The loading bay doors creaked open as a cold breeze drifted through the warehouse. Raven stood at the far end, watching forklifts shuffle crates toward their assigned bays. The scent of diesel, cardboard, and chilled air filled the space, mingling with the faint hum of truck engines outside.
It was January 2nd.
"Eight full days left," she muttered. "The world dies at midnight on January 10th."
Her eyes scanned the clipboard in her hand, checking off recent arrivals—generators, food, water, energy drinks, and more. The numbers were starting to look solid.
But supplies, no matter how stacked, were finite. And Raven didn't plan on relying on cans and jerky when society burned.
She needed meat. Real meat. Renewable meat.
The frozen food she'd ordered would last her a while. But what about next month? Next year? If she was going to dominate the new world, she needed a food chain that fed itself.
Chickens. Ducks. Goats. Rabbits. Pigs. Cows. Geese. Turkeys. Maybe even pheasants or quail.
She was thinking through protein yields and breed rates when the system's cold-blue glow sliced across her field of vision.
> [Notice: Sanctuary Livestock Module Activated.]
Domestic animals including poultry, pigs, and cattle may now be introduced.
Animals will be maintained under ideal conditions, including housing, feeding, reproduction, and medical support.
Upon maturation, animals are ethically and cleanly culled.
Processed meat is automatically stored in stasis.
Livestock byproducts (eggs, milk, feathers, hides, bones) will be collected and preserved.
Host may configure harvest rates, breeding quotas, and auto-cull thresholds.
Raven's lips twitched.
"Automated farming and slaughter? Sanctuary just keeps getting better."
She flipped to a fresh page on the back of her clipboard and started jotting:
Chickens (layers and meat)
Ducks
Turkeys
Rabbits
Goats
Cows
Pigs
Geese
Quail, pheasants (maybe)
Everyone else would be starving by February. She'd be making omelets and grilling steak.
"Everyone else is going to be fighting over scraps," she murmured. "I'll be raising ribeye and fried chicken."
She paused, glancing at the map taped to the back wall near the truck dock.
Upstate New York. Agricultural pockets everywhere. Family farms, hobbyist breeders, cash buyers.
She marked a route with her finger, then jogged it back mentally. If she started soon, she could do a circuit and pick up everything she needed in one day.
Raven stepped outside and opened the Ironhowl's tailgate. She laid down thick bedding straw across the floor, secured steel transport cages to the side rails, and filled two basins with water. She'd done this before, back during her scavenging runs after escaping the Blood Raiders.
Crates. Buckets. Blankets. The works.
Once everything was secured, she hit the road—veering north out of Manhattan, past highways still quiet from the pandemic, pushing deeper into New York's wooded farmland.
About an hour later, she found it.
A wide, sprawling property with red barns and fenced paddocks spread across the frozen landscape. The sign out front read:
Boone Ridge Agricultural Stock
She pulled the Ironhowl into the gravel lot. Chickens scattered in front of the tires. A wind chime knocked lazily against a porch beam.
A goat bleated from somewhere nearby.
From inside the barn, a woman stepped out, wiping her hands on a towel, eyes already narrowing as Raven climbed down from the driver's seat.
Raven squared her shoulders.
"Time to buy a food chain."
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