>>6324292>>6324335>>6324375>89, 98The commissary is a department store sized block of concrete and faded polymer, its walls stained with the sickly yellow of old fire retardant and peeling layers of paint. Like everything else in the PRC, it was built with efficiency over dignity – straight lines, neutral grays, and nothing to please the eye. What’s left of government issue posters cling to the walls by the corners, showing bright stock photos of “nutritious, balanced, optimized meals.” The shelves beneath them are long bare.
Inside, the air is thick with dust and the stale metallic tang of oxidized aluminum. The aisles have been overturned, plastic packaging and crumpled ration wrappers scattered like leaves in a dead forest. Harper sweeps his torch towards a shelf and snorts.
“Look at that. Even the seasoning’s gone. Folks so desperate that they took the salt.” He kicks aside a shattered jar of something that claims to be adjacent to pepper. “Hope you weren’t expecting anything too easy. The real prize is in the back.”
The beam of his torch settles on a reinforced steel door, a jarring contrast against the rest of the structure’s decay. The built-in lock still glows faintly, pulsing along with the weak heartbeat of the dying building. Each flicker is accompanied by a shuddering groan of metal, as if the PRC itself resents being kept alive.
Harper gestures towards the electronic lock. “Last time I was here, I didn’t have the time or the crunch keys to pop it open. That’s where you come in.”
You nod, kneeling towards the interface. Heat blossoms at your neck as your modem establishes an electronic handshake, probing at firewalls and testing security protocols. The codes Watchtower are applied, and to your relief, they work. The only thing you’ll need is time enough to make sure that there aren’t hidden surprises.
“Keep me covered,” you murmur.
He doesn’t answer right away. He just gives a short nod and moves off a few paces, pistol raised, illuminating the aisle with his torch in short, cautious sweeps.
It’s quiet. Not dead quiet – the PRC doesn’t stop making noise – but the normal ambience feels wrong. Too thin. Anemic, even.
You focus on the slicing, cycling through intrusion scripts, isolating subroutines. It isn’t unlocking the door that’s the priority as much as ensuring there’s enough power to keep it open.
A soft <span class="mu-i">drip</span> echoes somewhere deeper inside the building.
Harper’s light settles on a collapsed aisle, and what he thinks is a light fixture dangling on ruined cable.
“Lydia.”
The urgency in his voice pulls you out of your work. You follow his torchlight (shaking almost imperceptivity) to the body he’s discovered.
Or rather, what’s left of it – clothes shredded, bones exposed, gore smeared across the ceiling and walls. It dangles from the ceiling, as if someone was saving it for later.
Your guts churn as you spy bite marks in the meat.
(cont.)
