Chương 3: Chapter 2: “The First Watch”

The first leg of our trek was a masterclass in quiet tension. We pushed south through patches of farmland, navigating around windrows of local crops. A fair number of fields—especially the wheat and hay that had already been harvested and left out to dry—had been completely devastated by the lightning fires. The green corn and milo stalks had fared much better, but the surrounding atmosphere was choked with a thick layer of smoke and ash. Every breath tasted like a campfire, making respiration a chore.

Yet, thanks to my newly boosted Constitution, it was entirely manageable. In fact, it was still a hell of a lot easier than running through the woods of North Carolina in one-hundred percent humidity while the Army was conducting controlled burns. Whenever we hit a rural back road, we paused, scouting the asphalt carefully for any signs of movement before crossing. We gave a wide berth to every farmhouse we encountered, regardless of whether it was burning or untouched.

We had absolutely no desire to be shot by a panicked farmer wielding a twelve-gauge. Call it selfish, but our sole priority was getting home to our own families, not hunting for strangers to rescue. Sorry, not sorry. Eventually, our path was blocked by a massive concrete irrigation canal. With no way across, we had no choice but to hike along its dirt bank until we could find an intersecting road with a bridge. As we walked, Dan suddenly stopped, pointing at the dark water.

Something massive was rippling beneath the surface. These local canals usually held standard catfish and striped bass—the biggest striper I'd ever pulled out of one was about twenty-six inches. But as we watched, a monstrous striped bass crested the water, breaking the surface with a heavy splash. It was easily double the size of my personal best.

"Holy shit, did you see that?" I gasped, my inner fisherman instantly taking over.

"I've only seen stripers that big in professional fishing magazines. Do you think the system shock pushed it out of the deep reservoir sixty miles southwest and into these shallow canals?"

"Who knows?" Dan said, shaking his head.

"I only wish I had my fishing rods. We'd have dinner for a week with that single fish."

"Yeah, no kidding," Frank agreed wistfully. I glanced at Dan.

"Didn't you have a pole in your truck?"

"Yeah, but I didn't think about grabbing it. I hadn't exactly planned on angling for dinner during a sixty-mile forced march," Dan said with a rough chuckle.

"Besides, I have thirty more rods waiting at the house if need be." Frank and I laughed. It was true. Between the three of us, we had enough combined fishing gear to open a fully stocked bait and tackle store. That common hobby was what kept our work crews close. When we took job sites far from home, we'd pack our rods, stay at a local motel, and spend every single evening after work out on the water.

Our fourth coworker, who had luckily skipped work today, usually joined us too—though he was more of a drinker than a fisherman. He typically spent his evenings in the motel room draining a thirty-pack of beer. Walking along that smoke-choked canal, I felt a wave of profound relief that he hadn't shown up today. I did not relish the idea of managing someone going through severe alcohol withdrawals while trying to navigate a system apocalypse.

By the time we finally crossed a bridge and broke away from the canal, we had been walking for three and a half hours. The sun was dipping dangerously low, casting long, bloody shadows across the valley. I estimated we had maybe an hour of twilight left before we'd be forced to hike in pitch blackness.

"It's getting late," I said, calling a halt.

"Do we want to push through the dark, or should we bed down, make a shelter, and get some food in us? If we stop, we need to find wood for a fire." Frank looked visibly worn down, his face pale and sickly in the fading light.

"I'd rather find a place to rest," he admitted, leaning heavily against his sledgehammer. I frowned, stepping closer.

"What's wrong, Frank? You don't look right."

"I think I'm crashing a bit," Frank muttered.

"Might be my diabetes acting up."

"Hold still." I closed my eyes, pulling a thread of warmth from my core and channeling it into my palms. I cast Minor Heal, letting the soothing energy wash into him.

"How's that? Any better?" Frank blinked, stretching his arms.

"Yeah, that takes the edge off... but I still don't feel completely right." I chewed my lip, analyzing the result.

"Yeah, that's what I figured. The heal spell probably only mends raw physical trauma—cuts, bruises, broken bones. It doesn't fix systemic chronic illnesses or blood sugar crashes." I pointed toward a dense copse of trees about a mile out.

"There's our camp for the night. Frank, do you have any of your insulin or meds in your bag?"

"No," Frank said grimly.

"Left them in my personal truck."

"Okay," I said, shifting my rucksack.

"While we walk to those trees, keep your eyes glued to the dirt. Look for dandelions. If my survival training serves me right, a strong dandelion tea can help naturally lower blood sugar if we can gather enough of it." Lady Luck smiled on us. By the time we reached the tree line, we had gathered a decent handful of the weeds. To my absolute delight, the grove consisted largely of mature pine trees. Pine trees are a survivalist's jackpot.

