Ethan woke to the sound of gunfire.
Not panic-inducing gunfire—measured, rhythmic bursts. Mechanical. Controlled.
For half a second, his body tensed, instincts screaming that something was wrong. Then the memory of steel walls and blue grids settled in, and he exhaled slowly.
The turret.
He pushed himself up from the cold metal floor, joints stiff, mouth dry. There was no sunrise inside the base, but a faint ambient glow filtered through the seams of the walls, suggesting morning had arrived whether he was ready or not.
Another notification hovered patiently at the edge of his vision.
---
STATUS UPDATE
FATIGUE: MODERATE
HYDRATION: LOW
HUNGER: LOW
---
"Figures," Ethan muttered.
He stood, stretching his shoulders, and climbed the ladder to the roof hatch. The moment he cracked it open, the smell hit him—burnt oil, coppery blood, and decay baked by the rising Texas sun.
Outside, the parking lot behind the Buc-ee's looked like a slaughterhouse.
Bodies—dozens of them—were scattered in irregular arcs around the base. Most were missing heads or limbs, torn apart by turret fire. A few still twitched weakly, only to be finished off by another clean burst from above.
Ethan watched, grim-faced.
"They don't learn," he said.
The turret tracked a crawler trying to drag itself forward, barrel adjusting with unnerving precision. One shot. Silence.
The interface chimed.
---
ZOMBIES ELIMINATED: 47
BASE INTEGRITY: 100%
THREAT LEVEL: LOW (LOCAL)
---
Local.
That word stuck with him.
Ethan leaned against the railing and scanned the horizon. Smoke rose in multiple directions—thin black pillars against the pale sky. Somewhere out there, cities were burning. Somewhere, people were running, hiding, dying.
And somewhere else, people were figuring things out.
Just like him.
He climbed back down and opened his inventory.
The interface expanded into a semi-transparent grid, far larger and more detailed than anything he remembered from the game. Categories organized themselves intuitively: materials, tools, components, blueprints. Food and water sat conspicuously empty.
"Okay," he said quietly. "First rule of survival—don't starve."
He dismantled part of the base—not the walls, but interior fixtures he'd placed reflexively the night before. Excess storage boxes broke down into usable scrap. With a few mental commands, he crafted a small rain catcher and mounted it on the roof.
---
WATER COLLECTION ENABLED
ESTIMATED OUTPUT: LOW (CLEAR WEATHER)
---
"Better than nothing."
Food was trickier.
The Buc-ee's interior was likely crawling by now, but he couldn't rely on emergency rations forever—assuming he could even find any. He needed a sustainable setup.
As if responding to the thought, another window appeared.
---
BLUEPRINT SUGGESTION AVAILABLE
OPTION: SMALL PLANTER BOX
REQUIRES: CLOTH, WOOD
---
Ethan snorted. "Of course."
Cloth meant zombies. Or people.
He didn't dwell on that too long.
Instead, he focused on expansion.
The base he'd thrown together the night before was solid but small—a panic shelter, not a stronghold. Rust had taught him one thing above all else: if your starter base survived too long, someone would notice.
He stepped outside the tool cupboard's radius and paused.
The blue grid faded instantly.
"Right," he murmured. "Rules."
He tested it.
One step back inside the radius, and the grid reappeared. Structures highlighted. Privileges restored.
"So decay's real," he said. "And territory matters."
That meant land control. Planning. Defense in depth.
Ethan paced the perimeter slowly, mind working through layouts automatically. Angles of approach. Lines of sight. Natural choke points between the treeline and the highway embankment.
A low growl interrupted his thoughts.
Not a zombie.
Ethan froze.
The sound came again—deeper this time. Animal. Aggressive.
He turned slowly.
A feral dog stood at the edge of the lot, ribs visible beneath mangy fur, eyes locked on him with desperate hunger. Another shape emerged behind it. Then a third.
"Great," Ethan muttered. "As if zombies weren't enough."
The interface reacted immediately.
---
HOSTILE FAUNA DETECTED
THREAT: LOW–MODERATE
---
The dogs lunged.
Ethan moved without thinking, sprinting back toward the base as the turret whirred to life. Shots cracked through the air, precise and lethal. One dog dropped mid-leap. Another veered away, yelping, only to be cut down seconds later.
