Her mouth was warm and confident, taking him with a directness that matched her personality. Kevin braced one hand against the wall, the other hanging at his side, unsure where to place it. Hayward solved the problem by grabbing his wrist and placing his hand firmly on the back of her head, setting the pace she wanted.

  The red bar in his vision pulsed in time with his heartbeat, Redz40 responding to the surge of hormones and adrenaline. Kevin closed his eyes, surrendering to the physical sensation after so much violence. He enjoyed the wet heat of her mouth, the skillful pressure of her tongue, and the subtle vibration of her humming approval when his fingers tightened involuntarily in her hair.

  She worked him with the same focused intensity she brought to command, as there was no wasted movement, each action building toward a specific objective. Her hand wrapped around the base of his shaft, squeezing and twisting in counter-rhythm to her mouth's movements. The other hand cupped and massaged his balls with exact pressure that sent jolts of pleasure up his spine.

  Kevin felt the tension building, his enhanced body responding with heightened sensitivity to every touch. "I'm close," he warned, the words rough in his throat.

  Hayward responded by taking him deeper, her hand squeezing his base with encouraging pressure. The message was clear: finish.

  His release came in pulsing waves, his enhanced physiology intensifying the sensation beyond what he remembered from his pre-stasis life. Hayward swallowed without hesitation, maintaining suction until the final spasm passed. Only then did she release him, sitting back on her heels with that same assessing gaze, not a hint of subservience in her posture despite her position.

  She stood in one fluid motion, brushed dust from her knees, and reached for the water jug. She took a small sip, swished, and spat into the sink. Resource-conscious even in this.

  "We've got bunks prepared for your team," she said, voice betraying nothing of what had just transpired. "Food in the mess when you're ready." Her hand rested briefly on the door handle, and for a moment something less tactical flickered in her eyes. "Thank you, Kevin. Not just for my sister. For all of them."

  Then she was gone, the door closing softly behind her. Kevin stood alone in the small bathroom, water dripping down his chest, the encounter already feeling dreamlike against the harsh reality of the outpost beyond the door. He finished washing methodically, the same way he cleaned his weapons after combat: thoroughly, efficiently, without sentiment.

  The fresh uniform fit well enough, the fabric rough against his clean skin. As he gathered his supplies, Kevin caught his reflection in the small, cracked mirror above the sink. The same face looked back at him, unchanged despite everything. The same red glow in his eyes, marking him as something not quite human anymore. The same purpose driving him forward in this broken world.

  One mission completed. The next waiting just beyond the wall.

  Chapter ten

  ON THE ROAD AGAIN

  The HUMVEE's tires crunched over debris as they approached Fairville's outer perimeter. Kevin studied the settlement through the viewing panel, his enhanced vision picking out the hodgepodge nature of its defenses. Shipping containers welded together, concrete highway dividers stacked in uneven rows, and what appeared to be the hull of a cargo ship forming one entire section of the eastern wall. Not military grade, not even close, but evidence of desperate ingenuity that had somehow endured.

  "Reminds me of some forward operating bases I've seen," he said, rubbing his jaw where he had been scratched in the battle. Despite the deep cut, it had already fully healed, with even the scar tissue beginning to fade away. "Improvised but functional."

  Val snorted from the backseat, her wolf ears swiveling as she tracked sounds outside their vehicle. "Fairville's one of the better settlements. They've got actual power and running water. Almost civilized."

  Duncan slowed the HUMVEE as they approached what passed for a gate. Two halves of a tractor-trailer container mounted on massive hinges were currently pulled open to reveal a checkpoint manned by guards in mismatched armor. Their weapons ranged from retrofitted pre-war rifles to crude energy weapons that looked more like science projects than military gear.

  "Checkpoint ahead," Duncan announced unnecessarily. "Let me handle the talking. Settlements get nervous when Fort DC shows up unannounced."

  Structural integrity of perimeter walls is approximately 62% of minimum military standards, AIDA analyzed coolly in Kevin's mind. Numerous breach points. Inadequate firing positions. Recommend immediate tactical withdrawal in the event of an organized assault.

