Joel rummaged through a few cabinets in the dim, silent office, his hand landing on something solid—an old flashlight. He let out a sigh of relief, but as he flicked the switch, nothing happened.

“Fuck.”

He tapped it, twisted the cap, even smacked it against his hand a few times, but it was no use. The bulb stayed dark, lifeless. He thought to himself, “Whatever had knocked out the power in the building must have fried every piece of equipment, even the basics.”

“Figures,” he muttered, tossing it onto the table. But then he glanced around the room and his eyes caught sight of a workbench in the corner, littered with scraps of wood, rags, and a half-empty bottle of oil. The sight sparked an idea. If they couldn’t rely on flashlights, they could go old-school.

He picked up a few thick dowels from the bench and started wrapping them in strips of torn cloth, his hands moving with practiced efficiency. “Grab that oil bottle, engine lube” he said, nodding to Craig, who was watching him work. Craig passed it over, and Joel soaked the makeshift torches carefully.

“What are you doing, man?” Darren asked, watching with a raised eyebrow.

“Making us some light,” Joel replied. “If we’re gonna search this place, we’re doing it on our terms.”

Once he’d finished binding the last torch, he struck a match, letting the flame catch and grow before passing them out to the others. The warm glow of the torches bathed the room in a flickering light, casting long shadows across their faces.

“Alright,” Joel said, hefting his own torch. “We’re sticking together and checking every corner. We need food, supplies—anything we can get our hands on.”

“A pair of wheels might be nice,” Kevin added. They all nodded in agreement.

With the torches illuminating their way, they left the main building, venturing out into the cold, desolate expanse of the supply yard. Joel approached the small portable building cautiously, the bitter air carrying the metallic scent of blood. His torch flickered over the dark exterior of the unit, revealing a small roll-up door—sturdy, but not invincible. The kind of door meant to keep tools and gear secure, not something built to withstand Joel’s will.

However, rounding the corner, Joel’s stomach dropped. There, slumped against the cold metal of the storage unit, was a body—a man, face frozen in an expression of pure horror. His torso was shredded, torn open as if by claws, or teeth, as though something had feasted on him. Dark, half-dried blood smeared the ground beneath him, thick and glistening in the torchlight. Joel took a slow, shaky breath, forcing himself to step closer, his heart pounding harder with each step.

Darren stepped up beside him, torch casting an unsettling glow over the scene. "God... what kind of hell did he go through?" His voice was low, horrified, the humor from earlier gone, replaced by a raw, shaken edge.

“You don’t think it was a bear do you?”

“I don’t think we are that lucky,” Joel answered.

Craig swallowed, his voice barely a whisper. "We’re not alone here. Whatever got him... it’s still out there."

Joel glanced down at the crowbar gripped tightly in the dead man’s hand, coated in blood and bits of grit. It was the first useful thing he'd come across out here, but reaching for it felt wrong—disturbing, even. He hesitated, then muttered under his breath, "Guess this is mine now."

Darren patted him on the back.

Joel’s hand shook as he pried the tool free, feeling the resistance in the man’s stiff fingers. It was as if the crowbar itself carried some lingering memory of his last, desperate struggle. He felt bile rise in his throat, but he swallowed it down. There was no room for squeamishness, not if they wanted to survive.

“Are we... really doing this?” Craig’s voice shook, and he looked down, avoiding the sight of the body as he spoke. “We shouldn’t be here, man. This was supposed to be just another shift. Hell, we were supposed to be at home by now, with our families.”

Darren shook his head, his expression hardening. "Doesn’t matter what was supposed to happen. We’re here now, and we have to make it out. If he—" he gestured at the body with a stiff nod, "—fought back with whatever he could grab, then so can we."

Joel’s hand tightened around the crowbar, his knuckles turning white. "We keep moving," he said, voice steady despite the raw fear clawing at his insides. "We’ve made it this far. And whatever’s out here, we’re not dying like this. We owe it to each other to stay alive."

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Craig nodded and asked, “What about his heart card?”

They looked around, but if he had one, it was long gone now. They fell silent, one by one, they squared their shoulders, forcing themselves to step away from the body and continue forward.

Bracing himself, Joel wedged the crowbar into the roll-up door’s lock mechanism, pushing with all his strength until he felt it give with a satisfying crack. The door jerked upward, and he squinted into the dark interior. His torch light bounced off stacks of crates and shelves lining the narrow space, casting eerie shadows against the metal walls.

