Sawmill Dungeons

  The silence in the Sawmill is interrupted only by the hum of diesel generators and the constant dripping of alkaline water. Henry moves through the shadows of the corridor, avoiding the yellowish lights. He does not use overt parkour; he moves like a shadow, each step calculated not to creak the metal plates. He reaches the bars of Solomon's cell.

  The old master is awake, sitting in the darkness. Henry leans his forehead against the iron bars.

  — Gun wants the bunker, Solomon — Henry whispers, his voice heavy with exhaustion. — If he gets live ammunition from the National Guard, no one else in Oregon will stand a chance. His reign will stop being based on fear and start being based on extermination.

  Solomon reaches his hand through the bars and touches Henry’s face. — A King always seeks more power to hide his own weakness, Henry. Gun is a King of scrap metal. But a Queen... a Queen plays the game differently.

  Henry frowns. — You’re talking about Freya.

  — She visited me today, before you arrived — Solomon reveals, his voice almost inaudible. — She isn’t looking for gunpowder, Henry. She’s looking for what was taken from her. The bunker isn't just a warehouse; it’s a military records center. She wants her brother. If you help her find what she seeks, she might be the key to opening these cells from the inside.

  The King on His Oil Throne

  While the Heretics whisper in the shadows, Gun is in his private quarters at the top of the Sawmill. The place is a sanctuary of excess: wolf-skin rugs and bottles of pre-Fall whiskey.

  Gun is sitting in a leather armchair, without his mask for the first time, though his face remains in the shadows, revealing only a sharp jawline and a scar that runs up his neck. He cleans his Magnum with a piece of red silk.

  Freya enters the room. She wears a gray silk dress, a stark contrast to the leather and soot of the base. She walks with a frigid elegance, pouring a glass of whiskey for Gun.

  — The maps are ready — Freya says, her voice like crystal hitting metal. — The bunker is under the old Redmond airport. But the pneumatic security should still be active. You’re going to need the German, that Beck guy, to open the doors without damaging the stock.

  Gun grips Freya’s wrist as she hands him the glass. The force is excessive, but she does not change her expression.

  — That dress suits your short blonde hair, my Queen.

  Freya does not look away. Gun releases her wrist and smiles, his white teeth shining in the dim light. — Tomorrow, Freya. Tomorrow we will be Gods. If Henry and Beck fail... I’ll kill Solomon in front of them.

  — Now, don’t look at me like that, my Queen. — Gun let out a low laugh, a sound that contrasted with the brutality he had shown on the road hours earlier. — You are the only clean and intelligent thing left in this dump we call a world.

  He stood up, his massive presence eclipsing the light from the oil lamp. With a calm motion, he walked to the heavy metal door of the room and turned the lock. The click of the bolt echoed through the room like the verdict of a prison cell. Gun turned back to Freya and embraced her from behind, burying his face in her neck, smelling the perfume that was an impossible luxury for anyone else in Oregon.

  — It’s been a long day, Freya... — he whispered, his voice hoarse, losing the theatricality of the supreme leader to reveal the tyrant's fatigue. — The blood, the oil, the screams of those peasants... sometimes the weight of the crown is too much. I need to relieve myself of this day. I need you, I need that beautiful face and hair, I need that angelic body of yours.

  Freya remained static, her eyes fixed on the opposite wall, feeling the heat of the man who kept her freedom under lead. She was the Queen, but the throne was a cage.

  The room was plunged into a dense gloom, broken only by the flickering glow of an oil lamp in the corner. The sound of the wind howling in the cracks of the Sawmill seemed distant, muffled by the thick metal walls and the oppressive heat emanating from Gun.

  Freya felt the weight of his body over hers, the "Demi-God’s" calloused hands roaming over her skin with a possessiveness that admitted no refusal. Under his touch, she molded herself, responding with the sweetness and submission he demanded. To anyone’s eyes, she was his devoted Queen, but behind the mask of pleasure and surrender, Freya’s mind was a labyrinth of gratitude and terror.

  He pulled me from the rubble, she thought, feeling Gun’s heavy breath in her ear. He gave me food and a roof, when I was just another body destined to rot in Oregon.

