The next morning, the people of Red Pines awoke to a grisly sight.

  Just outside the walls, a pile of bodies—thirty-eight in total—stacked like discarded trash. Their weapons were stripped, their gear looted, and the stench of death already thick in the air. The blood had soaked deep into the dirt, forming dark pools beneath the tangled mass of limbs.

  Conrad stood at the edge of the pile, covering his nose with his forearm. His expression was a mix of disgust and reluctant admiration.

  “Well, shit.”

  James, standing beside him, leaned against his car with that same, infuriating smirk.

  “Yeah, a few got away, but nothing to be worried about.” He stretched and yawned, rolling his shoulders like the night’s massacre had been a simple workout. Then, as if remembering something, he turned back to Conrad.

  “That’ll be 380,000.” His grin widened.

  Conrad’s face twitched. “Right… It’s going to, uh… take a little bit to get that together.”

  James just shrugged, watching as Conrad reluctantly walked off to inspect the corpses, mumbling to himself.

  It took three full days for Red Pines to scrounge up James’ payment, but by the second day, the town had already changed.

  The fear was gone.

  Where before the streets had been filled with silent, tense faces, now he could see kids running and playing, people working on their homes, guards standing with actual confidence instead of desperation.

  James was finishing up tuning his car, checking the fuel cell level when Conrad approached again.

  “You know, we could use someone like you.”

  James barely looked up before cutting him off.

  “Listen, if I wanted to settle down, I’d be working for SDS or EHD.” He tossed a wrench into the backseat, shutting the hood with a solid clank. “But I’m a freelancer. So thanks for the offer, but I’ll have to turn you down.”

  Conrad sighed but didn’t argue.

  With that, James climbed into his car, the engine roaring to life as he pulled out onto the road.

  This time, he wasn’t following the Creeper Route.

  He was heading into Florida.

  The further south he drove, the more barren the land became.

  Florida had never recovered from the war or some would say that not much of a change actually occurred to begin with. The mainland was an unforgiving wasteland—miles of cracked earth, dead forests, and radioactive swamps left over from where the bombings had hit hardest. Some claimed mutants ruled this land, others said it was just abandoned, a natural barrier that separated the peninsula from the rest of the continent.

  James wasn’t interested in stories. He was interested in getting through.

  The first problem came two hours in.

  The sun was beginning to set, casting long shadows across the uneven ground. He had just cleared an old, rusted-out bridge when his instincts screamed at him.

  Then he saw them.

  A pack of muirhounds.

  James had heard of them before—mutated wolf-dog hybrids, grotesquely altered from generations of surviving in the wastelands. They were larger than any normal dog, their skeletal frames twisted, skin mottled with patches of exposed muscle, and their eyes glowing with an unnatural yellow light. Their jaws were unnaturally wide, filled with rows of jagged teeth capable of snapping bone in an instant.

  The lead Muirhound let out a low, guttural snarl, the sound vibrating through the air. Seven more flanked it, circling the car like they were coordinating a strategy.

  James clicked his tongue.

  "Of course."

  One of the beasts lunged.

  James floored the gas, his turbo kicking in with a roar.

  The car shot forward, tires kicking up a storm of dust. The Muirhounds scattered, but two weren’t fast enough—one slammed against the reinforced bumper with a sickening crunch, while another took the hit to its hind legs and was thrown aside, yelping as it tumbled into the dirt.

  But the rest weren’t giving up.

  They ran alongside the vehicle, their endurance allowing them to keep pace, their twisted bodies leaping over obstacles with unnatural agility. They maneuvered through the wreckage like they had done this a hundred times before, trying to cut him off.

  James gritted his teeth. He would’ve gunned it faster, but this terrain was rough—uneven and filled with hidden dangers. Wreckage, craters, jagged steel sticking out of the ground like rusted blades. A crash out here was a death sentence.

  One of the beasts jumped, landing on the roof.

  James growled. His grip tightened on the wheel.

  "Not today."

  He slammed the brakes.

  The car came to a screeching halt, tires skidding against loose earth, sending the Muirhound flying off at 55 miles per hour. It hit the ground hard, its body rolling lifelessly before going still.

  James didn’t have time to enjoy the victory.

  More of them were emerging from the ruins of an old gas station, drawn by the sound of his engine and gunfire.

