CHAPTER 165: The Crucible of Chaos - Part II

CHAPTER 165: The Crucible of Chaos - Part II

Marcus found himself in a small parking garage, shaded by several abandoned buildings in a less-traveled part of Manhattan. The city, devastated and chaotic, remained a hostile place where survival was the only priority. He had spent hours roaming the streets, avoiding any kind of confrontation, but hunger was beginning to wear him down.

With a gesture of frustration, he looked around. The parking garage was full of abandoned cars, some spilling their contents onto the ground, others with broken windows and open doors. There was little more than rubble, and most of the surrounding buildings were empty or crumbling. The sound of the wind moving scraps of paper and trash was the only thing that could be heard.

Suddenly, something caught his attention. At the back, between a couple of vehicles, was a small convenience store with broken doors, but it at least seemed like something might still be inside. His stomach growled, and without further thought, he headed towards it.

Upon entering, the air was heavy, and the place had the characteristic smell of decay. However, his eyes lit up when he saw what was left on the shelves: some cans, packages of crackers, and in a corner, a couple of water bottles. It wasn't much, but at that moment, anything was a treasure.

With quick, trembling hands, Marcus began gathering what he could. On one of the shelves, he found a can of soup, still intact, and a couple of energy bars. The cracker packages were crushed but still edible. He looked around to make sure there were no more surprises, but no one seemed to be nearby. He slumped to the floor, opening one of the cans with a can opener he'd found there.

Marcus, as he scooped out the soup and poured it into an improvised container, murmured to himself:

"Finally... some food. I was starving to death. I don't know how I've held out this long without collapsing."

He took a sip of the cold soup, not caring about the taste, and then a bite of the crackers. His stomach growled in thanks. Although weariness washed over him, he couldn't stop thinking about the rest of the team. What would they be doing? Where were they? Would they be surviving too?

Marcus sighed, looking at the garage ceiling, lost in his thoughts. He knew that, somehow, everyone had their own paths to follow, but he couldn't help wondering if Fénix, Lucian, Vannesa, and Enid were struggling like he was. The uncertainty of not knowing if his friends were okay kept him on edge.

"I hope everyone's alright..." he said quietly, as he finished his improvised meal. He sat for a moment, looking at the empty can with a mix of exhaustion and determination. He couldn't stay there for long. The Crucible of Chaos wasn't going to wait for him.

He got up, stashed the last of the provisions in his backpack, and left the parking garage. As he walked through the deserted streets, his mind kept working, searching for the others, thinking about how to find a way out of this hell.

But one thing was clear: survival was all that mattered now, and he wasn't going to give up so easily.

The air in Manhattan was still and heavy, thick with the smell of ash and death. Fénix moved forward with a tired but alert step through the rubble, his body pushed to the limit after two days of constant flight and minor skirmishes. Fatigue was a silent enemy that dulled his senses, a luxury he couldn't afford in the Crucible of Chaos.

Turning a corner, a crunch of glass made him freeze in his tracks. From the adjacent alley emerged a silhouette, then another, and another. A dozen pairs of red eyes glowed in the gloom. Vampires. Their mocking smiles revealed sharp fangs, and they moved with the fluidity of snakes, closing the circle around him.

"Look what we have here," one hissed. "Takeout dinner."

Fénix clenched his fist, his mind coldly calculating the odds. Too many. Too fast. He remembered the words of Viktor, the architect of this nightmare: "A touch of external chaos always improves the spectacle." Right. Because simple human survival instinct wasn't televisual enough.

"Of course, Viktor," he murmured to himself. "Chaos is never enough for you."

He braced for the impact, for the only possible exit: a desperate fight. But just as the horde lunged, a series of dry cracks shattered the silence. One after another, the vampires exploded into clouds of dust and ash, struck by bullets that seemed to come from nowhere.

Fénix spun, looking for the shooter. From the shadows of a collapsed doorway emerged a figure. A middle-aged man in practical, soot-stained clothes, wielding a sniper rifle whose barrel still smoked. His face was a mask of weary resignation, but his eyes, hard as steel, didn't blink.

"Don't get excited," the man said, his voice hoarse from disuse. "I didn't do it for you."

Fénix, adrenaline still coursing through his veins, sized up the newcomer.
"Who are you?"

"Just another player," the man replied, lowering the rifle. "One who knows the rules. And the most important rule is that only three leave here alive."

At that moment, a sharp, burning pain erupted in Fénix's side. A straggler vampire, missed by the bullets, had sunk its claws into his muscle, seeking tendons and veins. Fénix let out a grunt of pain and turned, breaking the creature's grip with a violent twist and crushing its skull against a brick wall. But the damage was done. A deep, debilitating wound bled profusely on his flank, and the leg on that side responded sluggishly.

That was the moment the man with the rifle had been waiting for.

Fénix barely had time to see the movement. The man slammed the rifle's buttstock into his temple. The world exploded in white stars. Stunned, staggering from the wound and the blow, Fénix fell to his knees. The strength that had sustained him for days left him, drained by the blood staining the ground.