Oron Tein moved through the warehouse bottom floor the way water finds cracks.

Sunlight fell in long pale shafts through high broken dirt covered panes. Dust and light fungal spores drifted slow inside the gold beams. The air carried wet earth and faint rot even through the half-mask’s layered wool and cotton filters. His rusted machete parted fungal threads and spider silk in the same measured sweep. Three years under the 8th Farsee had burned silence into his nerves the way heat burns shape into steel as he made careful steps through the warehouse lower floor. Coveralls rode up again at the crouch. Green-brown and bruise-purple cameo bunched uncomfortably.

One size fits all my ass.

Free hand tugged the fabric flat without breaking stride. Oron’s head turned slow. Scorch rings stained the concrete walls from old nest fires gone cold. Machinery had rusted down to skeletal husks. West-coast grass—yellowing, stubborn—pushed thin blades through floor cracks. Shit’s empty. He swore to himself settling the burlap-cotton pack straps tighter. Tools clinked once, softly. The 7.62 Fortstad bolt-action holstered strapped to the side of his pack shifted against his hip; the bolted-on telescope caught a stray sun-glint and threw it back like a signal. Metal catwalk stairs waited ahead. Long decayed. Rust flaking in red motes, fungal dust and dirt. He studied them through his aviation goggles the way a man studies a life choice, he knows, he’s going to regret later. Rubber half-mask tugged snug fitted to his face. Grey boonie settled lower over the eyes. A sigh leaked out—too old for twenty-three—muffled by filters.

“Here we go.”

Shin-high brown laced leather boots tested the first tread. Metal groaned low under weight. Rust drifted down in faint red snowfall, dust settling on his leather shoulder pauldrons, he brushed it off and more dirt catching on the bracers on his arms, gave up. Upward he went, careful steps, half way up.

One bolt gave.

The staircase tilted hard left. His body followed. Long-barrel .32 revolver grip rang against the railing. Belt pouches jangled. Tools rattled in their slots like loose change. He froze. Ears pulled every sound the warehouse offered back—Nothing moved. Nothing breathed but wind through broken glass. Still clear. Right hand travelled up his sleeve carefully. Thumb pressed the loose 7.62 cartridge back into the bandoleer strip along his left arm. Breath eased out slow. Continued. One careful tread after another until the upper landing. Wooden door framed in riveted steel stood closed. Above the frame an old push-nail held a ribbon—once white, now dirt-browned and ragged. Fingers brushed it. White still hid under the grime.

Danger, huh?

Shoulder found the corner. He listened, breeze caught his ear like breath. Nothing answered. Boots planted. Shoulder to the door. He braced and Pushed. Accumulated dirt and rust surrendered trickling to the floor. The hinges gave a long metallic groan that rolled through empty space. Back to corner he ducked. Waiting. Still nothing.

Well alright then.

Full push. Door swung wide on a heavier groan that echoed off bare walls. His eyes scanning sweeping the room. Tool desks picked clean to bare frames. Button panel stripped to wires and holes. Floor carried the blackened outlines of long-dead fungal growth and the bones of previous infected—scorched circles. One skull still wore a piece of re-bar like a crude crown. Against the back wall. Machinery waited. Decayed but intact.

“Yes, finally.”

He crossed to the door-frame, pulled the danger ribbon free, reached into the back belt pouch fingers rustling feeling. A red ribbon came out. Knotted quick to the nail. Salvage marked. Machete slid home into the sheath between pack and spine. As he moved checking the machines, more red ribbons tied to the machines—small bright claims in the decay. Distant gunfire cracked. Too far to pull focus yet, mission first but caution. He finished tying. Last glance. Ladder riveted to the wall beside a blank rusted sign. Open hatch above spilling clean sunlight.

Roof access.

