Author - Hello, yes I am insomniac, I wrote this when I was supposed to sleep, its like 3 am almost 4am where I am at, yes I am starting to write the next chapter there is nothing you can do about it. Also I dont know why but the formatting keeps on glitching so I have to keep going back to it 2 or 3 times to make sure its good. Anyways, I like where this story is heading (big chapter today sorry) so if you could write reviews/comments or in case of webnovel powerstones id appreciate it, also recommend this story if you could there really arent many the last of us fics (Yes i checked) and the ones that are are mainly about Ellie and are never finished. :)
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The man sat slumped in the chair, head lolling forward, wrists bound tight with a double wrap of rope that had already cut into the skin. His breath came in shallow, wet pulls, the sound of a lung that had seen better days. He'd woken up twice since we dragged him in — both times with Cole driving a fist into his gut before he could say anything clever.
The alleyway house's back room smelled like rust, old oil, and the copper tang of fresh blood. We'd cleared out the workbench and replaced it with a chair in the middle of the floor, a bucket underneath to catch whatever came out of him.
Rusty had closed the door behind us earlier, his voice low and even. "Two questions. Where's your base? Who gave the order?"
The man just spat, the red fleck on the floor catching the lamplight. "Go to hell."
Cole's boot hit the side of his chair, tilting him halfway over. He coughed hard, gagging, as Rusty righted him again.
I crouched in front of him, resting my elbows on my knees. "Been there done that, did you know there's 11 of them and not 7? I'm giving you a chance to go straight to the underworld, we got enough medical supplies to keep you alive for a long, long time, they will keep finding pieces of you for 3 months and I can guarantee you will be alive for at least 2 of those."
No answer. Just that dead-eyed defiance I'd seen before — in scavengers who thought they'd live long enough to regret it, though the fear is still there, hidden but there.
Good.
I pulled my knife from my belt, not fast, not dramatic, ah the gift from Tasha, finally going to see use for its intended purpose and not cutting down ration meat.
The blade caught the dim light. I didn't have to look at Cole or Rusty; they knew the rhythm of this already. Cole held his shoulder. Rusty pulled the man's hand out flat on the armrest.
I pressed the point down on his thigh, slow enough for him to feel every heartbeat of pressure. "Your friends took from me," I said, almost conversational. "They took my people. And I'm not the forgiving type."
The first second broke the fabric and the skin in silence, by the second, he screamed.
Cole's grip didn't loosen. Rusty's expression didn't change.
I didn't shout, didn't need to. Every question came out steady. "How many of you? Who do you answer to? Where's your nest?"
By the time we got our answers, his breathing was ragged, and one eye had swollen shut, he had less teeth less fingernails and fingers in all. He gave up the layout of their base, the number of lookouts, the leader's name — Carter — and the fact they'd hit us because they thought we'd be soft. Easy pickings.
I stood up, wiping the blade on his sleeve. "Guess you were wrong."
He slumped forward, drooling, blood dripping into the bucket. Lia's voice was somewhere behind the door — sharp, tense — asking if we were done.
Cole glanced at me. "What do you want to do with him?"
That's when Donny stepped in. He'd been quiet the whole time, lingering at the edge like he didn't want to be there. His face was pale, jaw tight. Without a word, he walked right past me, past Cole, and stood in front of the prisoner.
The man looked up, dazed. Donny's hand shook once — then steadied as he pulled his own knife.
"You killed Elsie," he said, voice cracking halfway through. Then he slit the man's throat in one clean pull.
Whistle. Damn.
Didn't know he had it in him, they grow up so quickly.
The blood gushed over the front of the prisoner's shirt, gurgling into silence. Donny stepped back, knife hanging at his side, tears streaming down his face.
No one said anything.
Rusty broke the silence with a curt nod toward the door. "We've got what we need."
I looked at Donny, who was still staring at the body. "Then it's time to pay them back."
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Two weeks. That's how long it had been since the interrogation in the back room — since Donny slit that man's throat and the blood spread across the floor like spilled paint.
Nobody talked about it. Not directly. The details lived in the air, thick and unspoken, in the way people moved around me now.
In the alleyway house, conversations where hushed, quieter when I walked into the room. Lia didn't hover like she used to, was too absorbed in her work and re-making trade routes with Alexandra. Even Tasha, was constantly out on the rooftop, memorising everyone's faces even if they looked in our direction. Cole still checked in, but his visits were short, his eyes more watchful than before, more tired and more business than usual, his training has intensified. Joe and Noah in meanwhile are out in QZ gathering more intelligence, more rumours and looking for even more information even now.
And my parents… that was new. Mom still asked if I'd eaten, still fixed my jacket collar when it was crooked, but there was a stiffness in her hands, like she wasn't sure if I'd brush her off. Dad didn't lecture or prod. He just studied me sometimes, the way an officer sizes up a soldier fresh from their first kill.
FEDRA guards had started watching me longer when I passed their checkpoints. It wasn't hostile, not yet — more like they were cataloguing me, wondering where I fit in the unofficial hierarchy of people worth keeping an eye on.