  He had two options—burn ammo trying to fight them off or outrun them before the pack grew too large.

  His foot pressed harder against the gas seeing a road ahead. It was broken mess, chunks of asphalt missing, cracks deep enough to swallow a person whole. Still, it was better than the dirt path he had been on.

  James jerked the wheel hard, sending the car into a sideways drift as he barely cleared a wrecked semi-truck, the Muirhounds scrambling to keep up. The closest one leaped, jaws snapping just inches from his window—

  James slammed the brakes again.

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  The hound overshot, hitting the ground hard, and before it could recover—he ran it over.

  The remaining few slowed, their snarls turning into cautious growls, realizing they had lost the chase.

  James exhaled, rolling his shoulders as the adrenaline slowly faded.

  He had made it through.

  As he cleared the last stretch of wasteland, the scenery finally changed.

  James approached the town, his car rolling to a stop as he spotted a figure standing in the middle of the road. A man, thin and disheveled, barely five foot seven, with a rifle slung over his shoulder in a way that suggested it was more for intimidation than actual use.

  James sighed. He wasn’t in the mood for bullshit.

  As he slowed, the man stepped forward, holding up a hand. "Toll’s 200 CAI bills."

  James leaned against the wheel, raising an eyebrow. "That so?"

  "Yeah. Everyone pays." The man’s stance wasn’t exactly confident—more like he was following orders he wasn’t sure about.

  James let out a breath. "Well, then we have a problem, don’t we? I don’t have any CAI bills."

  The man shrugged. "Then you need to turn around."

  James put the car in park and opened the door.

  "Hey! Stay in your car!" the man barked, but James ignored him, stepping out and towering over him.

  Up close, the guy looked even scrawnier, his clothes ill-fitting, his boots worn down to nearly nothing. He smelled like stale sweat and dirt, and James could see the uncertainty in his eyes the moment he realized what kind of man he had just tried to shake down.

  James took a slow step forward, his gaze sweeping the area. No other guards. No lookout. Just this fool, a good five minutes from the town, with nothing but a rifle he probably didn’t even know how to use properly.

  James turned his gaze back to him, tilting his head slightly. "Give me one reason why I shouldn’t kill you and take everything you have."

  The man stumbled backward, dropping his rifle as his face went pale. "I—I—look, man, it’s just a toll, I wasn’t—"

  "Everything you have," James repeated, his voice steady.

  The man fumbled into his pockets, pulling out a crumpled pile of cash and dropping it at James’s feet before turning and sprinting back toward the town like his life depended on it.

  James sighed, shaking his head.

  He picked up the cash, flipping through it. Mostly CAI bills, some Meridian notes mixed in. Not bad for a petty toll scammer.

  He got back into his car and drove forward.

  The heat was the first thing that hit him. Even at just 50°F, the humidity clung to him like a second skin, a stark contrast to the crisp air of the north. Sweat beaded at his forehead as he turned up his AC god's gift to the world.

  The town itself was different from the ones on Creeper’s Route. The structures were sturdier, less patchwork, built to withstand the subtropical weather and whatever else. The streets were wider, lined with market stalls, their owners shouting over one another to push their wares—scrap metal, preserved food, water filters, and the occasional pre-war relic that probably didn’t work.

  James drove through, taking it all in. This place wasn’t just surviving—it was thriving.

  But first things first.

  He parked near what looked like the busiest part of town, stepping out and stretching. He knew exactly what he needed.

  A bar.

  He walked through the market square, ignoring the merchants trying to get his attention, until he spotted it—a sturdy-looking structure with a faded wooden sign hanging above the entrance, the lettering barely legible.

  James pushed the door open and stepped inside.

  The inside of the bar was just like every other he had been in—dimly lit, filled with the scent of alcohol and sweat, a few tables occupied by locals muttering over their drinks. Nothing special. Nothing he hadn’t seen twelve thousand times before.

  James took a seat at the bar, resting his elbows on the worn wood.

  The bartender, a burly man with a thick mustache and tired eyes, turned to him. “What can I get you?”

  “Whiskey,” James said, pulling out one of the crumpled bills he had taken from the toll scammer. “And some intel.”

  The bartender poured the drink, sliding it over before leaning on the counter. “What do you want to know?”

