For the first time in over a year, Ethan felt something resembling normalcy.
After arriving at the haven and helping secure the outpost with his arsenal, the survivors welcomed him as one of their own. Though wary of his hardened demeanor and the fact that he had survived alone for so long, they couldn't deny the effectiveness of his skills. And for a week, Ethan allowed himself to relax—if only slightly.
The haven wasn't much; it was a repurposed military facility on the outskirts of Garden City, Kansas. The walls were reinforced with whatever metal and concrete they could scavenge, and the survivors had built makeshift homes from old shipping containers and salvaged wood. Despite the grim circumstances, it was a breath of fresh air compared to the constant fight for survival he had endured for so long.
And then, there was real food.
Not the grotesque, sinewy flesh of mutants he had been forced to consume for the past year. Not the canned goods long past their expiration date. But real, cooked meals. Meat, bread, vegetables—things he had almost forgotten the taste of.
"Not bad, huh?" a woman named Rebecca said, sitting across from him in the communal dining area. She was one of the haven's quartermasters, overseeing supplies and rations.
Ethan took another bite of the grilled chicken, savoring the tenderness. "Better than anything I've had in a long time."
Rebecca smirked. "Guess that means you've been eating some weird stuff."
He didn't answer, just nodded slightly, focusing on his food. She didn't press him.
The days passed with a strange tranquility. He helped reinforce defenses, trained some of the outpost's fighters in better weapon handling, and even found himself engaging in casual conversations. It was almost surreal. But deep down, Ethan knew it wouldn't last.
On the seventh day, he found out about them.
A group of heavily armed soldiers, dressed in black tactical gear, moved through the haven with purpose. They weren't like the rest of the survivors—there was something disciplined about them. Their weapons were pristine, their armor advanced, and their movements sharp.
"The Reapers," Rebecca told him when she caught him watching them. "They're the ones who go out beyond the safe zones. The best of the best."
Ethan frowned. "What's their mission?"
"They hunt mutants."
Now that caught his attention.
It wasn't just defending the haven or scavenging for supplies—these people actively sought out and eliminated the mutant threat. He had spent a year alone, killing everything that tried to kill him. But this… this was different. This was organized.
Rebecca continued, her voice quieter now. "Word is, they're planning something big. Something no one's ever done before."
Ethan turned to her. "What?"
She hesitated, then leaned in slightly. "They're going into the pit holes."
His stomach clenched. The pit holes—the massive craters scattered across the country, the sources of the mutant outbreak. No one knew what lay inside them, only that the closer you got, the worse the mutants became.
He had always avoided them.
And now, someone was planning to go inside?
He found their leader that evening.
A man named Commander Vance, clad in reinforced armor, his eyes sharp and calculating. When Ethan approached, the man looked him over once before speaking. "You're the guy who rolled in with an entire armory, aren't you?"
Ethan nodded. "Heard you're planning something big."
Vance didn't deny it. "We are."
"I want in."
The commander studied him for a long moment. "Why?"
Ethan's jaw tightened. "Because I want to kill every last one of those things."
A slow smirk formed on Vance's face. "Then you're in."
Ethan had found his next purpose.
In two months, they would venture into the abyss.
The real war was about to begin.