  There was genuine love somewhere in her soul, but it was a love of rescue—the affection one has for a brutal savior, not a partner. To Freya, Gun was the terrible friend who protected her from the outside world but demanded her essence as payment. She closed her eyes and gave herself to the sexual act with a rehearsed perfection, knowing that any hesitation, any sign of coldness, could turn that "loving" embrace into the embrace of an executioner. She wasn't just his lover; she was the trophy that kept the monster calm.

  — Mine... — Gun growled low, his voice vibrating against her chest, as he pinned her against the silk mattress.

  Freya hugged him back, her nails digging into his shoulders, playing the role of absolute submission. She knew that as long as he saw her as his "Goddess," she would have the power to influence him. But fear was the foundation of every moan, of every touch. If she ceased to be his Queen, she would go back to being nothing. And in the world of 2040, being nothing was worse than death.

  The Leaden Dawn

  Hours later, the convoy moved along the gray road toward Redmond Airport. Henry, in the lead jeep, looked in the rearview mirror and saw Gun’s vehicle. He didn’t know what happened in the leader’s private quarters, but he saw the way Freya stepped out of the car that morning: impeccable, icy, but with a glimmer of exhaustion in her eyes that only someone living on a tightrope would recognize.

  Upon reaching the bunker entrance, the tension was palpable. Gun was invigorated, his confidence overflowing in every grand gesture. He stood before the pneumatic hatch and placed a hand on Freya’s shoulder.

  — My Queen has brought us to the pot of gold — Gun said to his soldiers, who raised their electric batons in a sign of approval. — Beck! Get over here. Open this tomb. I want to smell fresh gunpowder before noon.

  Beck Volter approached with his tool panel, the manual starter motor on his back humming low. He looked at Henry, who was surrounded by the twins Hiro and Nagi.

  — The system is old, but it still has power — Beck murmured, connecting copper cables to the door terminals. — I’m going to need someone to pump the hydraulic pressure manually while I bypass the code.

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  Gun pointed at Henry. — You, scout. Use those muscles Solomon trained so much. If the door doesn't open, I start shooting your master's feet via radio.

  Henry walked to the massive hydraulic lever. Every move he made was watched by Colt, who kept his dart carbine aimed at the back of Beck’s neck. Freya stood beside Gun, arms crossed, watching Henry. For a second, the eyes of the Heretic and the Queen met. Henry saw in her the same thing he felt in himself: the will to break the chains, even if the price was total destruction.

  Beck: — Now, Henry! Pump!

  With superhuman effort, Henry began to move the lever. The metal groaned, a sound of hydraulic agony that echoed across the entire airport runway. The door began to slide millimeter by millimeter, revealing a dark abyss from which blew a freezing, stagnant air of decades.

  — Stop! — Beck shouted suddenly, looking at the monitor. — Something is wrong. The system isn't recognizing the partial opening command. It activated the "Scylla" protocol.

  Gun stepped forward, hand on his Magnum. — What the hell is the Scylla protocol?

  — Automated internal defense — Freya replied, her voice emotionless, though her heart was racing. — The bunker won’t just open. It will test whoever enters.

  The atmosphere at the bunker entrance became unbearable. As the hydraulic pistons released clouds of toxic steam, Henry held Gun’s gaze with an intensity that would make ordinary men flinch. The blood of peasants still stained his skin, and the fury he had been simmering for two months finally reached its boiling point.

  — I’m going in with Beck — Henry said, his voice coming out like the crack of a whip, as he stared Gun down. — But without these squinty-eyed twins breathing down my neck. If they’re in there, they’ll get in the way of the agility you need to deactivate the protocol.

  Henry took a step forward, ignoring Hiro and Nagi’s katanas that tilted toward him.

  — I love that fire, scout! — Gun gestured for the twins to put their weapons away. — But Hiro and Nagi go with you. That’s my price. If you want to be the hero, protect my "keychain" Beck while the twins watch the rear. If you survive the Scylla protocol, maybe I’ll give you a prize.

  The Guts of Redmond

  The armored door closed behind them with a final thud, sealing Henry, Beck, Hiro, and Nagi in the total darkness of the first level. The silence was absolute, broken only by the frantic beeping of Beck’s panel.

  — Henry, the emergency lights will turn on in five seconds — Beck whispered, his voice trembling. — When that happens, the automated turrets will scan everything that moves.

