James brought her body back to Charles.

  He would have buried her himself. It was something he had done before. His mind drifted back to Tyler—the way he had clawed through the frozen earth, his fingers raw and bleeding, just to give his brother a proper burial. The ice had fought him every step of the way. It had taken hours. Days. He remembered how his breath had come in ragged gasps, how the cold had bitten into his skin, how his hands had ached even after the job was done.

  But Kelly had chosen Charles. Chosen to love him, to build a life with him. That meant he had earned the right to send her off properly.

  When Charles saw her, he broke.

  The man collapsed to his knees in the doorway, his breath shuddering, his body shaking as he reached out to touch her lifeless hand. At first, no sound came from him, just silent, wracking tremors that overtook his entire body. And then, the sobs started. Raw. Guttural. The kind of pain that couldn’t be soothed, only endured.

  James stood by, watching.

  He didn’t speak. Didn’t offer empty words of comfort.

  He simply stood.

  It took a full day for Charles to calm down enough to function. A full day where James did what he did best—drinking.

  He sat in the bar, silent, brooding. His fingers tightened around his glass, knuckles going white. The thoughts running through his head were dark enough that even a Blood Fang would have questioned if he was going too far. But James wasn’t the type to second-guess himself.

  When he decided something needed to burn, he didn’t just set the fire. He made sure there was nothing left when it was done.

  By the time Charles was ready, they held a small funeral. No priest, no elaborate words. Just the two of them, standing over a freshly dug grave, the scent of overturned earth thick in the air. Charles placed a single flower over the mound, his hands shaking, his breath unsteady.

  James watched silently.

  Then, without a word, he turned and walked away.

  He got into his car, started the engine, and took one last look at the small, broken town in his rearview mirror.

  Then, he drove—heading further south.

  James had been driving for nearly four hours, the hum of his engine the only sound breaking the silence of the road. The land around him had changed, shifting from the sparse foliage of North Carolina to the thick, overgrown remains of what was once Georgia. Unlike the cracked highways and dry wastelands further north, this area had been reclaimed by nature—twisting roots breaking through concrete, ivy swallowing the skeletons of old buildings, and dense forests creeping closer to the roads.

  It was beautiful, in a way. Haunting.

  But civilization still clung to life here.

  As he crested a hill, the outline of a town came into view. Unlike the last boomtown, this one was different—more fortified. The walls weren’t just hastily built barricades but proper defenses. Rusted shipping containers and reinforced concrete blocked off most of the entrance, forming a solid checkpoint. A large gate, wide enough for vehicles, stood half-open, guarded by two men with rifles. Above them, a worn banner hung between two watchtowers, the lettering too faded to read from this distance. Smoke curled into the sky from chimneys and forges, the scent of burning wood and oil mixing in the warm, humid air.

  This wasn’t just a town trying to survive. This was a town preparing for war.

  James slowed as he approached, rolling his window down slightly as one of the guards stepped forward, his rifle resting against his shoulder. The man was older—mid-forties, with a weathered face and a tired look in his eyes.

  “State your business,” he called out.

  James tilted his head. “Just passing through. Looking for a place to rest.”

  The guard squinted, scanning James’s car and gear. “You a merc?”

  James gave a half-smirk. “Yeah, I am. Why? There work to be had here?”

  The guard exchanged a glance with his partner before jerking his head toward the gate. “Keep your weapons holstered and don’t start trouble.”

  James didn’t ask why. Places like this always had something going on.

  He drove in slowly, eyes scanning the town as he passed through the checkpoint. It was larger than the last boomtown, more structured. The streets were cleaner, with actual roads made from repaired asphalt and gravel instead of just dirt pathways. Buildings weren’t thrown together from scrap but reinforced, repurposed pre-war structures with second stories, balconies, and proper roofs. There were signs of industry—blacksmiths hammering away at metal, mechanics working on vehicles, and traders setting up stalls in a central marketplace.

  But the biggest difference was the people.

  The last town had been rough, but it had families. Kids played in the streets, mothers carried baskets of supplies, and old men sat outside their homes smoking pipes. Here, it was different. James couldn’t see a single child. The people looked hardened, tense—like they were waiting for the next attack. Every person carried a weapon, even if it was just a pistol on their hip or a blade strapped to their belt.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  James parked his car near the market square and stepped out, stretching slightly as his joints popped from the long drive. He glanced around, noting a few curious eyes on him, but no one outright stared.

  First things first. He needed a drink.

  He walked through the market, weaving between traders selling everything from scavenged electronics to handmade leather goods. He ignored them, focusing instead on what he was looking for.

  Then he spotted it.

  A bar.

  It was larger than most, built into what looked like an old pre-war diner, its faded sign barely hanging on above the entrance. The front windows were reinforced with steel bars, and a couple of men sat outside on a makeshift patio, drinks in hand, watching the road like unofficial sentries. The sign above the door simply read The Rusted Stag.

  James stepped inside.

  The interior was dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of alcohol, sweat, and aged wood. A long bar stretched across one side, bottles of whiskey and moonshine lined up behind it. A scattering of tables filled the rest of the room, most occupied by locals—workers still in their dirt-stained clothes, a few traders talking quietly, and a handful of men who looked like they’d seen their fair share of fights.

