Chapter 57: Dispute Among Survivors

Over the next few days, Zarek gradually grew accustomed to his new strength.

The initial shock of his transformation had passed, leaving him with a body that responded to him with frightening ease.

He had more important things to occupy himself with than admiring his own body.

The human-faced monster was still out there.

He spent portions of his mornings and evenings checking the lower corridors, sweeping through the shadowed nooks and blocked service shafts where the creature might have retreated.

The creature didn’t show. The corridors remained stubbornly empty of anything save the usual low-tier mutants and rotting debris. He didn’t obsess over it, but he didn’t forget either.

They had long since abandoned the cramped quarters of their first apartment. The group now occupied a larger, cleaner suite, claimed and secured through intimidation.

Mara lived there with them now.

The shift wasn’t marked by a dramatic confrontation.

It happened organically after Mara lost her grip on the survivor group below. Her leadership, once anchored by a fragile framework of shared contributions and rations, had collapsed under the weight of empty stomachs.

When she could no longer feed her people, her authority evaporated. She had nowhere else to go, and Zarek didn’t bother turning her away. She was useful, organized, and possessed a clear-headed understanding of reality.

Nobody from the lower floors came banging on their door to challenge them or demand Mara back.

The survivors had seen enough of Zarek to know that crossing him was a fatal gamble.

They kept their distance, whispering in the hallways and eyeing the apartment door with a mix of dread and bitter envy.

Mara adapted to her new reality with quiet resilience, keeping to the periphery of Zarek’s household while processing the bitter truth that her protective ideals had been worthless against starvation.

Outside their apartment, the building itself was rotting from the inside out.

The food shortage among the lower-floor survivors had passed the point of mere discomfort; it was a slow, gnawing crisis that frayed every nerve in the building.

Arguments that used to be settled with harsh words now escalated into violent shoves.

Doors were bolted shut, supplies were hoarded behind barricades, and Mara’s old system of organized contribution had devolved into a free-for-all.

The survivors no longer trusted one another, and they certainly didn’t trust the fragile trade arrangement with the upper floors.

Zarek watched the decay with mild interest. He and his household were self-sufficient, with supplies stored in his System Space and their strength continuing to grow through his investments.

They didn’t need the communal rations. Yet, as he observed the growing chaos from the balcony or hallway corners, he could see the pressure building toward a breaking point.

It broke three days later in the main communal hall on the lower levels.

A dispute over a handful of canned goods spun out of control within seconds.

Two men, gaunt-faced and desperate, started screaming at each other before fists began flying. A small crowd gathered, some trying to drag them apart while others yelled encouragement, their eyes wild with pent-up frustration and hunger.

The fight didn’t stop when someone drew a knife; it intensified. Blood smeared across the cracked concrete floor, and the onlookers didn’t look away with horror—they watched with hungry eyes, sizing up the winner’s meager pockets.

Order was entirely dead. In its place, a desperate, dangerous narrative began to take root among the survivors.

Voices rose above the brawl, shouting what many had been thinking for days. Waiting for scraps from the upper floors was a slow death.

Scavenging the lower levels yielded nothing. If the people on the upper floors had food, weapons, and secure supplies, then taking them by force was the only option left.

The idea spread like wildfire through the starved crowd. It was a suicidal gamble, and everyone knew it.

The upper-floor faction was heavily armed, well-organized, and ruthless. But starvation was turning fear into recklessness, and the longer the survivors discussed their situation, the more the idea of taking the food by force began to seem reasonable.

Not everyone agreed on how the attack should begin.

Some wanted to rush the stairwell before the people above could prepare. Others argued that charging upward would leave them exposed to gunfire, especially if the upper floors had already barricaded their entrances.

"Then what do you suggest? Wait until we’re eating each other?"

Nobody had a good answer.

A few survivors still remembered the food-for-ammunition arrangement Mara had negotiated.

They argued that attacking the very people supplying them, however little they received, could destroy their last chance of obtaining food peacefully.

Their objections earned them angry glares.

"Peaceful?" a gaunt man spat. "Look around. How much longer do you think we’ll last?"

That silenced several people, but it didn’t solve their problem. They had no reliable information about how many defenders awaited them or how much ammunition those defenders possessed.

They only knew that the people upstairs had weapons, supplies, and the power to refuse them.

They were going in blind. Hunger had simply made that seem preferable to doing nothing.

Zarek watched the preparations from a shadowed alcove down the hall, his arms crossed over his broadened chest.

Elsa and Ayesha stood a few paces behind him, observing the frantic commotion with cool detachment. They weren’t participants in this tragedy, nor were they inclined to play the savior.

The survivors were pooling their remaining ammunition—carefully counting stray bullets, sharpening crude metal pipes, and checking the mechanisms of old hunting rifles and pistols.

Every round counted now.

Zarek’s gaze swept over them, cataloging their movements, their nervous stumbles, and the trembling grip of men holding firearms for the first time. Watching a desperate mob throw itself against a better-armed enemy promised genuine entertainment.

The tension in the corridor reached a snapping point as the makeshift vanguard formed up near the central stairwell, ready to push upward.

Whispers cut off. Breathing turned shallow. The silence of anticipation was heavier than any shouting.

Zarek leaned slightly against the wall, his eyes fixed on the front of the ragged line where a man with a rusted shotgun stood trembling.

A sharp, metallic clatter echoed from the upper stairwell door—someone on the other side moving to lock it.

Panic spiked. Someone near the front flinched, a finger spasming against a trigger.

Crack.

The first shot tore through the concrete hallway, deafening and absolute.