  Henry didn't answer. He was focused on the twins. Hiro and Nagi moved in perfect symmetry, katanas unsheathed, just a few meters from Beck. They were killing machines, and Henry knew he couldn't face them in the open without weapons. He needed the bunker.

  Henry’s Plan: He needed the bunker to do the dirty work. The Scylla protocol wasn't just firing turrets; it was vacuum traps and pressure sensors.

  The red emergency lights flashed. Henry gave the signal.

  — Beck! Now! — Henry shouted.

  Beck struck the keyboard. Instead of deactivating the defenses, he overloaded the corridor's fire suppression system. A curtain of thick, white halon gas exploded from the ceiling, obliterating all vision.

  Henry didn’t need to see. He knew the weight of the air. He lunged into the dark, not toward the turrets, but toward Hiro. The scout used the environment: he kicked a gas pipe, creating a deafening metallic noise to confuse the twins' sharp hearing.

  In the chaos, Henry grabbed Hiro’s arm, using the Japanese man's own strength to direct the black katana into Nagi’s chest. At the same time, he pushed both of them into the scanning zone of the laser turrets that had just activated. The sound was of metal being sliced and flesh being cauterized.

  The Return of the "Survivor"

  Twenty minutes later, the pneumatic door groaned and opened again.

  A cloud of black smoke billowed out of the bunker. Henry emerged first, carrying Beck, who was coughing violently and appeared to be in shock. Henry was covered in soot, with deep cuts on his arms.

  Gun and Colt immediately aimed their weapons.

  — Where are my dogs? — Gun growled, peering into the dark void behind Henry.

  Henry fell to his knees, gasping, faking an exhaustion that bordered on collapse. He pointed inside with a trembling hand.

  — The protocol... — Henry choked, spitting out some blood. — The laser turrets... they weren’t light, they were thermal plasma. The twins... they tried to intercept a defense drone that came out of a gap in the ceiling. They were fast, Gun... they saved Beck. But the plasma went right through their blades. They were disintegrated in seconds. I tried to pull them back, but the fire door dropped.

  Beck, following the plan they had agreed upon in the dark, just shook his head in fake tears. — It was too fast, Mr. Gun... they were heroes. If it weren't for them, I’d be dead and the bunker would have exploded with the fuel.

  Colt walked to the edge of the door and looked at the plasma burn marks on the walls and the remains of melted black metal (the katanas Henry himself had thrown into the heat zone). It looked like a scene of accidental massacre by superior technology.

  Gun remained silent for a long time. His chest rose and fell. He had just lost his elite personal guard, but he had the bunker open and the "keychain" alive. He looked at Henry, searching for a lie in the Brazilian’s eyes, but found only the fury of someone who had nearly died.

  — Go in — Gun ordered, his voice cold as a vacuum. — Colt, Mickey, Freya... let’s get our gunpowder. And Henry... if you’re lying, I’ll find out when I analyze the video logs.

  Henry stood up, wiping blood from his face. He knew Beck had already erased the last 30 minutes of footage.

  — There are no videos, Gun — Henry said, staring at the leader. — The plasma melted the cameras along with your twins. Now, let’s go. Didn't the King want his treasure?

  The CIA Protocol

  Inside the archive room, the greenish glow of the old monitor reflected in Freya’s restrained tears. Henry kept watch at the door, but the tension in her shoulder made him approach.

  — Beck, what did you find? — Henry asked, his voice low.

  Beck pointed to a series of encrypted documents he had just opened. — It’s not just a transfer record, Henry. It’s the Project. Silas was selected by the CIA because he’s a universal donor. They took him to an advanced testing center before the Fall.

  Freya touched the screen, her fingertips trembling over her brother’s photo. Below Silas’s image, the status didn't say "deceased," but rather: "Active."

  — He’s alive... — Freya whispered, and for the first time in two months, the coldness in her voice gave way to desperate hope.

  Freya abruptly closed the terminal when she heard heavy footsteps in the corridor. She wiped her face, returning to being the Ice Queen. — I’m going to find him.

  The Shadow Duel

  Henry barely had time to react when a figure dropped from a ventilation duct in the ceiling. Mickey Trigger landed with the lightness of a cat, holding a heavy wrench and a ceramic knife. The "Yellow Jacket" had a maniacal smile, his eyes gleaming in the dark.