  The HUMVEE rolled to a stop before the checkpoint. A guard approached. She was a woman with a weathered face and a prominent scar running from her temple to her chin. She wore what looked like salvaged sports equipment repurposed as armor, with a chest plate that might once have been a catcher's vest. The energy rifle in her hands, however, looked well-maintained and deadly serious.

  "State your business," she called, voice pitched to carry over the HUMVEE's quiet hum.

  Duncan leaned out the window, displaying her UAC credentials. "Captain Abigail Duncan, Special Operations. Here at Mayor Curtis's request regarding the Waste Mob situation."

  The guard studied the credentials with narrowed eyes, then nodded to someone behind her. "Check with the mayor's office," she ordered, before turning back to Duncan. "Weapons stay holstered inside the settlement. We've got enough trouble without trigger happy UAC soldiers."

  "Understood," Duncan replied with the patience of someone who'd navigated civilian checkpoints a hundred times before.

  After several minutes of radio communication and credential verification, the guard waved them through. "Follow the main road to the central square. Mayor's expecting you."

  As the HUMVEE rolled into Fairville proper, Kevin cataloged everything with a soldier's eye. Unlike Fort DC's military uniformity, Fairville had grown organically, buildings added where they fit rather than according to any central plan. Yet despite the chaos, there was method to it, with defensive positions cleverly disguised as ordinary structures, clear fields of fire covering major intersections, and escape routes built into the layout.

  Most surprising were the signs of actual civilization. Solar panels covered many rooftops, connected by a web of cables that looked chaotic but functional. Water flowed through PVC pipes running alongside buildings. Children played in a designated area surrounded by watchful adults with sidearms partially concealed beneath civilian clothes.

  And everywhere, plants grew. Not the wild mutations of the wasteland, but deliberately cultivated crops. Tomatoes the size of basketballs hung from vines crawling up wall trellises. Cornstalks twice the height of a normal man created a golden forest in what had once been a parking lot. Potato plants with leaves large enough to provide shade spread across rooftops.

  "They're using the Redz40 mutations to their advantage," Kevin observed, indicating the massive crops. "Smart."

  Duncan nodded as she navigated the narrow streets. "One of the few benefits of the apocalypse. Plants mutated too, but mostly in beneficial ways. Higher yield, faster growth, more resistant to pests."

  "And tastier," Val added. "Wait till you try a Redz tomato. Makes those pre-war golf balls you called tomatoes taste like wet cardboard."

  They parked in the central square, once a strip mall parking lot, now a hub with market stalls and what appeared to be a community kitchen. People paused in their activities to watch the UAC vehicle, their expressions a mixture of hope and wariness.

  Mayor Curtis awaited them on the steps of what had been a bank but was now serving as the settlement's administrative center. He was a tall, wiry man with skin darkened by constant exposure to the reddish sunlight, his only concession to office being a slightly cleaner jumpsuit than those around him. No visible mutations marked him, making him a rarity in this Redz40-saturated world.

  "Captain Duncan," he greeted as they approached, extending a calloused hand. "Grateful you came so quickly." His eyes shifted to Kevin, widening slightly at the crimson glow visible even in daylight. "This must be the soldier I've heard about."

  "Warrant Officer Kevin Moore," Duncan confirmed. "And Sergeant Valerie Cox, our long-range specialist."

  Kevin shook the Mayor's hand, noting the strength in the man's grip despite his lean frame. Not a soldier, but no stranger to hard work and harder decisions.

  "Inside," Curtis said, gesturing toward the bank building. "Better to discuss the situation privately."

  The bank's interior had been gutted, marble counters removed to make space for planning tables covered with hand-drawn maps and crude models. A dozen people worked at various stations, maintaining communications equipment or sorting through reports from scouts.

  Curtis led them to a private office in the back, shutting the door with careful deliberation. "The Waste Mob has gotten bolder," he began without preamble. "Started three months ago with small raids on our supply lines, nothing we couldn't handle. Then they hit one of our water purification teams. Killed three, took four as slaves."

  "Slaves?" Kevin asked, the word tasting bitter on his tongue.