I didn't make it easier for anyone. I moved through the days like I was already halfway to somewhere else, always checking routes, always listening for the wrong kind of rumour.
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Word of what happened to Elsie and others didn't stay contained. The Boston QZ was a sieve for information — rumours leaked faster than clean water. And once people knew, they had opinions.
The first wave was the cautious ones. Meredith cornered me in her workshop, hands on her hips, voice lowered to something almost pleading.
"You don't need to do this yourself, kid. Let other people hand-"
I gave her a look that made her sigh before she even finished speaking. She knew the answer.
Then came my parents. Mom was the first to try. "Callum, I know what you're thinking." Her tone was less of officer's edge, and more of mother's concern. "And it's going to get you — and everyone connected to you — killed. Let it go."
I didn't say anything, just let her words bounce off. Dad tried the quiet approach later that night. "Revenge eats you alive, son, let FEDRA handle it son, they will get your justice done for you."
Even Robert, who'd never exactly been a moral compass, tilted his head when he caught wind of the plan. "It's bad for business," he said, like that might mean something to me.
Before bursting out laughing like a maniac "Who gives a shit, I aint your fucking dad, I know what you'll do and I'm all for it, go get them champ and remember, its not about the things they stole from you. Its about sending a message for those that will want to steal from you in the future."
Whether I was in the Alleyway house, warehouse or anywhere else where my people are I hear the people's voices carried that sharp, brittle edge that comes when grief burns straight into anger. It wasn't just me, the entire place felt like a lung full of smoke.
I caught whispers in corners."…they think they can hit us and walk away?""Hope he finds 'em. Hope he drags them to hell screamin."Even people who normally kept their heads down were suddenly talking about payback like it was the only language they remembered.
Lia and Tasha were leaned over a table near the supply racks, voices low but hot enough to cut glass."They waited for her, Tasha. They knew she'd be out there," Lia said, her hands curling into fists.Tasha's eyes were narrow slits, her tone knife-sharp. "Then we find them first."When they noticed me in the doorway, neither tried to change the subject.
The air was full of metal sounds, clinks, scrapes, the slow, methodical snick of someone reassembling a gun. Rusty had set up a crude workshop in the corner, showing two recruits how to sharpen rebar into jagged spears. Kev was squatting on the floor, giving a final round of duct tape into a makeshift nail grenade.
In their free hours, people didn't talk about rations, or trades, or anything that smelled like normal life. They trained. They patched armour. They trained under the merciless gaze of Cole. The place was alive with a steady rhythm — scrape, tighten, reload, repeat — the heartbeat of a crew preparing to kill.
Nobody wanted to be seen as weak. Not here. Not now.
I hadn't given the order yet, not out loud, but the decision had already settled over the warehouse like dust after a collapse. The idea of letting this go wasn't even in the air anymore, the scouts have the attackers hideout pinpointed on the map, with stealthy surveillance of them day and night.
I opened my system to check on the mission
[New Main Mission Unlocked]Title:Debts in Blood
Objective: Identify, locate, and eliminate the hostile faction responsible for the death of your crew member
.Optional Objectives:
Leave a lasting message to deter future attacks.
Recover enemy supplies and equipment.
Rewards:
+1000 EXP
+3 System Points
+2 Scavenger Rank Credit
Leadership and trade buff (2 weeks)
Unlock: Reputation Menu – Faction Fear Rating
Failure Consequences:
Permanent loss of current Reputation Bonus among your crew.
Increased risk of future attacks.
Note:Some debts are too valuable to pay in coin.
Heh, even the system is out for it.
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People working over a their guns while muttering about how many rounds it would take to "clear the place." Others sharpening knives, the mood had curdled into something dense and hot.
Cole leading a strategy meeting over the crude map the scouts made.
"…we cut them off here…""…don't let them regroup…"Coles tone was like gravel. Joes was colder than the river.
We didn't have silencers. Not that it mattered the plan wasn't to sneak in like ghosts and slip back out without anyone noticing. No, we were going to hit them so hard that even the rats in the sewer would know not to mess with us.
That meant breaking out the best gear we had, which was the stuff from the armoury haul — rifles, carbines, shotguns, Armor.
Someone brought up the obvious problem: Wouldn't FEDRA notice?
I didn't even look up from the table when I answered. "They'll hear we raided the raiders' armoury first. Armor? Bought it ourselves for protection. Simple."
The thing about lying is that you keep it flat, like you're too tired to be inventing anything elaborate.
People believe you more when you sound bored.
The scouting reports had been piling up over the last two days. Cole had them organized into a neat stack, each sheet marked with times, movements, and rough sketches of who was where and their daily routines.
The raiders had a main depot near the fringe of the QZ — or what used to be the fringe before FEDRA shifted patrol lines.
About twenty of them. Two riflemen on the roof in alternating shifts. Gate guards with mismatched weapons. The rest inside, moving crates around or killing time.
Scouts confirmed through rumours and observation that they weren't disciplined fighters — not really. They had routine, but not enough paranoia. They'd gotten used to no one hitting them back.