  James walked up to the bar, resting his hands on the counter.

  The bartender, a stocky man with a graying beard and a cybernetic left hand, eyed him as he wiped down a glass.

  “What’ll it be?”

  James pulled out a few SDS credits. “Whiskey. And the name of this town.”

  The bartender raised a brow but took the credits, pouring a glass of amber liquid before sliding it over. “Welcome to Red Pines.”

  James took a sip, letting the burn settle in his chest before setting the glass down.

  “So why is this place so uptight?” he asked, scanning the room. “The last boomtown I came from was much brighter. Sure, not as structured, but the people were happy.”

  The bartender let out a dry chuckle. “Figures, you being from out of town. You wouldn’t know.” He leaned against the counter, his cybernetic fingers tapping rhythmically against the wood. “A gang’s set up shop nearby. A nasty bunch. We’ve tried to push them out, but most of the volunteers and hired mercs never made it back.”

  James nodded, filing that information away. “That so? Any chance there’s another raid coming?”

  The bartender’s expression darkened. “Not if—when.”

  James swirled his whiskey in the glass, weighing the situation. A coming raid meant opportunity. The further south he traveled, the less his SDS credits would be worth—he needed to start dealing in whatever currency actually mattered here.

  “Speaking of,” he said, setting his glass down. “Who’s in charge around here? And what’s the main currency?”

  The bartender exhaled, glancing around as if making sure no one was eavesdropping. “Town’s run by a council. Used to be a mayor system, but when the gang problem started, people decided they needed a war council instead. We’re not part of any big faction the boomtowns along the Creeper Route aren’t. But we’ve got a loose alliance with each other to keep trade flowing.”

  He wiped down the counter before continuing. “As for currency? Anything from the East Coast works. SDS credits, Carolina scrip, old-world usd, gold and silver—long as it holds value, people’ll trade. Same goes for all towns along the route that's why it was made.” He leaned in slightly. “But if you’re asking about the real players around here, there’s a few.”

  James listened as the bartender listed them off.

  “The Meridian Republic (TMR) holds land up in North Carolina, though they’re more inland than the Creeper Route. They got structure, governance, but they don’t stretch this far south.”

  “Then you got the Helix Cartel (HC) running things on the Georgia coast. Smugglers, slavers, and worse. They control the ports and move goods.”

  “And lastly, there’s Chromadex Aerial Industries (CAI) down in parts of Florida. Tech-focused, always looking for old-world research and lost infrastructure. They don’t hold hard borders—hell, none of ‘em do. The wastelands and toxic storms make it impossible to carve out real territories. But they’ve all got influence, and you’ll start feeling it the deeper south you go.”

  James took another sip, nodding. He could work with that.

  The crack of gunfire echoed through the town, sharp and sudden.

  James had barely set his glass down when the reaction was immediate. Every able-bodied man in the bar shot to their feet, chairs scraping against the wooden floor as weapons were grabbed and hastily checked. There was no hesitation these people had been expecting this.

  James followed, stepping out onto the street, his hand hovering near his 1911 as he scanned the horizon. The gunfire was coming from the western outskirts of town, beyond the walls. A second later, the town’s alarm bell rang out—a deep, clanging sound meant to rally defenders.

  He followed the movement of the townsfolk, slipping into the crowd but keeping to the edges, watching.

  By the time he reached the western gate, the fighting had already begun.

  From his position on a two-story building’s balcony, he had a clear view of the battlefield. The town’s defenders, hastily assembled militia, were positioned along a makeshift barricade—a collection of sandbags, overturned carts, and scrap metal welded together. A handful of them were crouched behind cover, rifles braced against the debris, taking measured shots at the figures moving through the tree line.

  The attackers were fast and well-organized, using the natural terrain to their advantage. Shadows flitted between the trees, figures dressed in mismatched armor—leather, bits of plate, reinforced cloth. They weren’t just random raiders. These were professionals, or at least men who had fought long enough to know what they were doing.

  James watched as a group of three attackers rushed forward, staying low. One of them, a man with a crude red skull painted on his chest plate, tossed a small object toward the barricade.

  Grenade.

  The explosion sent dirt and shrapnel flying, and one of the defenders went down, clutching his bleeding leg. The others didn’t panic—they adjusted, moving to cover, returning fire.

  A marksman on the town’s side, perched in a small watchtower, took his shot. A clean hit. One of the attackers jerked back, his head snapping to the side before his body crumpled.

  The rest kept advancing.

  James narrowed his eyes.

  This wasn’t a full-blown raid. It was a probe. Testing defenses. The way they moved, the way they applied pressure without fully committing—these men weren’t here to take the town. They were here to see how hard it would be.

  A defender with an old bolt-action rifle stood to take a shot—only for another attacker to put a round straight through his chest. The man staggered back, collapsing against the barricade.

  One of the defenders, a younger fighter, grabbed the wounded man and pulled him back. Another took his place, shouldering an old shotgun and firing into the darkness.

  The attackers finally started falling back, vanishing into the tree line just as suddenly as they had appeared.

  It was over in minutes.

  James exhaled, hands still in his pockets.

  The gang wasn’t just testing them. They were setting the stage.