The thick carpets of dry fallen needles made for excellent insulation from the cold ground, and the dead lower branches provided perfect kindling. Even better, boiling fresh green pine needles creates a potent tea packed with vitamin C. Mixed with the dandelions, it would be exactly the medicine Frank needed.

"I know we haven't had a chance to deep-dive into our system screens yet," I said as we dropped our packs, "but do either of you have an Alchemy or Herbalism skill listed?" Both Dan and Frank shook their heads. It made perfect sense. I was the survivalist of the group; I had taken wilderness foraging classes and spent years practicing primitive wilderness living.

When the initialization prompt stated it was tallying our real-world training, the System had literally translated my hobby into an active, objective skill set.

"No problem," I said.

"You guys use your tools to cut down a few straight, slender saplings for a lean-to frame. I'll focus on gathering firewood and digging a secure fire pit to simmer Frank's tea." I unbuckled my military entrenching tool—the trusty E-tool—and began digging a hole about a foot wide and eighteen inches deep. When I hit hard, compacted clay, I used the heavy claw of my framing hammer to break up the earth, clearing it out quickly.

Once the primary hole was dug, I used a sharpened stick to tunnel a secondary ventilation shaft at a forty-five-degree angle connecting to the bottom of the pit. It was a classic Dakota fire pit. It focused all the thermal heat directly upward, allowing for incredibly fast cooking while keeping the actual light of the flames buried safely below ground level. In a world where society had just collapsed, advertising your position with a blazing beacon was a fantastic way to get murdered.

I gathered dry kindling, drew my ferrocerium rod, and struck a shower of sparks onto a nest of dried pine needles. The nest caught, and I gently blew the ember into a flame before sliding it into the pit. As the fire took hold, I pulled my twenty-ounce stainless steel cooking cup from my ruck, packed it with the washed dandelion leaves and green pine needles, filled it with water, and set it on a flat rock directly over the heat. While the tea began to simmer, I jumped in to help the guys finish the shelter.

Using a few lengths of 550 parachute cord from my bag, we lashed a stout ridge-beam branch horizontally between two sturdy pines. We tied one of our canvas drop cloths to the beam, stretching it backward at a sharp angle and securing it to the dirt with improvised wooden stakes. This created a solid, wind-blocking lean-to directly in front of our hidden fire pit.

Finally, we swept a massive pile of dry pine needles into the shelter and covered them with our second canvas tarp, creating a surprisingly cushioned mattress. Exhausted, we sat in the mouth of the lean-to and broke out the sandwiches and chips we'd failed to eat at lunchtime. After about thirty minutes, the dandelion-pine blend was a rich, simmering amber. I carefully poured the hot liquid into an empty water bottle and handed it to Frank. He took a cautious sip and grimaced.

"Well, it doesn't taste entirely terrible." He braced himself and drank the whole thing. Within half an hour, the color returned to Frank's cheeks and his posture straightened. He let out a long sigh of relief, looking remarkably better. As I watched him recover, a familiar yellow light began blinking in the lower right quadrant of my vision. I focused on it, pulling up the notification. [Congratulations: You have successfully brewed Minor Medicinal Tea. This concoction aids in the recovery of minor illnesses and ailments, and restores 10 points of Health.] [Herbalism has increased to Beginner 5. Alchemy has increased to Beginner 5. You now possess an 80% chance of successfully brewing standard teas, and a 10% critical success chance to create a high-tier draught. Minor EXP gained.]"Sweet!" I grinned.

"I just got a couple of skill increases and some experience points for making that brew. The System officially classifies it as a Minor Medicinal Tea. Looks like we just found our workaround for your diabetes, Frank. Which is huge, because standard pharmaceuticals are about to become extinct. Painkillers and antibiotics are going to be worth their weight in gold very soon." This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there. Frank nodded grimly.

"Yeah, no kidding. With everything happening so fast, I didn't even think about long-term survival. It's a damn good thing you were a prepper before the lights went out, Derrick." I let out a dry laugh.

"Hey, everyone likes to make fun of the prepper until it's time to do some prepper shit. I just hope my notes are enough to keep us alive." As we chatted, a sudden rustle of leaves caught my eye. I snapped my head toward the darkness of the grove, squinting into the deep twilight. A large shadow was clinging to a trunk just a few paces away.

"What the hell is that?" I whispered. Dan squinted into the gloom.

"Looks like a common gray squirrel."

"No way," Frank hissed, gripping his sledgehammer.

"That thing is the size of an overfed house cat." I stared at the over-sized silhouette.