That was going to change.
We had one big advantage: the tunnels.The excavation team had been working on clearing an old maintenance route in the southern branch, and it came up close — dangerously close — to the depot's rear wall.Not close enough to pop up inside, but close enough to get into position without tripping their lookouts.
Cole spread the map out on the table, tapping the spot with a calloused finger. "We come up here. Two teams. One swings wide to take the roof lookouts. The other hits the gate. We clear the outside fast, then move in." No one argued. They just leaned in closer.
From that moment, the warehouse became a war camp.
Meals were quick and quiet.
The usual noise of scavenging and sorting was replaced by the constant rhythm of maintenance click-clack of rifles being cycled, the soft rasp of blades being sharpened.
The armour pile in the corner went from a disorganized heap to a carefully distributed kit. Everyone got at least something that might stop a round.
The rookies stopped acting like rookies. Even Donny, who was usually all grin and awkwardness, had gone quiet, stripping down his sidearm over and over until it looked like he was trying to memorize every piece.
We drilled in the tunnels at night, using nothing but hand signals. The first time, half the crew bumped into each other or caught their rifles on the walls. By the third run, we could move thirty meters in darkness without a sound.
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The base was quiet in the hours before we moved. Not silent — nothing in our world was ever silent — but heavy. The kind of quiet that presses down on you until the sound of a knife being slid into a sheath feels too loud.
Everywhere I looked, people were busy in the most focused, deliberate way I'd ever seen them. No one wasted movement. Rusty was kneeling over a spread of magazines, checking springs like a surgeon checks a patient's pulse. Cole and Donny were running a length of cloth over the barrel of a rifle, the sharp tang of gun oil cutting through the damp air. Kev was by the wall, crouched low, working a final knot on the strap of his chest rig. Even Tasha, normally full of cutting remarks was quiet, eyes narrowed as she examined the edge of her machete under the yellow glow of the lanterns, a marksman rifle she acquired from somewhere with limited ammo.
We'd been planning this for days, and now it was time to move.
I stood in the middle of it all, gear strapped tight, the armour plates shifting slightly as they are a bit too big for me, I just set the strap tighter over my hoodie to stop it. My pistol rode in a holster at my side. Over my back, the rifle we'd pulled from the right-wing armoury was secured with a sling that still smelled faintly of old canvas and oil.
Cole walked over, the faint creak of his tactical vest announcing him. "Radio checks in two minutes. You sure you want all three fireteams moving?"
"Yes," I said. "If something goes wrong, I want the reinforcements ready to break through without hesitation. Fifteen of them stay in reserve until I give the word."
He nodded once, then turned to bark quiet instructions to the second group — the fifteen that would be our safety net. They were already in armour, helmets strapped, radios clipped to their shoulders, weapons resting against thighs or slung tight. I saw a few of them adjusting chin straps like they were heading into a sports game instead of a possible bloodbath.
The rest of us — twenty-five in total — would be the first wave. Every face was locked in the same grim focus. Most night vision goggles had run out of charge long ago so only few are working and were given to our best, personally selected by Cole, who is also wearing one of them, that man could probably fist fight a bloater and win.
Rusty's voice carried across the room, low and steady: "Radios on." A chorus of faint clicks followed, each one a small confirmation that the net was live.
"First team, with me," Cole said, moving toward the entrance to the tunnel.
I took one last look around the base. A few people who weren't going mostly the too-young, the sick, and the ones who couldn't fight were standing back, watching. Not a single one of them was smiling. One woman raised a hand to her chest and gave me a small nod as I passed. It wasn't blessing or prayer. It was acknowledgment.
We filed into the tunnel two-by-two, rifles slung, boots muted by strips of cloth we'd tied around them earlier. The air grew cooler and wetter the deeper we went, the ceiling dripping in places, the walls narrowing just enough to make the gear on my back feel heavier.
The only sound was breathing and the occasional faint scrape of metal on brick when someone brushed against the wall. Only couple flashlights were on to lead the rest but as soon as we neared the exit, marked by the scouts they were off as to not reveal our position.
Every step forward brought us closer to the exit that our dig team had opened just a week ago — a rusted metal grate that had once led to a storm drain. Now it was our back door into hell.
When we reached it, I signalled for a halt. Cole and I crouched low, sliding the grate open just enough to peer through.
The night outside was still and heavy. The enemy base — an old depot with a collapsed roof in places — sat about thirty meters away, its exterior bathed in a mix of pale moonlight and the dim orange flicker of a nearby barrel fire. Two sentries stood watch, one leaning on his rifle and the other pacing a slow line near the north wall.
The moment hesitation struck me, I opened my system and spent the remaining 6 system points, 2 into strength moving it from 4 to 6, dexterity from 5 to 6 and endurance from 5 to 8.
Cole glanced at me, like he could tell I was hesitating but did something to steel my resolve. I looked toward him and nodded.
We slipped out of the tunnel in absolute silence, the cold night air biting against the sweat that had built under my armour. My boots met dirt and gravel without a sound. The smell of damp earth was mixed with something else — woodsmoke and the faint stench of unwashed bodies drifting from the depot.
