The luxury of being a law-abiding citizen died the moment Ethan felt the cold steel of Marcus's pipe in the previous timeline. In this life, the law was just a thirty-day countdown to irrelevance.
Ethan drove his newly purchased heavy-duty pickup truck toward an industrial park in Yonkers. He wasn't there for food or fuel. He was there for the "Iron."
In the future, a group of scavengers had dominated the Bronx because they stumbled upon a hidden private security firm's warehouse—Ironclad Solutions. They were a "gray area" company that specialized in high-end tactical gear and "off-the-books" hardware for wealthy elites.
Ethan pulled up to the gated facility at 2:00 AM. In the original timeline, this place was looted and burned within the first week of the Frost. This time, the inventory was going into a much safer place.
He stepped out of the truck, the humid New York night air feeling like a thick blanket. It was hard to believe that in less than a month, this air would be cold enough to shatter glass.
He approached the side entrance. A security camera swiveled toward him.
"This is private property. State your business," a voice crackled through an intercom.
Ethan didn't answer. He reached into his [Subspace] and pulled out a heavy bolt cutter he had bought earlier that day. With a single, fluid motion, he snapped the lock on the gate.
"Hey! I'm calling the police!" the voice shouted.
Ethan ignored him. He knew the NYPD's response time in this district was at least twelve minutes. He only needed five.
He reached the main warehouse door. It was a reinforced rolling steel shutter. Ethan didn't try to pick the lock. Instead, he reached into his subspace and pulled out a tactical breaching charge—a "gift" he'd acquired from a desperate black-market contact in Brooklyn just hours ago.
BOOM.
The shockwave rattled Ethan's teeth. The door crumpled like paper.
A security guard, a man in his fifties who looked like he'd rather be anywhere else, came running around the corner, fumbling with a holster.
"Freeze!" the guard yelled, his hands shaking.
Ethan didn't freeze. He moved with a speed born of eighteen months of survival training in the frozen hellscape. He closed the gap before the guard could even draw his weapon. Ethan gripped the man's wrist, twisting it until the bone groaned, and slammed him against the wall.
"Listen to me very carefully," Ethan hissed, his eyes devoid of any warmth. "I'm not here to kill you. I'm here for the gear. Walk away, go home to your family, and stay there. If you stay here, you die. Choose."
The guard looked into Ethan's eyes and saw something more terrifying than a thief. He saw a man who had already seen the end of the world. The guard dropped his belt and ran for the exit.
Ethan turned to the warehouse. Rows of crates lined the walls.
Tactical Vests: Vanished.
Night Vision Goggles: Vanished.
Cases of 5.56 and 9mm Ammunition: Vanished.
Ceramic Armor Plates: Vanished.
Ethan moved like a ghost through the aisles. Every time he touched a crate, it flickered into blue light and disappeared into his [Subspace].
[Subspace Capacity: 78/100 Cubic Meters]
He stopped in front of the final rack. There, sitting in a velvet-lined case, were six high-end, suppressed submachine guns. These were the tools he would use when Sarah and Marcus inevitably came knocking on his door in the cold.
As the distant sirens of the NYPD began to wail, Ethan walked back to his truck. He wasn't the same man who had died for a loaf of bread. He was becoming the Apex Predator of the coming Ice Age.
He climbed into the driver's seat and looked at the glowing blue panel.
"The Iron Harvest is complete," he whispered. "Now, it's time to stock the 'kitchen'."
He shifted the truck into gear and vanished into the New York night, leaving nothing but a smoking doorway and a terrified guard behind.
[End of Chapter 4]