"Well, if it's a squirrel, it's meat. How do you guys feel about rodent for breakfast?" Both Dan and Frank gave me a synchronized look of utter disgust.

"Hey, look," I countered, pulling my pack closer.

"Normally, I wouldn't bother either. But this is a survival scenario. Any source of fresh protein we can harvest without dipping into our packed MRE's is a massive win. And as it happens, I have the perfect tool for the job." Deep inside my rucksack, nestled within my bush-craft gear, were two industrial-strength rat traps and a tube of peanut butter. I had salvaged these specific traps from an abandoned supply building during my tour in Iraq.

They weren't flimsy wooden pieces; they were heavy-duty metal traps stamped with sharp, vicious teeth along the snapping bar. I had always jokingly referred to them as my "bear rat traps." I pulled them out, unwinding the lengths of 550 cord I had previously affixed to their frames. Years ago, I had disassembled the heavy springs and wound them an extra turn, making the snap terrifyingly fast and powerful. I crept out to the edge of the camp, wanting enough distance so our voices wouldn't spook the game.

I selected two promising pine trees, securely lashed the traps to the lower branches using the para-cord so a thrashing animal couldn't run off with them, and baited the triggers with generous dabs of MRE peanut butter. When I returned to the glow of the fire pit, the reality of what we were seeing began to weigh on me.

"You know, this is starting to seriously worry me," I admitted, staring out into the dark woods.

"What is?" Frank asked.

"The sheer scale of that squirrel," I said tightly.

"And that monster striped bass in the canal. My Tame Animal spell explicitly mentioned a bonus for 'canine hybrids.' If that thing in the tree is just a common squirrel, it has absolutely no business being that big. What if the System is actively mutating the local wildlife? What does a canine hybrid even mean? Are we going to see a crossbreed between a feral dog and a giant squirrel? Are we going to get hunted by packs of giant hounds that can leap through the canopy like monkeys?"

"That's biologically impossible," Frank scoffed.

"Is it?" I challenged.

"Before noon today, I would have agreed with you. But now? The rule book has been thrown out the window." Dan frowned, thinking it through.

"There's no way a dog could successfully mate with a squirrel. The physical size difference alone makes the mechanics impossible."

"Okay, explain this to me then," I countered, a grin tugging at my mouth despite the tension.

"How is there a crossbreed between a German Shepherd and a Chihuahua? My wife always told me that size doesn't matter. I just assumed she was saying that to make me feel less self-conscious." Dan and Frank burst out laughing, the tension breaking instantly.

"Speaking of all these changes," I continued, leaning back against the canvas.

"Do either of you have any active spells on your screens that we can utilize?"

"Nothing magical," Dan said.

"Just heavy combat skills. I've got high rankings in bladed weapons, blunt weapons, hand-to-hand, and bo staves. I also have a few low-level wilderness survival perks. I'm guessing those came from my years working as a firefighter with the Department of Corrections."

"Makes sense," I nodded.

"I also have a Master-level Building skill," Dan added.

"And a passive ability called Battle Focus."

"Well, the building skill is obvious—you've been a licensed general contractor for over thirty years. But Battle Focus sounds like something straight out of a Monk class. That definitely stems from your decades of martial arts training." Frank looked up, his brow furrowing.

"Wait a second. I have extensive martial arts experience too. I'm a certified black belt in two separate disciplines, but I didn't get any Battle Focus skill." I chuckled, poking a stick into the fire.

"Well, Frank, you aren't exactly known for your serene, calm demeanor. And you spent a good chunk of your youth using those martial arts skills as a rowdy nightclub bouncer, am I right? If anything, the System is probably priming you to unlock a Berserker class." Frank grinned, relenting.

"Yeah, I guess you aren't entirely wrong about that."

"What about your combat stats, Derrick?" Dan asked.

"I have Beginner rankings in hand-to-hand, blunt weapons, daggers, and sword mastery. The first few are definitely from my military combatives and police defensive tactics training. The sword mastery is a funny one, though—remember when I told you guys about practicing with my buddies in the military? We bought shinai —bamboo training swords—and beat the hell out of each other for years. We even shipped them to Iraq.

The local infantry guys thought we were absolutely losing our minds, sword-fighting in the middle of a desert outpost." I took a sip of water.

"But my highest combat skills are Bow Mastery and Axe Mastery, both sitting at Apprentice 3. I've been shooting compound and traditional bows since junior high. We used to hike up to the state parks that had those mountain archery courses, shooting trick shots through dense tree lines and across steep ravines. And the axe mastery comes from learning how to throw hatchets when I was a kid. I still have that massive wooden bullseye target in my backyard.

Once we get back to the house, I'm grabbing my throwing hatchets." Frank perked up.