Drip
Drip
Drip
Great, its starting to fucking rain.
Two of our best close-quarters fighters — Mark and Sal — ghosted forward, night vision down, hugging the shadows. I watched as Mark slid up behind the pacing sentry, a hand clamping over the man's mouth as his knife punched into the soft space between the ribs. The sentry jerked once, then sagged. Sal caught him under the arms and eased him to the ground like a lover putting someone to bed.
The second sentry never saw it coming. Cole moved in from the blind side, one arm around the man's throat, the other hand wrenching the rifle away. The man made a muffled choking sound that barely carried a meter before he went limp. Cole lowered him, set the rifle aside, and looked back at me. Two fingers up. Clear.
The downpour is already starting, their life blood washing away into the gutter where it belongs.
One by one, the rest of our people emerged from the tunnel, fanning out into pre-planned positions. Kev took up his post behind a stack of rotting pallets to the east. Rusty crouched near a rusted truck chassis, his rifle resting across the hood. Donny, jaw set hard, moved to cover the main entrance with three others.
I crouched low near the north wall, my eyes on the depot's shadowed windows. Faint shapes moved inside — men, weapons slung lazily, no idea what was about to hit them.
Our positioning closed around the depot like a slow noose. Every exit was covered. Every angle of approach was locked down. The air seemed to thicken with the kind of anticipation that makes your fingers itch against the trigger.
In my ear, Cole's voice came through the radio, barely above a whisper. "First wave in position. On your call."
I took a long breath, eyes scanning the perimeter one more time. Every face I saw was locked in, every weapon steady.
The reserve team — our fifteen reinforcements — waited at the tunnel mouth behind us, crouched and listening through their radios, ready to surge forward if I gave the word.
The moment stretched. My heartbeat was loud enough I almost worried someone would hear it.
Then I spoke, my voice low but sharp over the radio: "Mark it. We go in thirty seconds."
A soft ripple of acknowledgments came back — clicks, murmured copies.
I could almost taste the fight coming.
The rain was coming down harder now, a cold, hammering sheet that turned every surface slick and every breath into a cloud of steam. The scent of wet rust and burnt wood carried on the wind, mixing with the faint reek of unwashed bodies drifting from the depot.
"Positions. On my mark."
Tasha was already prone on the flat roof of a derelict shed across from the depot, her marksman rifle resting on a folded tarp to keep it steady. She had maybe 20 rounds, and she wasn't wasting a single one. She then had her pistol and machete and knife.
From where I crouched, I could see her through the rain — eyes narrowed, cheek welded to the stock, every muscle tight with anticipation.
"Kev, Donny — take 10 east wall," Cole ordered over comms. "Rusty take 5, cover north. Cal and 5 others, you're with me for the push, Noah you and 5 others take west. Tasha, shoot only when kill is certain.
First fireteam, ready up."
The depot's yard was open ground littered with trash, scrap metal, and the skeletons of old vehicles stripped down to their frames. A single barrel fire near the front gate burned low. The laughter and occasional shouts carried through the downpour — arrogant in their ignorance.
Cole lifted a hand. Tasha's first shot cracked through the rain. One of the men in the nearest window jerked backward and vanished from sight. A heartbeat later, the second window lit up with muzzle flash, and Rusty returned fire, his shots punching into the wall and sending splinters into the man's face. The guy dropped his weapon and vanished.
That was the mark.
We moved.
Cole and I broke cover first, crossing the open ground low and fast. Kev's team was already skirting the east side, using a collapsed fence for cover. Tasha's shots came steady and deliberate — each one forcing a defender back or dropping them outright. She wasn't just shooting to kill. She was herding them, pushing their attention toward the front so we could close in.
A shout went up inside the depot. A door slammed open. Three men spilled into the yard, one with a shotgun, the others carrying battered rifles.
"Contact, front!" Kev's voice snapped in my ear.
The first man barely had time to level his shotgun before a burst from Rusty's rifle tore a bloody hole through his chest. He fell face-first into the mud, weapon skittering away. The second man got two steps toward cover before Tasha's round punched clean through his collarbone, spinning him with a scream, around in a spray of rain and blood.
The third dove behind an overturned workbench, firing wildly over the top. Bullets chewed into the mud near my feet. I dropped to a knee, raised my rifle, and sent three rounds into the bench's edge. One caught his arm; his weapon clattered to the ground. He tried to crawl away, but Cole was already on him, boot pressing into his back.
"Stay down," Cole growled, rifle pressed to the man's temple. The guy froze, gasping in pain.
The first breach point was a rusted side door halfway along the north wall. It was chained shut from the inside, but Kev had a pair of bolt cutters slung across his back. He moved in with Donny covering, the cutters biting through metal with a sharp snap. The chain fell.
"Breach ready," Kev reported.
"Hold for signal," Cole replied.
Movement inside caught my eye — a shadow crossing the far window. Then another. Not all of them were charging to meet us. Some were falling back, maybe trying to grab better ground inside. That was fine. We'd take the outside first, make them fight for every inch.