  James took a sip, letting the burn settle before speaking. “Which old city is the CAI capital?”

  The bartender scratched his chin. “Ocala,” he said finally. “Like most of the big companies based in Florida, their headquarters used to be in Miami, but that place got hit too hard. They moved inland after the war.”

  James nodded. It made sense. Most major groups had abandoned their main Hq’s like SDS; their HQ was a massive skyscraper in NYC. But that place was hit so hard the island of Manhattan was literally sunk. James had no idea how it was possible.

  How an entire city, one of the greatest in the world, had simply sunk.

  But it happened. He had seen the remains with his own eyes. It was four years ago.

  He had been traveling through the ruins of what used to be the Northeastern States, taking a contract that required him to move close to what was left of New York City. Most people avoided it like the plague, and for good reason.

  The disaster that had wiped Manhattan off the map wasn’t just a nuke.

  There were worse things than nukes apparently.

  James had made his way to what was once Brooklyn, standing on the fractured remains of the old Brooklyn Bridge. The structure groaned under its own weight, its steel framework twisted and corroded from years of exposure to the elements. Entire sections had collapsed into the water, leaving only skeletal fragments jutting out over the abyss.

  He had stood there, staring into the void.

  Manhattan was gone.

  Not destroyed. Not burned. Not leveled. Just… gone.

  In its place, there was only water. Black and endless. He couldn’t see how deep it went. Couldn’t tell where the ruins ended and the abyss began. It wasn’t natural. It wasn’t right.

  And then there were the ships.

  Rusting pre-war vessels drifted like ghosts in the distance.

  He had heard whispers before arriving. Stories.

  That the waters weren’t natural anymore. That something was beneath them. That the city didn’t just sink— It was dragged down.

  James didn’t believe in fairy tales. But as he stood there, the bridge creaking beneath him, watching the waves swallow the bones of a lost empire…

  For the first time, he had wondered.

  What the hell really happened here?

  He set his glass down. “Is there a road from here to there?”

  The inside of the bar was just like every other he had been in—dimly lit, filled with the scent of alcohol and sweat, a few tables occupied by locals muttering over their drinks. Nothing special. Nothing he hadn’t seen twelve thousand times before.

  James took a seat at the bar, resting his elbows on the worn wood.

  The bartender, a burly man with a thick mustache and tired eyes, turned to him. “What can I get you?”

  “Whiskey,” James said, pulling out one of the crumpled bills he had taken from the toll scammer. “And some intel.”

  The bartender poured the drink, sliding it over before leaning on the counter. “What do you want to know?”

  James took a sip, letting the burn settle before speaking. “Which old city is the CAI capital?”

  The bartender scratched his chin. “Ocala,” he said finally. “Like most of the big companies, their headquarters used to be in Miami, but that place got hit too hard. They moved inland after the war.”

  James nodded. It made sense. Most major groups had abandoned their main Hq’s like SDS their HQ was a massive skyscraper in NYC. But htta place was hit so hard the island of manhattan was literally sunk. James had no idea how that was possible but it happened he saw the remains with his own eyes. (make the detailed flashback)

  He set his glass down. “Is there a road from here to there?”

  The bartender nodded. “Yeah. It’s not great, but there’s a trade route. Nothing official, but it gets the job done. Most of the settlements use it to move between the bigger hubs. Dangerous as hell, though.”

  James expected that much. Most groups that controlled multiple cities built their own makeshift roads, clearing out enough of the ruins and wasteland to connect their territory. They weren’t safe. Not patrolled. But they were faster than trying to navigate the broken remnants of pre-war highways, where entire sections of road had collapsed into sinkholes or were buried under rubble.

  The bartender gave him a knowing look. “If you’re looking for a job, there’s a group leaving tomorrow. Merchants and a few travelers. They could use the extra gun.”

  James pulled out the largest bill he had taken from the toll scammer and slid it across the counter. The bartender nodded in approval before turning toward the back of the bar.

  “Hey, Travis! Got someone who might be interested in your escort job.”

  A man at a corner table looked up, sizing James up before standing. He was built like someone who had spent years on the road—scarred, sunburnt, with a rifle slung over his shoulder and a cautious glint in his eye.

  James swirled the last of his whiskey in the glass before downing it in one motion.

  “Let’s talk,” he said, standing to meet the man.