The third hesitated.
Ethan raised the axe and met it halfway.
The fight was brutal and fast. The dog was strong, driven by starvation, but it wasn't smarter than a human who'd spent years gaming survival scenarios into muscle memory.
When it was over, Ethan stood panting, hands slick with blood.
---
CLOTH ACQUIRED: 18
RAW MEAT ACQUIRED: 6
---
He stared at the notification for a long moment.
Then he nodded.
"Nothing goes to waste," he said quietly.
Back inside the base, Ethan cooked the meat over a simple fire setup, the interface handling temperature control automatically. The smell was unpleasant but edible. He ate slowly, forcing it down, watching his hunger status tick upward.
---
HUNGER: STABLE
HYDRATION: STABLE
---
As his body settled, his mind sharpened.
That was when the next layer revealed itself.
---
SYSTEM NOTICE
BASE LEVEL: 1
UPGRADE CONDITIONS MET
OPTIONAL PATHS:
• DEFENSIVE SPECIALIZATION
• INDUSTRIAL SPECIALIZATION
• TERRITORIAL SPECIALIZATION
---
Ethan blinked.
"This wasn't in Rust," he said.
He hovered over each option, information expanding as he focused.
Defensive meant stronger walls, better turrets, more trap efficiency.
Industrial promised faster resource processing, automation, long-term sustainability.
Territorial…
That one made his pulse quicken.
Expanded build radius. Control nodes. Influence over land itself.
He didn't select anything yet.
Not until he understood the world better.
That decision proved wise—because less than an hour later, he heard engines.
Real ones.
Ethan climbed to the roof and peered through binoculars toward the highway.
A convoy rolled slowly through the wreckage—three pickup trucks, reinforced with welded plates and makeshift armor. Armed men stood in the beds, rifles scanning the surroundings.
They weren't military.
They were organized.
The interface confirmed it.
---
HUMAN FACTION DETECTED
DESIGNATION: UNREGISTERED PLAYERS
INTENT: UNKNOWN
---
Ethan lowered the binoculars.
"Raiders," he said.
The trucks slowed as they neared the Buc-ee's. One of the men pointed toward Ethan's base—toward the clean geometry, the unnatural angles that screamed system-built.
Ethan stepped back into cover.
He didn't panic.
He planned.
Shotgun traps weren't available yet, but door paths were. He reconfigured the entrance internally, adding false doors and dead ends. Garage doors slid into place, concealing turrets behind them.
Outside, the convoy stopped.
A man shouted. "Hey! Anyone in there?"
Ethan stayed silent.
He watched the threat indicators rise—slowly, cautiously.
The men dismounted, spreading out. One approached the base, tapping the metal wall with the butt of his rifle.
"This ain't scrap," the man said. "This is good."
Another laughed. "Jackpot, then."
Ethan's jaw tightened.
He didn't hate them.
But he wasn't sharing.
The first shot came from the raiders.
It bounced harmlessly off the wall.
The second shot triggered the system.
---
HOSTILE ACTION CONFIRMED
BASE DEFENSE AUTHORIZED
---
The garage doors snapped open.
Turrets roared.
The ambush was short, violent, and one-sided. Two men went down immediately. The others scrambled, shouting in panic, firing wildly at angles that meant nothing against a system-designed structure.
One truck tried to reverse.
It hit a metal barricade Ethan had placed ten minutes earlier.
By the time the shooting stopped, only one man was left alive—wounded, crawling away.
Ethan watched him go.
He didn't finish him.
Not yet.
The interface updated.
---
PLAYER INTERACTION RECORDED
FACTION AWARENESS INCREASED
WORLD DIFFICULTY: SCALING
---
Ethan closed his eyes briefly.
"So that's how it is," he said.
He selected a path.
---
SPECIALIZATION SELECTED: TERRITORIAL
---
The ground trembled faintly.
The blue grid expanded.
---
BUILD RADIUS INCREASED
CONTROL NODE UNLOCKED
---
Ethan looked out over the land—over the road, the trees, the ruins of a world that had stopped pretending it was safe.
"This isn't just a base anymore," he said.
It was a claim.
And the apocalypse had just learned his name.