Fuck, the rain is getting in my eyes.
As I finally wiped my eyes, I gave the signal.
Kev swung the door open, and the first nail bomb went in — a crude thing, full of nails, glass, and enough powder to turn it into a storm of shrapnel. The explosion was muffled by the walls, but the scream that followed wasn't.
We didn't rush in. Cole's orders were clear: pin them down, control the entrances, and only push when every outside angle was ours.
Tasha shifted targets, covering the rooftop where a defender had just popped up with a scoped hunting rifle. One round to the gut, and he vanished down clutching his stomach, dropping his weapon which clattered down into the yard, someone took it and threw it towards Tasha's direction, a clear intend on using it when running out of ammo
I moved toward the main doors, keeping low behind a stack of warped pallets. Inside, shapes darted past the gaps — I counted at least five, but it was hard to tell in the strobing muzzle flashes and shifting shadows.
"Cal, take left with Kev," Cole ordered. "Rusty, on me. We're squeezing them in."
Kev and I flanked left, hugging the depot wall. A side window exploded outward as someone inside tried to blindfire. Shards of glass rained down, and a round grazed my forearm, tearing cloth but not drawing blood. I ducked, came up, and sent two rounds through the gap. A shout of pain followed, and the rifle inside went silent.
We reached the side door Kev had breached earlier. The air spilling out was thick with smoke — not fire smoke, but the acrid sting of gunpowder and burnt oil. Somewhere inside, something metallic was clanging against the floor.
Kev glanced at me, waiting. I nodded.
We stepped in.
The first thing that hit me was the smell — sweat, gunpowder, rainwater dripping through the broken roof, and something faintly chemical from the scattered tools and oil drums along the walls. The second was the noise — shouts, boots slapping on wet concrete, the metallic snap of someone racking a weapon.
Two men were crouched behind a pile of crates, one firing blindly toward the main doors where Cole's team was pushing, hitting one of our guys in the arm. The other turned toward us too late. Kev's rifle barked twice, and he dropped. The second spun, panic in his eyes, and tried to rush us. I met him halfway, shoulder-checking him into the wall. His head smacked the concrete with a dull thud, and he slid down groaning.
More gunfire erupted from deeper inside, and I could hear Cole's voice on comms — calm, deliberate — moving his team up meter by meter.
Tasha's shots, now rarer cracked from outside, each one punctuating the chaos like a drumbeat.
The defenders weren't breaking yet, but they were falling back into the depot proper. That was fine. Every step they took back was another we gained.
Then I saw them — the seven who weren't soldiers. They were clustered at a makeshift workbench near the far wall: mechanics, fixers, scavengers. Two had pistols, the rest grabbed whatever was in reach — wrenches, hammers, even a length of chain. Their hands were shaking, but their eyes were hard.
One of them — a big guy in a grease-stained jacket — hurled the chain at Kev. It clanged off his chest rig, and the man charged with a wrench raised high. Kev sidestepped, slamming the butt of his rifle into the guy's gut, then cracked it across his back when he doubled over.
The others shouted and surged forward in a messy rush. I fired once, hitting a hand of the guy with a pistol it dropped out of the guys grip. Another swung at me with a hammer, catching my shoulder — the plate held, but it still rattled my teeth. I brought my rifle up like a club, knocking him sideways into a stack of crates.
They weren't trained, but desperation makes people dangerous.
"Cal, Kev, hold that line!" Cole's voice came through, sharp now. "We're in position to breach the main floor. On my count—"
The comms cut briefly under the roar of another nail bomb going off at the front. Screams and shouts followed, the sound bouncing off the depot walls.
Kev looked at me, chest heaving. "They're falling back. We push now, we can box them in."
I nodded, wiping rain from my eyes. The air inside was hotter than outside, thick with gunpowder smoke. Somewhere deeper in, someone was yelling orders, trying to pull their defense together.
Cole's voice returned on comms. "All teams, breach in five. Four. Three. Two…"
We moved.
Through the side hall, past the fallen and the wounded, into the heart of the depot where the real fight waited.
And the second we crossed that threshold, I knew we'd just stepped into something worse.
The depot's main hall was a coffin of noise. Every shot cracked like thunder in the enclosed space, each muzzle flash painting the room in strobe-lit chaos. Rainwater poured through holes in the roof, hissing as it hit hot barrels and scattered sparks from broken machinery.
Cole's voice cut through the comms.
"Push through! Clear it!"
Kev was at my left, rifle up, his breathing harsh and uneven. Ahead, the defenders had formed a loose barricade of crates, steel drums, and overturned tables. They were dug in, firing from behind the mess, shouting at each other over the roar of gunfire.
Rusty was the first to break the stalemate. A molotov sailed from his position, smashing against the barricade. The flames flared high, licking at the rain-dark ceiling beams. One defender screamed as his sleeve caught, dropping his weapon and rolling in the wet to smother it. The barricade's neat firing line dissolved in an instant.
We surged forward.