The silence was thick, broken only by the distant hum of the wind. Joel took a slow, cautious step inside, scanning the shelves. Boxes of old supplies, a few cans of fuel, coiled ropes, a first-aid kit—it was a stash for emergency situations, but something told him this wasn’t meant for anything like this.

His light swept over a box of energy bars and canned food, half-covered in dust. “Jackpot,” he murmured, grabbing a handful. These could keep them going for a few days, at least.

As he rummaged further, his foot nudged something heavy near the back—a small, locked case with a faded “Emergency Equipment” label stenciled on top. He reached down, giving it a nudge with his boot. Whatever was inside, it had weight to it.

“Could be useful,” Joel muttered to himself, hefting the case up to inspect it. His fingers traced the edges, looking for any hint of a latch he could pry open with the crowbar.

Just as he was about to attempt it, he heard a faint rustling outside the unit, followed by a muffled whisper—almost too quiet to hear.

“Joel? You find anything?”

Joel froze, gripping the crowbar a little tighter as the voice filtered in through the thin walls of the storage unit. His heart pounded, adrenaline kicking in as his senses sharpened, listening intently to the faint rustling outside. The silence that followed felt almost suffocating, until he realized it was just his new found friends.

“Get a grip,” Joel thought to himself.

“Yeah, found something,” Joel called back quietly, his voice barely carrying past the thin metal walls. He moves closer just enough to see Darren and Craig standing a few feet away, their torches casting long shadows across the ground. Darren’s face was half-hidden in darkness, but his eyes glinted, anxious and expectant.

Craig stepped closer, lowering his voice. “What’s in there?”

Joel turned, scanning the inside of the unit again with the torchlight. The shadows played tricks, casting eerie shapes over boxes, rusty tools, and the old workbench shoved against the back wall. He exhaled, feeling a momentary sense of relief that, for now, they were still alone. "A workbench, mostly scrap, but... maybe enough to make something useful."

Craig’s shoulders slumped, his expression dropping. "Just tools?" His disappointment was clear, the letdown cutting through the thin layer of bravado he’d managed to hold onto.

“No, not just tools," Joel replied, already rummaging through a box of supplies on a dusty shelf. “Look, we can work with this. Flashlights are dead, other electrical devices aren’t working but basic things like torches… torches we can make. Now the question is what else can we make?”

Craig scoffed, his voice laced with an edge of dark humor. "Man, this is insane. We’re making torches to fight... whatever the hell just shredded that poor guy out there."

Joel shot him a sharp look. "It’s survival. If you don’t want to help, you can sit in the dark. Otherwise, grab some rags and oil. We’re burning our way through if we have to."

Darren nodded, his expression firm. "He's right. Sitting around is not gonna do us any good. Let’s get it done."

As Joel’s hand touched the rough surface of the workbench, a familiar flicker appeared in his vision.

----------------------------------------

System Notification:

Attention: Due to your Mechanical Core, you have accessed a Level 1 Basic Workbench.

Claim Area to gain access to all available crafting features.

----------------------------------------

He felt a strange, tingling energy surge from the workbench up his arm, as if the bench itself was alive with latent potential.

Joel's eyes stayed locked on the workbench, but he spoke up, his voice laced with both excitement and a hint of disbelief. “You guys aren’t gonna believe this, but... this workbench? The system’s telling me I can claim it. If I do, I’ll be able to use its crafting features—whatever that means.”

Darren raised an eyebrow. “Claim it? You mean like… this whole area?”

Joel nodded, feeling the weight of his discovery settle in. “Yeah, but I have a feeling it’s not gonna be as simple as it sounds. Might be more than just us interested in it.”

Craig crossed his arms, giving the door a wary glance. “So, what happens if we don’t claim it?”

“Then we’re stuck without proper tools, relying on whatever scraps we find. But if I claim it…” Joel’s words trailed off, his mind racing with the possibilities. “This could give us a real edge, a way to fight back, to defend ourselves.”

Darren was nodding, his expression firm. “He’s right. Sitting around isn’t gonna do us any good. Let’s get it done.”

But before Joel could take action, a low, guttural noise drifted in from outside, growing louder, almost taunting them.

The three exchanged a knowing look, a shared moment of tension and resolve.

“Looks like that’s who we have to claim it from,” they said in unison, each gripping their makeshift weapons a little tighter.