"I've got Bow Mastery at Beginner 8, and my Sword Mastery is actually at Apprentice 5. That tournament katana sitting on the stand in my living room is looking like a much better investment now." Curious about the actual numbers, I pulled up my status screen to look closer at the tool-tips for my weapon skills. [Bow Mastery: Apprentice 3. Grants +14% physical damage with a 28% chance to land a Critical Hit. Critical Hits deal +50% bonus damage and apply a Bleed Debuff for 5 seconds.] I checked Axe Mastery next.

Interestingly, it possessed the exact same mathematical scaling. Since both skills were at Apprentice 3, it seemed the System utilized a standardized baseline for weapon progression. I checked Blunt Weapons next, which sat at Beginner 8. [Blunt Weapons: Beginner 8. Grants +9% physical damage with a 16% chance to land a Critical Hit. Critical Hits deal +50% bonus damage and apply a Stun Debuff for 5 seconds.] Doing the quick mental math, it looked like every tier increase granted a flat ten percent bump to raw damage. By the time someone maxed a skill out at Grand-Master, they would deal fifty percent more base damage, but more importantly, their Critical Hit chance would scale to a guaranteed one hundred percent. Landing a guaranteed critical meant every single strike would deal massive bonus damage and apply a five-second crowd-control debuff like bleeding or stunning. That was a total game-changer for real combat.

I closed the screen and explained the math to the guys.

"You know," I mused, staring into the embers.

"I've watched a ton of fantasy movies and read plenty of sci-fi books, and I'm a little disappointed. I always figured if a fantasy system became real, I'd end up as some bad-ass Battle Mage. The main characters are always throwing around cosmic energy. Instead, I've got mundane martial skills and a couple of low-level utility spells. Where are the fireballs? Where's the chain lightning? Where's the real magic?" Frank snorted.

"Are you out of your mind? At least you have a couple of active spells you can use right out of the gate. Dan and I don't have a single drop of magic. So jump off the pity train and be grateful for what you've got."

"I'm not complaining," I laughed, raising my hands in surrender.

"But you can't blame a guy for wanting to be a Jedi in a magic-fueled, post-apocalyptic wasteland." Our laughter was abruptly cut short by a violent, metallic SNAP echoing from the dark tree line, followed instantly by a frantic, high-pitched squealing. One of my traps had been sprung. I scrambled to my feet, grabbing my framing hammer, and rushed toward the trap line. In the dim glow of my twilight vision, I saw a gray squirrel—easily the size of an overfed house cat—thrashing wildly.

The heavy metal teeth of the rat trap had clamped violently across its snout. Because the animal had mutated to such a bizarre size, the trap hadn't been large enough to deliver a clean, instantaneous killing blow to the neck. The teeth were merely anchoring the thrashing rodent to the branch. I hated seeing an animal suffer; a clean, painless kill was the golden rule of trapping. I stepped in quickly, bringing the heavy face of my framing hammer down in a single, swift blow to finish the job.

I unlashed both traps from the trees, recognizing that a standard rat trap was simply too small to safely hunt these scaled-up creatures anymore. Besides, this single squirrel yielded enough meat for a decent breakfast, and I didn't want to needlessly injure more wildlife through the night. Carrying the heavy carcass back to the fire pit, I drew my skinning knife.

"Well," I said, prepping the workspace.

"I was going to suggest we all turn in, but we definitely need to maintain a strict watch rotation tonight. We have to keep an eye out for both human looters and mutated predators. Since I need to skin and process this catch anyway, I'll take the first watch. What do you guys think?"

"Smart move," Dan nodded, unrolling my Woobie inside the lean-to.

"There are roughly nine hours until sunrise," I calculated.

"That's a flat three hours of watch apiece. Who wants the second shift?"

"I'll take the second watch," Frank volunteered, crawling into the shelter beside Dan. Within minutes, the rhythmic breathing of the exhausted older men filled the camp. I sat alone by the hidden warmth of the Dakota pit, carefully working my blade through the squirrel hide. As I worked, the yellow light flared in my vision once more. I blinked it open. [You have defeated a Gray Squirrel (Level 1). Minor EXP gained.] I stared at the notification, feeling the faint, almost imperceptible trickle of experience integrate into my soul. It felt like even less than the reward I'd received for brewing the medicinal tea. I shook my head, a small smile playing on my lips as I cleaned my knife. I couldn't exactly complain. A tiny, furry herbivore that posed zero actual threat to my life shouldn't be giving me massive level-ups anyway.

But as I looked out into the absolute, pitch-black silence of the mutated California valley, I knew one thing for certain: I would take every single scrap of experience I could get.