A man lunged from the side, swinging a pry bar. Kev met him with the muzzle of his rifle, jamming it into the man's ribs before shoving him away. I dropped another with two quick shots, the recoil thudding into my shoulder.
We reached the barricade and vaulted it, boots splashing in pooled rainwater. The floor beyond was slick with oil, the acrid stench stinging my nose.
And then the sound shifted.
Outside, somewhere beyond the depot walls, came the echo of shouts — of panic. Boots on wet pavement, not our boots. The metallic clack of weapons being loaded, not our weapons..
Cole's voice sharpened in my ear, clear urgency in his voice.
"Reserves incoming! East street!"
A voice from inside the depot yelled, "The crew is here!" and the defenders' morale seemed to lift just slightly — even as we cut through them.
Cole didn't hesitate. "Reserve group, intercept! GO! GO!"
The fifteen-strong reserve team had been waiting in the tunnel, their radios crackling to life at the order. They moved out fast, the sound of their boots fading down the tunnel before echoing back in a low, dull rumble.
Inside, we were still pushing.
Two more hostiles went down under from covering fire from outside. Tasha's rifle's sharp crack cut through the muffled roar of the depot, each shot punching through rain and smoke with mechanical precision. She was running low — I knew that sound, the slightly slower pace between shots as she conserved every round.
BANG
FUCK! Andy beside me got something heavy dropped on him from the hole above us.
In exchange, Kev caught one in the thigh and knocked him to the floor with a boot. "Don't kill him!" I called, and Kev just grunted, zip-tying the man's wrists before shoving him out of the firing line.
Through the east wall windows, I caught sight of movement — the reserve team rounding the corner into the street outside the depot, their silhouettes merging with the shadows. And beyond them… civilians.
A woman clutched a child to her chest as she darted into a doorway, slamming it shut. Curtains twitched. A man peered from a window above, then vanished when a stray round shattered the glass. Somewhere farther down, a voice screamed, and the sound of a door being barricaded echoed through the wet night.
The fight spilled toward the loading dock at the depot's far side. The dock doors were open, spilling yellow light into the street. Rain turned the concrete ramp slick, pooling in the cracked asphalt below.
Cole's voice over comms: "Reserve group engaging outside. Keep pressure in here."
We pushed toward the dock. Two defenders in rain-slick coats were crouched behind a forklift, firing toward the street. Kev and I split, taking opposite sides. I leaned around the corner, sighted, and squeezed the trigger twice. One went down hard; the other dropped his rifle and bolted deeper inside.
Behind us, Rusty and Donny moved the wounded to one side, binding hands and keeping weapons well out of reach. There were more than I'd expected — maybe half a dozen still breathing, groaning under the dim flicker of depot lights.
The east-side wall shook with the first burst of automatic fire from the reserves. Outside, the fight was a different kind of chaos — open street, wet pavement reflecting muzzle flashes. The reserves were pushing fast, their gunfire steady, cutting down defenders scrambling for cover.
But the defenders weren't entirely disorganized.
From the shadows of a half-collapsed alley, two with pump shotguns appeared, loosing wild, deafening blasts into the reserves. One man in our second group went down with a scream, clutching his side as another dragged him back.
"Shotgun alley!" someone called, and a molotov arced into the gap, shattering against the brick. Flames whooshed upward, painting the rain in orange. The shotgunners stumbled back, one clutching a burning coat before vanishing into the smoke.
Inside, the depot was almost ours.
The mechanics and fixers had retreated to the upper catwalks, tossing down tools and bolts as crude weapons. One hurled a half-full oil can, which burst on impact, spilling slick black across the floor. Another tried to light a rag-stuffed bottle before Kev's shot sent him sprawling.
We climbed fast. Rain blew in through shattered windows, turning the steel steps slippery. My boots clanged on each one as I reached the top. Two of the mechanics raised their hands before I even leveled my weapon.
"Down. Now."
They didn't argue.
By the time we regrouped on the main floor, the sound outside was different — the sharp chatter of resistance was giving way to shorter, more frantic bursts. The reserves had pushed them back toward the far end of the street.
Cole stepped into the doorway, rain dripping off his hood, and gave the nod.
"It's over."
And in a way, it was.
The defenders who could still walk were disarmed and lined up against the wall, zip-tied and watched closely. The wounded were kept separate — not out of mercy, but so they couldn't grab a weapon if the tide somehow turned.
Civilians were still peering from behind curtains, the pale ovals of their faces catching the flicker of streetlight and fire. Somewhere down the street, a door creaked open, then shut again. No one came to help the ones we'd taken. No one dared.
Rain still fell, washing thin pink rivulets from the depot's steps into the gutter. The air was thick with the mingled scents of burnt oil, wet concrete, and cordite.
The fight had been won, but the street felt hollow.
Cole turned to me, his voice low. "We've got prisoners, supplies, and the depot. But we move fast. We don't know who else heard that fight, FEDRA doesn't really patrol this area but they will arrive here eventually."
I glanced toward the shadows beyond the streetlights, where the night swallowed the ruined city whole.
