Supply Crates

Inside the Center

Hours had passed since Luke and his 'pack' first encountered each other, though time had long lost its meaning in the black void of the 'Center'.

There was no light. Only darkness that seemed to pulse with breath—like the bowels of a living thing.

Their bodies were breaking down. Muscles ached. Throats burned. Hunger gnawed at their sanity. Still, they pushed forward, step after cautious step. Because here, in this grave of forgotten children, slowing down meant death.

"I can't... see anymore," Caelan murmured, rubbing his raw eyes. "Everything's fading. 

My senses... dulled."

But his grip on his weapon—just a jagged piece of rebar he picked up somewhere in this damned chamber— it remained firm.

Luke didn't answer at first. Instead, he watched Caelan quietly, his outline barely visible in the dark. He lasted longer than I thought. The boy had earned a moment of mercy.

"You've done enough," Luke finally said, voice low. "Rest. We'd be dead by now if not for your vigilance. I'll lead from here."

Behind him, a soft voice whispered.

"It's been nearly twelve hours… trapped in this tomb," said the girl who had once been chained beside him. She was young—no older than thirteen. Brown hair. Shirt like Elarin's, but less stained. In this void, even faces blurred into shadow, but Luke had started to remember her now. The way she hadn't screamed when the beasts first took someone. The way she moved—not quick, but careful.

Her name escaped him.

But her voice was human.

Around them, the 'Center' sang a hymn of horror. Screams—long, drawn-out and cracked like broken violins—echoed through the halls. Bones snapped like twigs. Flesh tore like wet paper. Somewhere, a child was still begging.

But no one was listening.

This is the 'Thinning'.

Luke clenched his teeth. His thoughts grew heavier, darker.

To survive... we may have to do the unspeakable.

Laying everywhere were signs of battle and outcomes of each fight—corpses.

He glanced at the scattered corpses—the ones torn by beast and human alike. He wondered if the blood was still warm. If marrow still clung to those bones.

But no.

No.

He wouldn't become that. Not yet. He'd seen what the gremlin-like children had become—smeared in red, gnawing on arms like dogs. Laughing. Unrecognizable.

He wouldn't descend into madness. Not unless he had to.

Then the silence was broken.

A voice crackled through the static of unseen speakers—mechanical, calm, and clinical:

"All children be advised... Wooden supply crates will now be introduced randomly throughout the Center. Containing water, food, clothing, or weapons. Location will be left to chance. Be further advised: the three classified entities within the Center will now begin active patrol. That is all."

Then came a sound. High-pitched, like a whistle to human ears… but something else to the monsters.

A pulse.

A shriek followed—inhuman, blood-curdling.

"HUUUUUNGRYYYYYY!"

It was not just one voice. It was three. All of them howling in twisted unison.

The walls trembled.

And then—

BOOM.

A crash.

CRACK.

Metal bending. Stone shifting. The beasts had begun to move.

Luke's stomach dropped.

His plan—to skirt the edges, avoiding both the predators and the predatory—had kept them alive. Until now.

But that silence?

Gone.

Now the monsters were hunting.

And everyone was fair game.

He clenched his fist, then made his call.

"EVERYONE. LISTEN—NOW."

The shout was loud. Too loud.

His pack flinched.

But Luke wasn't done.

"NO ONE SPEAK AFTER THIS. NOT A SOUND. MONSTERS ARE ROVING—IF WE MOVE, WE MOVE AS ONE. WE SEARCH FOR THE BOXES. WE DO NOT ENGAGE."

A pause. Then his voice grew colder.

"If you see a beast—scatter. If you see a human—prepare to kill."

No one responded. But they listened.

Because in the last 12 hours, Luke had earned something rare in this hell:

Obedience.

Elarin's lips parted in shock. Even Caelan—barely conscious—blinked in disbelief.

Why would he shout?

Because it wasn't just a command.

It was bait.

The beasts were drawn to noise. To heat. To fear.

By shouting, Luke had painted a target on 

their location—and every other group nearby.

He wasn't just moving his team anymore. He was stirring the hive.

Let the scavengers panic.

Let the beasts chase the bait.

Let the cowards flee into each other's blades.

While his pack weaved between chaos.

It was a gamble.

But survival always was.

Luke inhaled slowly, forcing his fear into submission.

"This is war," he whispered, voice low now. "And in war… you fight fire with fire."

Somewhere in the dark, something wet scraped against stone.

A low growl followed.

The game had begun.

And there would be no pause.

Then the Pack ran.

Not toward salvation. Not toward safety.

But toward a maybe.

Because in the 'Center', luck was often the only thing separating survival from mutilation—life from becoming just another shrieking thing that stalked the shadows in grief and agony.

Luke led them—blind in the black, navigating nothing. His every step was a coin flip.

Until—Elarin suddenly nudged him mid-sprint, fingers flicking to her ear, then forward into the black.

Luke didn't see what she pointed at.

But he nodded without hesitation.

Elarin could hear things others couldn't.

Not just footsteps or breathing—she could 

pick up subtle shifts, the low rattle of a crate being dragged, the distant huff of breath through snarling teeth. She was their ear in the dark.

So the Pack followed her lead.

No one spoke.

Their breathing was shallow. Their feet were light. Every flicker of motion from the darkness brought flinches.

They weren't just wary.

They were hunted.

And they knew it.

The Center didn't reward bravery. It punished mistakes.

But adrenaline kept them moving—fueling 

bodies that should have collapsed hours ago.

Then—suddenly—Caelan saw it.

A faint outline. Jagged, rectangular.

A crate.

Wooden. Just like the voice described.

Hope surged through his chest. And with that hope—impulse.

He broke formation. Darted forward.

Something thudded against his side.

A jolt of pain.

Not sharp—but solid.

Stone.

Years of experience as a mercenary told him immediately: he was attacked.

Not by a beast.

By a human.

Someone else had seen the crate.

Someone else was willing to kill for it.

Humans…

The thought hissed through his mind like a curse.

Behind him, the rest of the Pack arrived—Luke at the front.

He saw Caelan hunched and clutching his side.

Saw the crate.

And even though Luke couldn't see Caelan's face, Caelan could feel Luke's expression in the air around them.

Disappointment. Restraint. Calculation.

Caelan had moved on instinct.

Thirst. Hunger. Cold.

He'd risked everything for a chance at relief.

And Luke understood it.

But understanding didn't mean forgiveness—not now.

Not when other survivors were nearby.

Not when silence was the only thing keeping them alive.

Luke stepped in front of the others, lifting one closed fist. A silent command: Stay alert. Don't move. Watch the dark.

He crouched beside Caelan briefly—just enough to press a hand to his shoulder.

A gesture that meant: I get it.

Then his eyes turned toward the black around the crate.

They're out there.

Other survivors.

Other starving monsters in human skin.

Watching.

Waiting.

And if they attacked now, there'd be no rules.

No hesitation.

Only savagery.

Luke scanned the void—seeing nothing, but feeling everything.

Tension bristled in the air like iron filings drawn to blood.

And somewhere deeper in the maze...a wet breath exhaled.

One of the beasts had caught the scent.