Day sixteen and the rations are smaller.
Del sees it when the first workers come back from distribution. They're staring at what's in their hands. Half portions. Maybe less.
An older worker - gaunt, missing teeth - mutters to no one in particular: "Supply wagons came through yesterday. Saw them from the edge. Full loads going up." He gestures vaguely upward, toward where the ruins get less collapsed. "Nothing comes down here anymore."
Someone else: "Never does when they're running low."
"Not running low. Saw the wagons. Full."
"Then they're keeping it."
Shrug. "Always do."
Del files it away. Up. There's something above the Dregs. Somewhere the ruins are less ruined. Where supply wagons go. Where food goes but doesn't come back down.
The workers don't sound angry about it. Just... stating facts. Water flows downhill. Food flows up. That's how it works.
The warehouse is more crowded than usual. Maybe forty people in line. Too many. Del can already see this is going to be a problem.
He joins the line. His feet are bare - shoes rotted off weeks ago, or maybe he never had them. Can't remember. The stone floor is cold, gritty. Someone ahead of him has a cough that won't stop. Wet, rattling. Each cough sprays droplets Del can't see but knows are there.
The woman with brown eyes is near the front. The possessive man is with her, hand on her shoulder like always. She looks thinner. They all look thinner.
Markov is three people ahead of Del. Gets his ration without comment, examines it briefly - Del sees his jaw tighten slightly, only sign of reaction - walks away. Efficient. Already calculating how to make it last probably.
The overseer distributing today is different from usual. Younger than most overseers, maybe mid-twenties. Nervous-looking. Keeps checking a ledger even though he's just handing out the same thing to everyone. His hands shake slightly when he picks up the bread portions.
Del shuffles forward. The line moves slow. Each person takes their ration, stares at it, moves on. Some eat immediately. Some just stand there holding it like they're not sure what to do.
Del reaches the front. Holds out his hands. They're still scarred from the carries - burns on his palms, blisters that never fully healed.
The overseer drops bread into them. Small, hard. Half the size of yesterday's. The dried meat follows - single strip, thin as paper. Water container handed over, definitely not full. Del can feel the slosh - maybe two-thirds.
"Next."
Del steps aside. Examines the bread. It's not even good bread. Dense, probably days old. But it's food.
The overseer is sweating despite the cold. Eyes darting to the people still in line. Forty people. Not enough rations for forty. Del can see it in his face - he's counting, doing math, realizing the numbers don't work.
Del finds a spot along the wall. Not his usual corner - too far from the warehouse. Just... nearby. Sits. The stone is cold through his torn pants.
The metal chunk is in his pocket. Presses against his hip. Heavy, solid. He touches it briefly through the fabric. Reminder. Of what, he's not entirely sure. Just - something.
Commotion near the distribution area.
Two workers. Both men. One is maybe thirty, gaunt, hollow-eyed. The other is older, forty or fifty maybe. Hard to tell - this place ages people.
The older one is shouting. "You took mine! I saw you - you grabbed two portions - "
The younger one backs up, holding his ration close. "Didn't. This is mine. Fuck off."
"Liar! I watched you - your hands were empty and then you had two - "
"You're seeing things - "
"Give it back!"
The older worker lunges. Grabs at the bread in the younger man's hands. The younger man jerks away. The bread falls.
Hits the ground. Lands in a puddle - leftover from yesterday's rain that seeped through cracks in the ceiling. The bread soaks it up immediately.
Both men freeze. Staring at it.
Then both dive.
Shoving. Grappling. The younger man gets there first, grabs the wet bread. The older man grabs his arm, tries to wrench it away.
"Let go!"
"It's mine!"
They're wrestling now. Clumsy, desperate. Neither has much strength. The crowd backs up. Giving space. Some watching. Some deliberately not watching.
Del stays where he is. Watching. The overseer is watching too. Standing at the distribution table. Not intervening. Just... watching. Waiting.
The wet bread falls again. Both men scramble. The older man gets it this time. Shoves it in his mouth immediately. Trying to eat it before it can be taken.
The younger man screams. Incoherent. Rage and desperation. Tackles the older man.
They hit the ground. Rolling. Punching. The older man is choking, trying to swallow the bread and breathe at the same time. The younger man is hitting his face. Over and over.
Blood. Nose broken probably. The older man coughs. Bread comes up, half-chewed, mixed with blood. Lands on the stone.
The younger man goes for it. The older man grabs his hair. Pulls. The younger man's head snaps back.
Knife appears.
Del doesn't see where it came from. Just - the older man has it now. Pulled from somewhere. Belt maybe. Wrapped cloth handle, metal shard blade.
The younger man doesn't see it. Still trying to get the bread.
The knife goes in. Low, angled up. Into the stomach. Deep.
The younger man's eyes go wide. Mouth opens. Makes a sound - not quite a scream, more like all his air leaving at once.
The knife pulls out. Blood follows. Not spurting - welling. Dark red, almost black. Pouring down his front.
He stumbles back. Hands go to his stomach. Trying to hold it in. Can't. Too much. It's soaking through his fingers, running down his legs.
Falls. Backward. Lands hard. His head hits stone with a crack that echoes.
The older man is on his knees. Knife still in his hand. Looking at the bread on the ground. The wet, blood-soaked, half-chewed bread.
The younger man is gasping. Wet sounds. Choking. His hands are pressed to his stomach but the blood is still coming. Pooling under him. Spreading.
The overseer walks over. Slow. Deliberate. Stops a few feet away from the blood.
"Fighting over rations."