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The rain was thinning, but the street still steamed with gunpowder and cordite. Every puddle shimmered with muzzle-flash memory, every shadow seemed to hold the echo of someone who had fallen.
We didn't talk much in the first few minutes after the shooting stopped. It was that wired quiet, the kind that follows hard violence — people breathing heavy, weapons still up out of habit, eyes scanning for anything that moved wrong.
Cole started the sweep. "Weapons first. Then bodies. Then we strip the depot."
Rusty and Donny went straight to work, collecting rifles, pistols, and whatever ammo they could pry from the dead and disarmed. Each magazine went into a growing pile near the depot's door, metal clinking wetly against metal. Shotguns with damp wooden stocks, revolvers with half-empty cylinders, scavenged SMGs still warm from use.
Kev passed me with an armful of rifles slung by their straps, rain dripping from the barrels. "These guys weren't short on guns," he muttered. "Short on brains, maybe, but not guns."
Tasha came down from her perch with the marksman rifle and the cradled in her arms, the hunting rifle slung across her back, a little more mud on her than before. She didn't speak, but the faint smirk on her face said enough — every shot she'd taken tonight had landed where it needed to.
Outside, the reserves were moving wounded prisoners into the depot under guard. Some were bleeding freely, others just dazed and pale. They got zip-tied the same as the rest. One guy was still cursing under his breath until Kev casually slammed him against the wall hard enough to shut him up.
The non-fighters — the mechanics and fixers we'd flushed out of the upper catwalks — had been herded into a separate corner. Most of them looked like they'd swallowed glass. One had a wrench still sticking out of his belt, but his hands were trembling too much to use it, though the hate filled eyes didint give me much optimism about redemption.
Cole stood near them, watching, and I knew from the look in his eyes that he was deciding who was going to be useful and who was going to be dead weight.
By now, the civilians had started to edge back out — not close, but enough to watch from a safe distance. Faces half-hidden behind curtains. A couple of kids perched on a second-floor balcony, eyes wide until someone inside yanked them back. One old man stood in a doorway down the street, smoking slow and watching like he'd seen this before.
The street smelled like burnt oil and wet blood. Thin rivulets of red trickled into the gutter, mixing with the rain until they disappeared.
Donny found a crate in the depot's back room stuffed with ration packs, still sealed in vacuum plastic. He held one up with a grin. "Dinner's on them tonight."
We moved fast through the depot, clearing room after room. In a locked office we found a desk drawer full of mismatched ammunition, some loose bills of pre-outbreak currency, and a half-empty bottle of whiskey. Kev pocketed the bottle. "Medicinal use," he said, deadpan.
The mechanics' workbenches were littered with half-assembled weapons, stripped-down rifle parts, and jars of screws and nails. Rusty eyed a few of the better-condition tools like a kid at a candy store.
"Mark what we can use, leave the rest," I said, already making a mental map of where each useful thing was.
We'd been at it maybe twenty minutes when the radio in Cole's hand crackled.
"Got something for you," came the voice of one of the reserve team leaders. "Bringing him in now."
Cole didn't answer. Just looked at me, the faintest edge of a smile twitching his mouth.
The sound reached us first — the wet slap of boots on pavement, the faint grunt of someone being half-dragged and gagged. The reserve team rounded the corner, their silhouettes sharp in the depot's yellow doorway light. Four of them had rifles up. Two were hauling a man between them.
He wasn't small — broad shoulders under a soaked leather jacket, hair plastered to his head from the rain. Blood was running from a cut above his eye, down the side of his face, and into the collar of his jacket. His hands were bound tight in front, the plastic cuffs digging into his wrists.
Even before they shoved him forward into the depot, I knew. The way the remaining prisoners went quiet. The flicker of recognition in their eyes. The way he straightened just enough to meet my gaze even through the pain.
The boss. The one who'd ordered the raid that cost us a man.
They pushed him past the threshold, water dripping onto the depot's cracked floor. He stumbled, caught himself, and then the reserve leader just shoved him again until he was standing in front of Cole and me.
There was a beat of silence. Then the corner of my mouth curled. Kev saw it and mirrored it. Even Tasha, still wiping rain from her scope, let a smirk slip.
Rusty's was less subtle — his grin showed teeth.
"You've had a busy night," I said, voice low enough that only he and my people could hear. "And now it's over."
He didn't even try to answer. Maybe he thought staying silent made him look tough. Maybe he just didn't want to give us the satisfaction. Either way, his eyes didn't leave mine.
I didn't care.
Cole nodded to the reserves. "Get him with the others. Keep him separate from the wounded. He's not dying until we say so."
The man was dragged toward the back wall where the other prisoners sat. They shifted slightly, making space, eyes darting between him and us like they were expecting something bad — and they weren't wrong.
I let my gaze sweep the depot one more time. The piles of captured weapons. The crates of supplies. The prisoners under guard. My people, alive, armed, and standing.
The fight had been loud, messy, and close — but it was ours.
And the debt we'd come to collect was sitting zip-tied against a wall, bleeding in the yellow light.