  Curtis nodded grimly. "Gulf Confederacy splinter group. They believe in the 'strong ruling the weak.' They've taken over the Harmon Tower about five miles southwest, twenty stories of defensible position with clear sight lines in all directions."

  "How many?" Duncan asked, her tone shifting to tactical assessment.

  "Best estimate, forty fighters. Well-armed with scavenged pre-war weapons and some energy weapons they've stolen from caravans. Their leader calls herself 'Bloodbath.' Seven feet tall, some kind of strength mutation." Curtis spread a crude map across the desk. "They're demanding 'taxes' now: food, water, medicine. Last month we paid, hoping they'd leave us alone. Instead, they doubled their demands and took more slaves."

  "Classic extortion escalation," Kevin noted. "Give in once, and they keep pushing until you break."

  Val's tail lashed with agitation. "Using slaves for what?"

  "Labor, mostly," Curtis replied, not meeting her eyes. "Some for... entertainment. They work them until they die, then demand replacements."

  Kevin felt a cold anger settling in his chest, familiar from his time fighting warlords and dictators before the world ended. Different century, same human cruelty.

  "Our scout, Cindy, went out three days ago to track their movements," Curtis continued. "She hasn't returned. Best tracker we have, so if anyone could slip past their patrols, it's her."

  "We can help you locate her," Duncan offered. "But our primary mission is neutralizing the Mob's leadership. Without a command structure, these groups typically dissolve."

  Before Curtis could respond, the door burst open. A young man with mismatched eyes, one blue, one green, stood in the doorway, chest heaving from exertion.

  "Mayor! They're here, at the north gate!" he panted. "The Waste Mob! They've got Cindy!"

  Curtis paled. "How many?"

  "Twenty, maybe more. Bloodbath's with them." The messenger swallowed hard. "They say they want double taxes and... and a male pleasure slave. Or they execute Cindy on the spot."

  Kevin met Duncan's eyes, a silent communication passing between them. She nodded once, almost imperceptibly.

  "Show us," Kevin said, already rising from his chair, hand reflexively checking his sidearm. The red bar in his vision pulsed at full capacity, ready for whatever awaited them at Fairville's gate.

  They moved through Fairville's crowded streets with the focused urgency of predators. Civilians scattered before them, pressing themselves against walls and into doorways, eyes wide with a mixture of hope and fear. Kevin cataloged potential threats and advantages as they approached the north gate: distance to cover, available firing positions, and civilian presence that might complicate combat scenarios. The red bar in his vision pulsed steadily, Redz40 energy humming beneath his skin, ready to be deployed.

  Duncan moved slightly ahead, her energy rifle held at the ready-low position, safety off but finger alongside the trigger guard. Val had already disappeared, scaling a nearby building with wolf-like agility to establish an overwatch position. Mayor Curtis struggled to keep pace, his civilian gait lacking the economical efficiency of trained soldiers.

  "Remember, we need their leader alive," Duncan murmured as they approached the gate. "If she dies, her second-in-command might just execute the hostages out of spite."

  Kevin nodded once, his mind already cycling through combat scenarios, calculating odds and outcomes with machine-like speed. The gate loomed ahead, those repurposed shipping containers now sealed tight, with armed guards clustered along the top of the wall. Fear radiated from them like heat, their weapons clutched with white-knuckled tension.

  "Let us see them," Kevin told the guard captain, a stocky woman whose sweat-slicked face betrayed her anxiety.

  She hesitated, then signaled to her people. The massive gates ground open just enough to create a viewing slit about three feet wide. Not enough for entry, but sufficient to assess the threat waiting outside.

  The Waste Mob filled the road beyond, a ragged collection of killers whose appearance balanced precariously between threatening and pathetic. Most wore cobbled-together armor fashioned from car parts, sports equipment, and scavenged military gear. Their weapons showed similar improvisation: pre-war rifles with homemade modifications, crude bladed weapons studded with metal spikes, and a few energy weapons that looked poorly maintained.

  But it was their leader who commanded attention. She towered over her subordinates, a seven-foot mountain of muscle with skin that had the grayish hardness of cured leather. Her head was shaved except for a central strip of scarlet hair that rose like a blade from crown to nape. Armor fashioned from what appeared to be car hoods and engine blocks covered her torso, painted blood-red and adorned with small bones and teeth, some animal, some distinctly human.