  — I knew the twins wouldn’t fall to machines, Henry — Mickey spun the wrench, producing a whirring sound in the air. — You stink of betrayal. And I love the smell of carrion.

  — Freya, get out of here! — Henry shouted, lunging forward.

  The fight that followed was a clash of brutal styles. Mickey was a blur of improvised movements. He didn't follow a technique; he used the environment. He threw the ceramic knife, which Henry dodged by millimeters, and used the rebound of the wrench against the wall to strike Henry’s ribs.

  Henry responded with the precision of the Heretics. Even without his brass knuckles, his fists were hammers. He used a parkour roll to escape a lethal blow and delivered a sequence of punches to Mickey’s abdomen.

  They moved through the narrow corridor like two demons. Mickey tried to gouge Henry’s eye with a bolt he ripped from the wall; Henry broke Mickey’s wrist against a pipe, but the Yellow Jacket didn't even scream—he just used his head to deliver a violent headbutt to Henry’s nose.

  Blood spurted. They grappled, falling onto an electrical panel that threw blue sparks. Mickey tried to strangle Henry with a power cable, while Henry dug his thumbs into Mickey’s throat.

  The final exchange of blows was simultaneous: Henry landed a right cross to Mickey’s jaw at the exact moment Mickey struck Henry’s temple with the handle of the wrench.

  The impact was absolute.

  Both went down at the same time, splayed on the cold concrete of the bunker, gasping, covered in blood and soot. Mickey coughed, laughing through the blood. — A draw... for now... scout.

  Gun ordered them to stop, and the silence that followed Gun's declaration was heavier than the stale air of the bunker. Henry and Mickey, still down and bloodied, stopped snarling at each other. Colt lowered his carbine for a second, and even Freya seemed to lose her breath.

  Gun walked to the back of the main chamber, where a reinforced stainless steel shelf glowed under the emergency lights. He wasn't looking at the boxes of common ammunition. He stood before five long, green boxes, sealed with the National Guard stamp.

  — Gunpowder is for those who want to keep what they have — Gun said, his voice vibrating with a maniacal satisfaction as he tore the seal off one of the boxes with his bare hands. — This here... this is for those who want to own what belongs to others.

  He opened the lid. Inside lay units of M72 LAW Rocket Launchers, modern, compact, and ready for use.

  — Twenty of them — Gun whispered, running his gloved hand over the cold metal of one of the weapons. — Twenty chances to turn any armored vehicle, any wall, and any "fortress" into ash. Henry, you were worried about bullets? Forget the bullets. With this, I don't need aim. I only need will. The weapon that shot the Bosnian plane? I only had a few bullets and that is nothing compared to these rockets!

  The tension in the place was almost suffocating. As the soldiers finished loading the heavy boxes containing the twenty rocket launchers, Henry and Mickey met halfway to their respective vehicles.

  The scout and the psychopath paused for a second, their faces still swollen and stained with dried blood from the brutal fight they waged in the shadows of the bunker. Without saying a word, they moved forward. Their shoulders collided with unnecessary force, a jolt of bone against bone that served as the final warning that their private war was far from over. Mickey let out a raspy laugh from the corner of his mouth and headed for the cargo truck, while Henry took the wheel of the main convoy.

  The scene cuts to the interior of Gun’s vehicle, isolated from the noise of the engines and the biting Oregon wind. The silence inside was absolute, broken only by the creaking of the leather seats.

  Gun looked out the window, watching the darkness of the Redmond runway disappear as the convoy gained speed. His voice came out low, devoid of the theatricality he used before his 300 men, carrying a note of calculating coldness:

  — Hiro... Nagi... your sacrifice was not in vain.

  To him, the death of his elite guard was merely an operational cost, a fair price paid in exchange for the firepower that now rested in the trucks behind him. He then turned to his side, where Freya remained static.

  With predatory slowness, Gun reached out and caressed Freya’s face. His gloved fingers traced her jawline with a possessiveness that made her feel more like an object than a woman.

  — My Queen... — he whispered, his eyes gleaming behind the leather mask — ...we are going to conquer this world together.

  Freya endured the touch, maintaining the mask of submission that protected her, but her mind screamed with the revelation about Silas and the Project. The King had his lightning bolts, but the Queen now had a reason to truly smile.

  The convoy disappears, leaving the bunker behind, open like a wound in the earth.

  End of Chapter