He pulled the door shut behind him with another long groan. Ladder rungs cold under finger-less gloves. Climbing. Metal trembled but held. Oron grunted at the top step as he pulled himself up. Mask tugged open. Fresh air washed across his face like cool water. He walked to the flat concrete edge. Marksman rifle unholstered from his pack. Raised. Scope found the opposite roof, tracing down. The building another squad mate had been sent to mark—Oron’s silhouette sharp against open sky. Glint flickered in the lens. Top-floor window across the street. A push-nail. Red ribbon. Small polished metal? Blank dogtag dangling, spinning lazy, catching light and throwing it in bright pulses.

Moved on, eh? Will do. On to rendezvous.

Rifle slid back into its holster over the shoulder. Ladder down.

Outside he drove another push-nail into a weathered wooden post with the machete handle. Red ribbon knotted tight along with an Orange one, Red for valuable, Orange for Caution. His head a constant swivel. Fungal dust coated everything. Art-deco storefronts sagged beneath gothic arches softened by rot. Fresh tendrils crawled in shadowed corners. Dead fungal ropes half-strangled brick and concrete. The smell of dirt, rust, and rot pressed through the mask. Gunfire rolled closer. Thumb brushed the wrist compass. Dirt flicked from finger-less brown gloves. Fingers probing his belt. Charcoal stub pulled from a siege pouch. Oron shifted his left brace, left sleeve parted at the leather bracer loosen. He pulled a tan fabric strip came free from inside the sleeve partition—Coordinates already marked from the other buildings he’s done today. New ones added neat and quick for the report later. Folded the tan fabric. Tucked away back in the sleeve and bracer tight again. He settled his shoulder pad back into place. Crotch tugged down again. Quiet sigh, wondering who the previous owner of his “standard issue gear” was.

Right. Primary objective complete. Support and rendezvous.

Rifle came over the shoulder. He moved toward the gunshots.

Fire-escape rungs bit cold through gloves. Oron scaled fast as the shooting swelled—shouts threading through low growls. Roof top gained, he ran across gravel. Jumping narrow alley gaps in single strides. Coming to the cross-street. A sharp whistle cut the air. Heili—opposite roof—marksman rifle raised, pointing down the block. Oron slung his rifle. Both hands lifted in a shrug. Thumbs-up returned. Both dropped to a knee. Oron pulled a thin metal spoke from his boot. Fabric scrap tied loose at the tip. He wedged it firm between bricks. Watched it flutter in the breeze. Thumbs-up to Heili. Stock nestled into his shoulder. Eye found the scope. Tracking. Below them Sanctum Paladins held line What are shinnies doing here? Five heavy figures in gleaming plate and full metal breather helms. Iron heater shields with carved slits. Pump-shotguns. Falling back step by measured step. Oron’s scope swept. Three Farsee squad mates already in the street, giving fire support. A horde advanced. Shufflers coming into a slow heavy jog. Runners darting low between them—using the mass like moving cover—lunging out in quick dives. One Runner broke clean. Straight at the line. A paladin fired. Slug caught the shoulder, nearly tore the shoulder off. Fungal arm flapped by the tendon and fungal thread. He hooked the shotgun to belt hook. Pistol cleared a leather holster on his hip—two rounds—head burst into ichor and fungal spray. Re-holster. Lifting the shotgun his foot found the stirrup attached to the pump. Giving it a little kick to pump the shotgun. He brought the shotgun around shield carve-out cradling it like it always belonged. Fired, killing second Runner. Holding the stirrup with his shield hand pulled again—fore-grip leverage—pump, fired. Squad mates picked off the Shufflers in front from the edges. Oron braced. Breathed full. Wind touched his cheek. Finger found the break. Shot. Shuffler folded. One squad mate glanced back. Oron lifted a hand—wave—then scope again. Heili mirrored from across the street.

“Five.” Bolt racked.

“Six.” Bolt racked.

“Seven.” Bolt racked.