[System Notification]Main Mission Progress – Debts in Blood
Objective: Identify, locate, and eliminate the hostile faction responsible for the death of your crew member – Target Leader Captured (Optional Completion Path Unlocked)
Optional Objective: Leave a lasting message to deter future attacks – Pending
Optional Objective: Recover enemy supplies and equipment – Completed
The system prompt faded, but the feeling it left didn't. We'd gotten what we came for. Now the question was what to do with it.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The rain stopped sometime in the night, with the dusk approaching, leaving the streets slick and shining under the sodium glow of the old lamps.
We didn't waste time after securing the depot. The decision wasn't made out loud — it didn't need to be. Every single one of us knew this wasn't ending with a quiet walk home.
Prisoners were split into three groups. The wounded fighters went into one — they'd be patched enough to survive the night, but not comfortably, they carried some of the loot back. The non-combat fixers and mechanics were shoved into another corner; they weren't getting a pass just because they didn't pull triggers they also carried some of the loot back and dragging the less abled prisoners. The last group — the ones who'd been armed, caught in the fight, and had no excuse — were the ones we were going to make examples out of right here right now.
Cole gave the nod. "String them up. Lamp posts. Spaced so people have to walk past them one by one, also bring out the chalk write warnings."
Rusty and Kev grabbed the first man by the shoulders, dragging him out into the wet street. His boots skidded on the slick pavement, kicking uselessly against the ground. Behind them, Donny and another reserve followed with two more prisoners, both struggling until Kev jabbed one in the ribs with a rifle butt.
The first lamppost wasn't far from the depot's front. We had rope from their own stores — fitting. It took under a minute to loop it over the crossbar and hoist the first man off the ground. His muffled shouts were swallowed by the night, legs kicking in the air until they stilled into weak twitching.
The second and third went the same way. By the time we reached the street corner, there were plenty of bodies swaying gently under the lamps, shadows stretching across the wet ground like black ribbons.
Locals were watching now. They didn't step closer, didn't say a word, all they saw were heavily armed and armoured people hanging the people that gave them trouble on daily, they didn't look away though. Curtains twitched. Doors stayed bolted. The message was already working.
"Bring the rest," I said, voice low.
The next part happened at the site of the attack — the alley where we'd lost our crew members. The memory of that day was still burned into the brick and concrete. The remaining prisoners were taken there after they offloaded the loot, one by one, and hung them from the pipes and makeshift hooks jutting from the ruined walls.
We weren't rushing. Every knot tied, every body lifted, every creak of rope was deliberate. It wasn't just punishment — it was choreography.
When the last of them was hanging limp, all eyes turned to the leader.
He was still zip-tied, breathing slow, blood drying on his face from earlier. The reserves hauled him over without ceremony, boots scraping on the wet ground. He didn't fight — maybe he was too tired, maybe he knew fighting wouldn't matter.
We'd already found what we needed for the cross — two lengths of scavenged steel pipe bolted together in the depot's workshop. Rusty and Donny planted it in the cracked asphalt while Cole stripped the leader's jacket off. The cold air bit into his bare arms, gooseflesh rising as they pulled them wide against the steel.
Kev and I handled the bindings. No nails — we weren't wasting them. Just lengths of thick wire looped tight around wrists and forearms until it cut skin. His legs were tied to the upright, forcing his weight into his shoulders. Every shift of his body sent a small jolt of pain through him.
The whole thing took minutes, but by the end, he was up there, head slumped forward, breath coming in short bursts.
Tasha stepped past me, giving him a long, cold look before spitting at the ground in front of him. "Should've stayed home."
That was my cue.
I dug out the can of paint we'd taken from the depot earlier. The nozzle hissed as I sprayed the wall just beside his head, the letters big and uneven:
Smile – you could be worse off :)
When I stepped back, I couldn't help it — a quiet chuckle escaped me. It felt good. Not happy good, not even relieved good. Just… right.
Rusty saw it and grinned too. Kev smirked. Even Cole's lips twitched before he looked away. Tasha just gave me a one sided hug from the back and her smile positively feral now with that, oh so familiar insanity in her eyes.
The leader turned his head slightly, eyes half-open, trying to focus on the words beside him. Maybe he got the joke. Maybe he didn't. Either way, it didn't matter — everyone else in this part of the city would.
We didn't linger long after that. The scene was set: bodies swaying under lamp light, the crucifixion at the alley's mouth, the paint still dripping on the wall.
As we moved out, I felt something loosen in my chest. The fight was over. The debt was paid. And for the first time since that night, I was back to myself.
"Let's go," I said, the edge of a grin still in my voice. "We've got dinner waiting."
Mission Complete
Title:Debts in BloodObjective: Identify, locate, and eliminate the hostile faction responsible for the death of your crew member.Optional Objectives:
Leave a lasting message to deter future attacks.
Recover enemy supplies and equipment.Rewards:
+500 EXP
+3 System Points
+1 Scavenger Rank Credit
Unlock: Reputation Menu – Faction Fear RatingFailure Consequences:
Permanent loss of current Reputation Bonus among your crew.
Increased risk of future attacks.