Simon had told Jin he could freshen up, but the urgency in his voice meant there was no time to dawdle.
Jin opened the door to find Simon's scarred face tight with tension, his massive frame blocking the corridor. The older man's hands were clenched at his sides, knuckles white.
"What's happened?"
"Nathan's team is distributing supplies in the hall." Simon's voice was low, controlled. "They've got a crowd around them. Twenty, maybe more. Mark and Lisa are already there keeping an eye on things, but it's getting ugly. I saw trouble brewing and came to get you."
Jin's jaw tightened. The resource issue had finally boiled over. He'd known it was coming—had been waiting for it, really. Water was the critical shortage, but food was scarce enough to make people desperate. Desperate people did stupid things.
"Let's go."
Fidex fell into step behind them as they moved through the corridor. The Summon's four arms were folded across its chest, its metallic skin catching the dim light from the emergency lamps. Eight feet of fused flesh and nightmare, moving with a predator's silence.
As they approached the hall, voices reached them—raised, angry, layered over each other in a chaotic swell. Jin's hand tightened on the crowbar at his side. He didn't expect to use it, but the weight was comforting.
A shrill, grating voice cut through the noise, carrying the practiced whine of someone used to getting their way.
"Nathan, you have to share some of those supplies with us. How are we supposed to survive otherwise? You can't just leave us to starve!"
"Exactly!" another voice chimed in, laced with indignation. "You've cleaned out the whole building. Our rooms were included in that. You can't just take everything we have. I'm from 1201 on the twelfth floor. I had twenty pounds of rice and a box of milk I just bought. Just give me that bag of rice. I won't quibble over the rest."
Jin rounded the corner and stopped.
The hall was a pressure cooker. Nathan's security team—Frank, Zack, and two others—stood in a loose formation around the supply cache, their faces tight with strain. Behind them, the food was stacked in piles: rice, flour, canned goods, dried meat. Three days of accumulated scavenging, enough to feed the settlement for maybe a week if they rationed carefully.
The crowd pressing in on them was larger than Simon had suggested. Twenty-five, maybe thirty survivors. Their faces were a mix of desperation, resentment, and calculated greed.
Leading the charge was an old woman with graying hair and gaunt, fox-like cheeks. Jin recognized her from the lobby—one of the ones who had hidden while others fought. Her voice was unnaturally shrill for someone her age, her eyes roving greedily over the supplies, especially the bag of fresh rice.
"You're right," another voice called out. "They should at least return what belongs to us. It's only fair!"
Seven or eight people joined in, mostly residents from the upper floors who had been trapped in the lobby during the initial clearing. Before the building was secured, their supplies had been inaccessible, locked away behind floors infested with Zombies. Now, with the corridors safe, they saw an opportunity. No monsters to face. Just a negotiation with reasonable people.
Reasonable. Jin almost laughed. Reasonable was the first thing to die in the apocalypse.
Some in the crowd genuinely wanted their belongings back. Jin could see it in their eyes—the desperate hope that something from their old lives could be restored. Others saw a chance to grab whatever they could, using the moral cover of the crowd. The rest stood like fence posts, silent, guilty, hoping no one would notice them.
"That won't work."
Yvonne stepped forward, her voice carrying that note of self-righteous authority that Jin had come to recognize. The woman from the fifth floor lifted her chin, positioning herself as a voice of reason. "Supplies should be shared equally. We're all survivors. Why should they keep what belongs to everyone?"
Her logic was simple. If they followed the old woman's proposal—returning supplies to their original owners—Yvonne got nothing. She had no legitimate claim to any of the food. But equal distribution? That gave her a share.
Jin watched Nathan's expression harden. The former security captain was a good man—too good, maybe. He believed in rules, in order, in doing things the right way. Those instincts had kept the settlement together for three days. But good men had limits.
"Impossible."
Nathan's voice carried across the hall, cutting through the noise. He stepped forward, his broad shoulders squared, his buzz-cut head gleaming under the lights. Behind him, his security team tensed.
"Before the clearing, we made the rules clear. These supplies were obtained at risk of life. Those who participated in dealing with the Zombies, transporting supplies, and clearing the floors get a share according to their contribution." He paused, letting the words sink in. "For everyone else, I'm sorry, but that's how it has to be."
The crowd erupted.
The noise swelled like a tide, angry voices layering over each other. Among the loudest was Dennis—Yvonne's companion, a man with a corporate executive's sense of entitlement and none of a leader's courage. His face was flushed, his eyes wild with the thrill of having a crowd behind him.
"Don't listen to him!" Dennis's voice cut through the chaos. "They're just security guards playing tough! What rules? My things were stolen too. Did I see you step up then? No! They just took what they wanted!"
He glared at Nathan, then turned to incite the crowd, his arms wide like a preacher. "We all go together! Take the supplies! I don't think they dare to kill! They're not monsters! Charge! Everyone, charge!"
Jin saw it clearly—the calculation behind the performance. Dennis urged the crowd forward while his own feet stayed planted, ready to fall back the moment things turned. He was using them, using their desperation, their hunger, their fear. Let them take the risk. He'd take the reward.
The crowd's emotions were already running hot. Several people shifted forward, testing the line. Nathan and his team weren't monsters. Surely they wouldn't hurt anyone. They were just security guards, after all. What could they do?
Nathan's expression darkened, but he hesitated. Jin could see the conflict in his face—the training that said protect the supplies, the conscience that said these are desperate people, not enemies. He didn't have the resolve to kill or seriously injure someone over cans of beans and bags of rice.
Dennis had read him perfectly.
Nathan was an honest man. Straightforward. Upright. The kind of man who believed that if you did the right thing, things would work out. And that made him vulnerable to exactly this kind of manipulation—testing limits, moral coercion, hiding behind a mob. The crowd hadn't resorted to violence yet. They were just arguing, pressing, demanding. How could you hurt people for asking?
But Jin knew where this was going. The mob would press, and press, and press. Someone would grab something. Someone else would follow. And then it would be chaos, and people would die, and the fragile order that had kept them alive for three days would shatter.
Yesterday, before they set out, Nathan had asked who wanted to become Contractors. Killing a Zombie was risky, but the rewards were clear—a share of supplies, and the power of a Summon. Dennis had been in the crowd that day, along with other young, able-bodied men. They had hesitated. They had hoped to reap without sowing.
Now they were the loudest voices demanding a share.
Nathan tried again: "If you want supplies, sign up for the next expedition—"
"Next expedition?" The old woman's voice was a sneer. "And what do we eat until then? Your promises?"
"Nathan, just say the word," another voice called. "We don't need all the supplies. Just enough to get by. You can't let us starve!"
"Wishful thinking."
The voice cut through the noise like a blade. Cold. Flat. Final.
Jin stepped forward, and behind him, Fidex moved into the light.
The Summon loomed—eight feet of fused flesh and nightmare, its four arms folded across a chest that rippled with metallic sheen. Muscles like iron cables, skin that caught the light like oil on water. The crowd's voices died in their throats.
Dennis's face went white. His arms dropped to his sides. "Not this guy again," he muttered, but Jin heard it anyway.
Fear and resentment warred on the man's features. He had been so close. The crowd was ready. The supplies were right there. Then Jin appeared, dragging that nightmare behind him.
But Dennis had come too far to back down. Driven by panic or stupidity—Jin didn't care which—he shrieked, "Don't be afraid of him! He won't dare kill anyone! Just take the supplies! We're entitled to them! He was the first to grab supplies!"
Jin let out a cold laugh. Truly ignorant.
"Fidex. Grab him. And the woman too."
The Summon moved.