Chương 1: Tastes like crap... with salt
The devastated city stretched before Jhon like a dismembered corpse. At forty years old, his scruffy beard and red hair hid his true nature under layers of dirt. Dressed in a ragged hoodie and worn-out pants, his six-foot-six frame cast an imposing shadow. With no animals and only rubble for company, his mission was simple: survive.
After hours of fruitless searching, Jhon returned to what was left of his home next to the subway station. The city offered better places, but he couldn't leave; he was anchored by memories and a promise he wished he hadn't made. He crossed the subway tracks, the only still-passable route, and pushed the barely functional door to his house.
"I need to fix this damn door one of these days," he muttered, fully aware he never would. "Not like there's anyone left to rob me."
He tossed his old backpack onto the table and went through the items he had found: a functional Zippo, a few bottles of dirty but non-toxic water, a Rolex for his growing collection, and a leather jacket that wasn't too worn. But the real treasure of the day was a jar of salt.
"Finally, something to give this crap some flavor," he chuckled to himself. "Now the diet includes crap with salt."
The jokes he made to himself were his only way of staying sane, or so he told himself. It had been so long since he'd heard his own laughter that he doubted he remembered what it sounded like.
He turned on the radio, hoping to hear something other than static, though he knew there hadn't been any news for two years. He fiddled with the dial, hoping to break the silence.
"This is the Pirate King's base, here to announce that I've found the One Piece!" the recording said sarcastically. "A whole bunch of Playboy magazines and Rolex watches. If you want my treasure, come and get it. It's right under my ass at coordinates 34.0696° N, 118.4032° W."
Receiving no response, Jhon kicked a box of old magazines and laughed bitterly.
"Better for me, I'll keep the treasure."
Tired and dispirited, he headed to his workshop, checking the communication devices, alarms, charging ports, the generator, traps, and turrets. Nothing could pass his perimeter. He glanced at the clock: four days, twelve hours, fifteen minutes, and thirty-three seconds in the countdown.
"I still need to check the north turrets, the loading platform, and the magnetic shields," he muttered, but his body was already weakening from hunger.
Exhausted, he opened the fridge and pulled out a jar with a greasy, brown liquid along with a chunk of dark meat. Tossing the meat into the pan, the disgusting smell filled the kitchen, but Jhon barely noticed. His mind drifted, as it always did when he looked at the photos on the coffee table. One picture showed his former team, ten people in total, all with pristine uniforms, smiling with a level of enthusiasm that now seemed impossible. The other, older and more worn, showed his family: his father, rough but with a loving smile, his mother, and his younger sister with those mischievous eyes that always made him laugh.
Jhon stood still, staring at the photos. The sense of loss was a stabbing pain in his chest. He almost felt his face breaking from the sadness. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth.
Ignoring his memories, he started watching his favorite anime. "Damn it, Oda. You had to die without telling anyone how it ends," he muttered with a frown, swallowing the meat with the brown liquid. "Tastes like crap... with salt."
Suddenly, the sound of an alarm startled him. A terrible headache shook him. The red light blinked, and the repetitive alarm recording echoed through the speakers.
"Shit!" he cursed, seeing the clock showing 00:00:33:50. "Thirty minutes! What the hell is going on? The attack wasn't supposed to happen for another four days."
He rushed to the fridge, grabbed a case of green and blue vials, slung it over his shoulder, and headed to the armory. With the black exosuit clinging to every inch of his body, Jhon looked like a tower of steel, a mass of muscle and metal, ready to crush anything in his path. He felt the weight of the submachine gun in his hands, and the cold metal against his skin reminded him that, in that moment, there was no room for fear.
The ground trembled slightly. It wasn't just any tremor; it was an echo in the distance, a warning of what was coming. He glanced at the clock: 00:00:16:27.
"Not much time left. I need to set the traps, calibrate the turrets, and pray the shields have enough energy."
As he descended to the basement, his mind briefly flashed back to the days when he fought alongside his team. He remembered their faces, how one by one they had fallen, and how, in silence, he had promised not to let them die in vain. But now he wasn't even sure why he kept fighting. "For them... or for me?" he thought.
He sealed the hatch with explosives. If anyone tried to force it open without the code, an explosion would wipe everything out.
"If I fall, those bastards are in for a surprise," he said, smiling bitterly.
In the command room, he observed the defenses: over a hundred automated turrets, flamethrowers, plasma cannons, and traps surrounded the green-yellow portal. The tremor beneath his feet was becoming more pronounced, a sign that the horde was closer than he thought.
"Hope the ammo's enough," he thought as the robotic voice reported the defense status.
"Time until horde arrival: 00:00:02:05."
Jhon took a deep breath, the air heavy in his lungs, as if the atmosphere itself knew what was about to happen. His entire body tensed. The countdown continued, and the tremor beneath his feet was no longer just a distant echo. It was the heartbeat of a storm of chaos about to be unleashed.
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