“Eight.” Bolt racked. Empty mag dropped in a pouch. Fresh one pulled from bicep. Slammed home. Rest he was began to rough from the tension Calm, Oron. Bolt slid forward. Eye back to glass. Heili sprinted to the far side of her roof—then returned—pulling wide tube unslung from under her pack—trigger pulled—projectile screamed east trailing bright sparks. Warning flare. Distraction flare. Everyone understood more coming from the east. Oron dropped to street level. Heili right behind. Pillip met him grinning through sweat and dust.

“Right fucking mess, Oro, welcome to up shits creek!” Oron fired down sight.

“The fuck happened?” “OUR BAD!” a Paladin bellowed. Pillip jerked his head toward the armoured line.

“Our shiny friends were clearing a nest—old building—didn’t realise subway tunnels below. Ran into them on our way to catch our lift home.” Heili was head up top again. Getting to the stop she spotted dust rising east.

“ROLLERS!” She called down, “RIGHT’O!” Pillip called back.

“I’M OUT!” Derek swapped to revolver.

“OUT!” Pillip followed. Heili dropped to join no point with ride coming, “SHINNIES? RIDES COMING! She called out hands cupping her mouth.

One Paladin shed his shield.

“LIGHTEN THE LOAD BROTHERS!” Farsee squad ran forward stripped heavy plate off them fast. Oron unbuckled a giant mans chest piece—the man towered over his 5’7″. “Great for close quarter,” the Paladin chuckled low, “terrible for long-distance running.” New firing posts. Paladins retreating tactical toward the rising dust. Farsee running ahead doing the same. Repeating, Pillip slid behind a rusted car frame like a base runner stealing home ducking his head. A Fungal dog lunged from the alley—Pillip rolled his revolver barked—chest—chest—forehead. “POOCHIES!” He called. “RODGER!” Paladins slung shotguns. Maces and side-arms came out. Oron drew machete in one hand, .32 in the other. Six fungal dogs boiled from the alley behind. A Paladin mace swung hard, head caved with a crunch. Body dropped limp. The other skidded and the adjacent alley swallowed the group. “WE AREN’T DEAD ENOUGH FOR THOSE SCAVS YET!” The paladin with a laugh.

Steam chugs rose and a capacitor cracked, Engine rumble under it. Dust thickened ahead. Two Fortstad steam trucks—green-brown and bruise-purple—barrelled into view. Brakes locked coming to a stop and kick ramp went down. The group broke formation as soldiers scrambled out of the back setting up a firing line. Ran for the trucks. A Steam-cycle with a passenger cab swerved between the trucks—did not stop—skidded into a tight turn as passed the fleeing group coming to a stop. Big man stepped out of the passenger cab wearing a worn long trench coat. Long-handle cleaver in hand. Eisenkrone semi-auto slung across leather plate,. Short man dismounted—eagle-emblem stitched on grey-leather long coat—grabbed a 32 semi-auto sub-gun from the cycle rack, gladius from its sheath. Oron and squad hauled aboard one of the trucks. A soldier pulled them up as they came up the ramp. “AMMO!” Oron shouted. “No can do, lad—let the Deadlanders do it! They aren’t to pleased their neighbours got woken.”

Trucks hummed alive, the capacitor whined threading the steady steam chug.

The Deadlanders worked fast. Big man hauled a crate from the cab—opening a box with molotovs inside. Short man lit the rags. Big man threw in long arcs that shattered against the horde front slowly advance. Flames bloomed quick, some of the shufflers screeched as flames took them the jog slowed back to a crawl as the shufflers had to rout. The Trucks rolled forward, carved a wide circle, headed back the way they came. Oron watched the two Deadlanders give each other a thumbs-up—then melt into the alley mouths like they had never been there the horde splitting into two streams to pursue them.

Red ribbons still fluttered on nails behind them.

Quiet claims, soon to be posted at the Graveworkers, where mercs and deadlanders will come to collect the marked salvage for a price.

In a world that had long forgotten how to keep anything.

Fin.