  In one massive hand, she gripped a fistful of hair connected to a kneeling woman, Cindy, Kevin presumed. The scout's face was a mess of purple bruises and crusted blood, one eye swollen shut, lips split in multiple places. Yet she remained conscious, her one good eye alert despite her obvious pain.

  Behind Bloodbath, slaves pulled carts loaded with more raiders. The slaves wore iron collars connected by chains, their bodies marked with bruises and burns, eyes hollow with resignation and fear.

  Bloodbath yanked Cindy's head back, forcing her to look up at the settlement walls. "Fairville!" she bellowed, her voice carrying the gravelly texture of damaged vocal cords. "Your little spy thought we wouldn't catch her. She was wrong." She shook Cindy like a rag doll, eliciting a muffled cry of pain.

  "What do you want?" Mayor Curtis called from beside Kevin, his voice impressively steady despite the tremor Kevin detected in his hands.

  Bloodbath's laugh sounded like rocks in a garbage disposal. "Double the taxes we agreed on last month. Food, water, medicine. And..." Her eyes scanned the wall until they found Curtis. "One healthy male for my personal use. The last one broke too quickly."

  Kevin felt rather than saw Duncan tense beside him. "Standard intimidation tactics," she whispered. "They're testing Fairville's resolve."

  Bloodbath jerked Cindy upright. "You have two minutes to open these gates and start loading supplies, or I split her from navel to nose." She drew a massive knife from her belt, its serrated edge gleaming dully in the reddish sunlight.

  Kevin made his decision in milliseconds, based on tactical assessment, available resources, and calculated risk. He turned to Mayor Curtis, offering his Lazeshotgun. "Take this. When I engage, have your people target the raiders, not the slaves."

  Curtis accepted the weapon with obvious surprise. "What are you going to do?"

  Kevin checked his energy pistol, ensuring the charge was full, then verified his new combat knife was secure in its sheath. "Creating a tactical advantage." He stepped through the narrow opening in the gate before anyone could object.

  He walked onto the open ground between Fairville's walls and the Waste Mob with measured, unhurried steps. Every raider's weapon swiveled to track him, but no one fired, as their discipline was poor, but not nonexistent. They awaited Bloodbath's command.

  The massive woman stared down at him with open amusement, her scarred face splitting into a predatory grin. "Is this your champion, Fairville?" she called over his head. "One man against twenty?"

  Kevin stopped ten paces from her, his posture relaxed despite the weapons trained on him from all sides. "Let the scout go," he said, voice pitched to carry just far enough for Bloodbath to hear. "Then you and I settle this. Hand to hand."

  Bloodbath's laugh boomed across the clearing. "You're challenging me to combat?" She released Cindy's hair, shoving the scout roughly to the ground. "Look at me, little man. I'm twice your size. My skin stops bullets. My fists crush skulls." She flexed arms corded with muscle. "What makes you think you stand a chance?"

  "There's only one way to find out," Kevin replied, his calm apparently infuriating her further.

  Bloodbath's eyes narrowed with sudden suspicion. "Those eyes..." she growled. "You're that Old World freak they're talking about." She spat on the ground. "Stories say you're fast. We'll see how fast you are with your head caved in."

  She reached over her shoulder for a weapon strapped to her back, a massive club studded with metal spikes and what looked like broken glass. Her fingers had just closed around the handle when Kevin activated RTD.

  The world slowed to a crawl. Sound stretched into distorted echoes, Bloodbath’s movement becoming glacial. Kevin observed every micro-detail: the bunching of her trapezius muscles, the shift in her center of gravity as she wound up for the swing, and the subtle widening of her eyes as her brain struggled to process his unnatural speed.

  He crossed the distance between them in a blur. His right hand batted her swinging arm aside before the club could clear her shoulder. Simultaneously, his left palm struck squarely under her chin with enhanced force, snapping her head back and exposing her throat. As she staggered, moving in what seemed to him like underwater slow motion, he stepped behind her and kicked the back of her right knee with a bone-jarring impact.