something warm and vaguely tea-flavored. "We're glad you're here," he said. "We were getting dangerously close to functional before you showed up."
"You're welcome," she said. "Now let's see if we can keep this from collapsing under the weight of teenage drama and bad wiring."
Fair warning: we weren't off to a great start on either front.
By the time the sun was dipping below whatever passed for a horizon outside, most of the warehouse had quieted into a kind of uneasy rhythm. Crates had been shuffled, a second lamp had been rigged up with fewer sparks than expected, and someone had even managed to find a half-functional camp stove in one of the sealed bins. Rusty called it progress. I called it barely contained fire hazard.
I was making my way around the perimeter again, double-checking the markings we'd put on various crate types and trying to think through which ones we could realistically open next without bringing the ceiling down or unleashing a fun batch of mold-based plagues.
That's when I heard it.
A clatter.
A soft thunk that echoed just a little too loud from the far-right wing. Specifically, the welded door.
I froze. My stomach dropped into my boots.
"Donny!" I barked.
There was the sound of shuffling, then the wide-eyed twenty-something poked his head around the stack of shelving units near the danger zone. "Sorry! Sorry, I was—uh—trying to hang up that busted pipe thing like you said and I… I kinda dropped it. It bounced."
"Bounced where?"
He pointed, sheepishly. "Off that crate and then, uh… into the door."
The welded door. The one I had warned everyone about.
Thud
Oh boy...
I didn't say anything for a second. Just walked—slow and careful—over to the reinforced steel and crouched beside it, pressing my ear against the cold metal.
Nothing.
Then—scratch
Tap… tap…
Then a sound that froze the marrow in my bones.
Click… clickclick…
Faint. From behind the door. Followed by a soft, guttural rasp that trailed off into silence.
I backed away slowly, heart doing kickflips in my chest. The air around the door felt wrong. Heavy.
Donny looked like he wanted to sink into the concrete. "I didn't mean to—"
"I told everyone not to go near this door," I said quietly, voice low but firm. "This isn't just some rusted access hatch. There's something behind it."
Lia and Rusty had joined me by then, both silent. Lia's face had gone pale under the warehouse lighting. "Was that…?"
"Clicker, that bastard didn't die like I prayed it would." I said.
I turned to the group, all gathering near the crate clusters now, sensing the mood shift like wolves smelling rain. "New rule," I said, loud enough for everyone to hear. "No one. No one goes near that door. No cleaning. No stacking boxes next to it. No accidents."
Elsie raised an eyebrow. "What if we hear it scratching again?"
"Then kindly move your ass away from it so you dont hear it. Out of sight, out of mind. Or hearing, whatever. You know what I mean.
Marta gave a small nod from the shadows. Even Tasha looked slightly unnerved.
I paced a few steps, running a hand through my hair. "I don't know what's behind there, and I don't plan on finding out until we have guns that actually fire, explosives, and at least one backup warehouse."
Rusty exhaled slowly. "Might be time we start setting up noise traps. Maybe a bell wire system or something, in case that thing ever does get through."
Lia muttered something under her breath. I caught the word "sealed," but not the rest. Didn't need to.
This place had secrets. Some of them in crates.
Others behind welded doors.
And I'd just been reminded loudly and clearly that not all of them wanted to stay hidden.
After the welded door incident, the mood shifted. Not dramatically. No one ran screaming or refused to sleep. But there was a noticeable… tension. Like the walls had started breathing heavier, and everyone was trying not to notice.
I did what I always did when the anxiety got too loud.
I worked.
The next morning, I woke early and made rounds before anyone else stirred. The crates still stood where we left them. The door was still shut. The faint smell of metal and oil clung to the air like it was stitched into the concrete.
Donny avoided eye contact for most of the day, he looked like a kid who got scolded when he only wanted to get praised for his work. I didn't press. He'd gotten the message the moment that clicking started, and I figured the lingering threat was punishment enough.
Lia showed up mid-morning, boots dragging a bit. Her eyes were tired but sharp. "Brought the list," she said, holding up a torn page from what used to be a textbook. Item names. Trade values. Contacts we could hit up through her aunt's extended web of questionable friends, I would not be surprised if she knew the leader of FEDRA Boston QZ.
We sat by one of the worktables two crates and a box missing its lid and went through everything. Rusty chimed in occasionally from across the room, where he was disassembling a fan blade for parts. Tasha lingered nearby, not listening, but also definitely listening. Kev snored in the corner like an old lawnmower.
"This place is getting full," Lia said eventually, scribbling something next to a jar of expired vitamins. "Too full. You really thinking of keeping all five?"
"Yeah," I said. "For now."
"You can't even feed yourself properly."
"Working on it."
She raised an eyebrow. "That your official business strategy?"
I smirked. "It's more of a long-term gamble built on desperation and light theft."
"Reassuring," she deadpanned.
Still, she didn't press further. Lia understood the value of quiet cooperation. We worked better that way.
By mid-afternoon, the day's effort had produced:
One properly sorted bin of salvaged wiring.
A basic inventory list Lia had started on our more valuable trade goods.
One working flashlight, courtesy of Rusty.
A new pile of Red-Seal crates labelled "NOT WORTH DYING FOR."
Elsie and Marta had taken to organizing rest areas, building proper bedrolls out of old fabric scraps and tarp. Tasha drew chalk lines on the ground rough zones to remind people where to sleep, walk, and not piss.
Kev had managed to rig a water collection tray under one of the ceiling leaks. It wasn't much, but it was something. Better than drinking from rusted pipes and hope.
That night, I took a few minutes to myself.
Sat on the raised concrete ledge near the centre of the warehouse, legs dangling, fingers tracing lines into the dust. It was becoming routine. Almost like… a real setup. Not a good one. Not a safe one. But real.
The problem was, routines are a lie in the apocalypse.
The second you think something's normal, something clicks behind a welded door and reminds you it never was.
I checked the Relationship Menu before bed. Minor fluctuations. Marta had shifted from "Wary" to "Neutral." Donny was still "Anxious." Tasha remained, as ever, "Curious." A terrifying status when applied to a fifteen-year-old with laser eyes.
Rusty was solidly "Loyal." Lia? Somewhere between "Trusted Ally" and "Might Smack You If You Keep Secrets."
Fair enough.
I lay down on my makeshift bedding—two jackets, a tarp, and a stolen pillow—and stared up at the ceiling beams.
A few weeks ago, this was just a dead tunnel. Now it was a base.
It was happening.
And God help me, I was starting to believe it might actually work.