The older man looks up. Face is covered in blood - his own and the other man's. "He came at me. I defended - had to - "
"Both portions confiscated."
The older man stares. "What?"
"Fighting over rations. House rule. Both portions confiscated." The overseer's voice is flat. Like he's reading from a list.
"But I - he started it - he attacked me first - "
"Doesn't matter who started it."
The overseer bends down. Careful not to step in the blood. Picks up the ruined bread - wet, bloody, half-chewed. Holds it between two fingers like it's contaminated. Also reaches over to the distribution table, grabs the dried meat portion that was set aside for the older man. And the younger man's portion - still sitting there, untouched.
Holds all of it. Two full rations plus the ruined bread.
The older man's face goes slack. "I killed him for - " Voice breaks. Looks down at the younger man. Still gasping. Still bleeding. "I killed him for nothing."
The overseer doesn't respond. Walks back to the distribution table. Sets the confiscated bread aside - not in the waste pile. On the corner of the table. Near his own things.
"Next," he calls out.
The line doesn't move.
Everyone is staring at the body. At the blood spreading across the floor. At the older man still kneeling there, knife in hand, empty-handed otherwise.
"NEXT." Louder this time.
The line starts moving. Slow. Reluctant. People stepping carefully around the blood pool. Getting their rations. Trying not to look.
Del watches the overseer. Watches him hand out rations with one hand while the confiscated portions sit right there on the table corner. Within reach.
The younger man is still alive. Still gasping. Eyes open but unfocused. Looking at ceiling or sky or nothing. His hands have gone slack. Not holding his stomach anymore. Just lying in the blood.
Del stands. Has to get his food and leave. Standing here achieves nothing.
Gets in line. Waits.
The man ahead of him gets his ration. Moves on. Del steps forward.
His bare foot lands in something warm. Wet. Sticky.
Blood. The pool has spread. Reached the line.
He lifts his foot. The blood clings. Thick, starting to clot. Makes a soft sound when his foot peels away from the stone. Sticks to his sole. Warm between his toes.
Steps forward. Other foot. Same thing. Both feet tracking blood now.
The younger man's eyes track the movement. Still alive. Watching Del walk through his blood.
Del reaches the distribution point. Holds out his hands.
The overseer drops bread into them. Meat. Water.
Del turns. Walks away. His feet leave red prints on the stone. Getting fainter with each step as the blood wears away.
Behind him, the gasping is getting weaker. Quieter. Longer pauses between breaths.
Del finds the wall again. Sits. Looks at his feet. Blood is drying now. Dark red, almost black. Sticky. He doesn't try to wipe it off. No point. Nothing to wipe it with.
Eats his ration. The bread is hard. Has to chew each bite multiple times. The meat is tough, stringy. The water helps but there's not enough of it.
The gasping stops.
Del looks back toward the distribution area. The younger man isn't moving anymore. Just lying there. Eyes still open. Staring at nothing.
The line continues. People stepping around the body. Around the blood. Getting food.
The older man is still kneeling. Still holding the knife. Face blank. Like he's not entirely present. Like part of him left when he realized what he did and what it cost.
The overseer is still distributing. Mechanical. Hand out bread, hand out meat, hand out water. Next person. Repeat.
The confiscated portions are still on the table corner. Del watches.
Three more people get their rations. Then the overseer pauses. Looks at the line. Counts. Maybe ten people left.
Looks down at the remaining rations. Not enough. Even Del can see it from here. Maybe seven portions left. Ten people waiting.
The overseer's hand moves. Quick. Casual. Picks up one of the confiscated bread portions. The one that isn't blood-soaked. Tucks it under the distribution table. Out of sight.
Then continues handing out rations.
Seven people get food. The last three are told: "Supply ran out. Come back tomorrow."
They don't argue. Just leave. Faces blank. They'll go hungry tonight. Might die if they're already weak. Might not.
The overseer packs up. Gathers the ledger, the empty containers. The confiscated portions - both the hidden one and the bloody one - disappear into a bag he carries.
Walks away. Past the body. Past the blood. Doesn't look at either.
Del finishes his ration. His stomach is still empty. Still cramping. This wasn't enough. Won't be enough tomorrow either.
The older man finally stands. Looks at the knife in his hand. Looks at the body. Walks away slowly. Still holding the knife. Covered in blood. Empty-handed.
Workers are leaving the warehouse area. Some eating. Some not. One woman is crying silently, tears running down her face while she chews. Another man is laughing. High-pitched, wrong. Holding bread in shaking hands and laughing.
Del stands. His feet stick slightly to the stone. Blood dried now, tacky. He walks. Each step makes a soft sound - sole peeling from stone. The prints he leaves are faint. Barely visible. But there.
Heads back toward his sleeping corner. Past workers sitting in ruins, staring at small portions, trying to make them last. Trying to figure out how to survive on this.
One worker has already finished eating. Sitting with empty hands. Staring at them like he's surprised they're empty. Like he thought there would be more.
Del keeps walking.
Reaches his corner. Sits. The stone is cold. The blood on his feet is still sticky. He doesn't try to clean it. Tomorrow he'll walk through more ruins, more dust, more dirt. It'll wear off eventually.
Closes his eyes. Tries to rest. Can't sleep. Too hungry. Too wired.
Thinks about the younger man bleeding out. About the older man kneeling there realizing he killed for nothing. About the overseer taking the confiscated portions for himself.
Thinks about tomorrow's ration being the same. And the day after. And the day after that.
This is how they break.
What if I stayed in the coffin and just slept?