The convoy of mechanized vehicles tore across the Great Barrens with a speed and fury rarely seen in that desolate age, churning the cracked earth into a churning, ochre fog that hung in their wake like a shroud. Inside the lead truck, a refurbished pickup with windows permanently stained by dust, the world was reduced to a constant, low roar and a vibration that seeped from the chassis into the very bones of the men within. Michael gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white, not from the strain of driving, but from the tension coiling in his gut. The destination marked on his crude map was a place that featured in the worst nightmares of every soul born in the wasteland: the Detroit ruins.
But first, there was a detour, a necessary pilgrimage to collect the true protagonists of this mad quest. Two hours after leaving the relative safety of Sweetwater Ditch, the convoy slowed near the hidden entrance to Base 0005. There, waiting for them like ghosts materializing from the heat haze, was the contingent from the base. Michael's eyes, sharpened by anxiety, did a quick count. His breath hitched. He remembered the number—twenty-three able-bodied men had remained. Before him stood only twenty-one. The message was as clear and stark as a skull bleaching in the sun: they had left only the barest skeleton crew behind, a gesture of such profound, desperate finality that it felt like a physical blow. This was not a raid; it was a exodus, a gamble with their very existence as the stake.
With a minimum of words, a language of grim nods and hand signals perfected by those who live on the edge, the newcomers began clambering onto the roofs and clinging to the sides of the waiting trucks and vans. The air was thick with the smell of diesel, dust, and the sharp tang of sweat. Michael caught the eye of a familiar, broad-shouldered figure—Zhang TieZhu. He gestured sharply, and the man peeled away from his comrades and squeezed into the pickup's cab, the interior suddenly feeling smaller, hotter.
"Only two left behind?" Michael asked the moment the door shut, his voice cutting through the engine's rumble. "Is the base secure?" The question felt foolish even as he asked it.
Zhang turned his placid, weathered face towards Michael. "It is enough," he replied, his tone flat, devoid of emotion. "The two who stayed… their legs are not good. Their fighting strength is limited." He paused, looking out at the barren landscape beginning to flow past them again as the convoy lurched into motion. "The sealed door will hold for a time. Long enough, perhaps, for us to find the thawing solution and return. If not…" He left the sentence hanging in the hot, thick air.
Michael understood. The unspoken words painted a vivid, terrible picture. If this expedition failed, the two left behind would enact the final, tragic act—sealing the great door from the inside, entombing themselves along with all the knowledge, the history, the very memory of Base 0005, forever burying it in the indifferent earth. They were not just risking their lives; they were gambling with the legacy of their people. The weight of this realization settled on Michael's shoulders, heavier than any load of supplies. He felt a profound, aching sadness for these fools, these glorious, heartbreaking fools. "We'll come back," he finally managed, the words sounding hollow. "We'll make it back alive."
Zhang offered only a silent, grave nod in return. Further conversation was impossible, choked off by the immensity of what lay ahead. The convoy pressed on, a serpent of steel and determination slithering towards the ominous, dark smudge that now permanently stained the horizon.
Their progress did not go unnoticed. Scavengers, those lone wolves of the wastes, emerged from hiding places as the thunder of engines passed. At first, there was excitement. A convoy of this size could only belong to the legendary Master of Sweetwater Ditch, the man of impossible wealth and strange generosity. They shouted, they waved, some even gave chase on foot, their hearts filled with a desperate hope. A few crumbs from his table could mean survival; an invitation to join his settlement was a fantasy come true.
But as the convoy held its course, unwavering, a cold dread began to replace the fervor. The direction was wrong. It led only to one place. One by one, the scavengers slowed to a walk, then stopped altogether, their hopeful cries dying in their throats. They stood like sentinels of despair, watching the dust cloud swallow the last of the trucks. A single, bewildered thought echoed in every mind: Why? Why seek death when life, however hard, is still yours?The pursuit of these fools was something they, in their desperate grasp on survival, could not fathom.
When the distant skyline of the ruins was a distinct, jagged scar ten kilometers away, Michael keyed the crackling hand-held radio. "Halt. Everyone out. We make camp here. We rest, we eat. We move at 0500." His voice was tighter than he intended. "John, Onyile, establish a perimeter. Rotating watches."
What followed was a bizarre and silent ballet of preparation. The Wuling vans, those miraculous boxes of metal, seemed to deflate as their doors slid open and disgorged a small army of men. The decision to enter by the cold light of dawn was a calculated one. Experience, bought with blood, had taught that even the Infected were somewhat sluggish in the oppressive heat of the day, preferring the cool shadows of the ruins, emerging in their full, terrifying vigor only with the cloak of night. Better to suffer the suffocating embrace of a protective suit under a blazing sun than to face them in the dark.
A makeshift camp sprang up with an efficiency born of necessity. Soon, aside from the watch, the entire company was seeking what little shade they could find—under trucks, in tents that baked like ovens—trying to steal a few hours of restless sleep. When food was distributed, the men ate the 'Eight-Treasure Feast' with a grim, focused intensity, shoveling the reconstituted slurry into their mouths as if it were their last meal. It probably was. Michael alone ate something different, a can of peaches from his private stash, a small hypocrisy that tasted like ash in his mouth. He had offered proper rations, but the men had insisted on the familiar, nutrient-dense slop. In the face of such grim determination, he could not refuse.
Long before the appointed hour, Michael was awake. Sleep, that fickle friend, had abandoned him. He had lain in the truck's cab, watching the stars through the grimy windshield, his mind a frantic, churning thing. The image of the twenty-one men from Base 0005, their quiet resolve, played over and over in his head. Fools, he thought, but the word was now filled with a terrible, aching respect. Slipping out into the pre-dawn chill, he found he was not alone. Shadows moved quietly throughout the camp—men checking weapons, sitting in silence, staring towards the growing horror on the horizon. The air was electric with a fear so potent it was almost a taste on the tongue.
A cold, utilitarian breakfast was consumed. Protective suits were donned, a ritual of rustling plastic and sealed zippers that made every man sweat before the day's heat even began. Weapons were checked and re-checked. Final, terse instructions were given. As the first sliver of lurid orange light cut the eastern sky, Michael, now encased in his own bulky suit, his breath already loud in the enclosed helmet, simply raised a heavy arm and swept it forward.
The silence of the barren plain was shattered as a dozen engines coughed, sputtered, and then roared to life. The convoy began to roll forward, a slow, deliberate advance at thirty kilometers per hour. They were not attempting stealth. Michael knew it was useless. The Infected possessed a sense of smell so acute it bordered on the supernatural; they could scent living flesh from kilometers away. The noise of their approach was irrelevant now. It was not about evasion. It was about meeting the horror head-on, and killing it. That was the only thing that mattered.