Brotherhood of the Last Shelter

Don't move your shoulder

The man's breathing came in wet, uneven rattles.

I crouched low and signaled for Donald and Luggard to remain behind the wooden pallets. Then I moved toward him, careful not to make a sound against the damp concrete floor.

He was an older man with grey streaks running through his hair. His blue transit uniform was soaked in thick, dark blood along the left side. The steel spike holding him against the forklift tire was about an inch thick, with a jagged tip that looked like a broken piece of reinforcing bar.

“Take it easy,” I whispered, kneeling beside him. “Don't move your shoulder.”

His bloodshot eyes shifted toward the far wall. A heavy metal door stood slightly open, and every few seconds, yellow sparks shot through the gap. A low, steady hum followed each burst.

“The breaker room...” he managed, his fingers gripping the tire tread. “It walked in on two legs. Made of scrap and copper cables. It plugged itself into the high-voltage main. When I tried to shut down the emergency cutoff, it drove that spike through me like I was made of paper.”

Luggard crept closer, keeping his head low. His face went pale when he saw the wound, but he didn't turn away.

“The spike missed his subclavian artery by an inch,” he murmured. “If we pull it out now, he'll bleed to death before we get him to the stairs. We need gauze, clean water, and pressure bandages.”

“Check the emergency supply racks behind us,” I told him. “Look for the green boxes with white crosses. Take whatever trauma kits you find.”

Luggard nodded and disappeared between the dark aisles.

Donald crouched on the other side of the injured man, examining the spike where it entered the rubber tire.

“It's buried about four inches into the tire,” he said. “I can use the torch to cut the shaft so we can move him, but the sound of the gas might attract whatever is feeding on the power lines in there.”

Before I could respond, the blue screen appeared.

Host Objective Detected: Rescue Survivor 'Marcus Ward' (Chief Electrical Inspector, City Transit).

Survivor Trait: Master High-Voltage Grid Technician.

Shelter Expansion Requirement Met: Qualified Infrastructure Engineer.

Warning: Unit inside Breaker Room is a Siphon Drone (Tier 1). Power Drain at 68%. Upon Full Charge, Local Grid Collapse Will Trigger Immediately.

My fingers tightened against the concrete.

The system wasn't giving me another random task. It was identifying the man in front of me. Marcus Ward wasn't just an injured transit worker. He was the city's chief electrical inspector.

In my previous life, our shelter had gone completely dark on the third night because none of us knew how to draw power from the city mains without blowing the transformers.

Marcus was exactly the kind of person we needed to keep our bunker running.

“We aren't leaving him,” I said quietly.

“We can't carry him through the storm drain with that spike still stuck in the tire,” Donald replied, tapping the iron rod with his thumb. “And we can't fight a two-legged machine while trying to drag an injured man along.”

“Then we take care of the machine first.”

Donald looked at me before glancing toward the breaker room. Yellow sparks flickered through the narrow opening.

“You heard what he said. That thing is connected to a high-voltage line and doesn't seem bothered by it. What's the plan?”

Luggard returned, slipping between the pallets with two olive-green metal boxes marked with red crosses. He also had three sealed packages of coagulant gauze.

“I found the medical supplies,” he whispered. “There's something else, too. The depot's industrial fire station is three doors down. They have four dry-chemical Class C extinguishers mounted on the wall.”

Donald's expression changed immediately.

“Class C? That's monoammonium phosphate powder. It doesn't conduct electricity, and it can smother electrical fires. If that thing is drawing power from a forty-thousand-volt line, coating its cooling vents with the powder could cause an internal ground fault.”

“It could short its own circuit from the inside,” I said.

“Exactly. Like dumping a bucket of sand into an open alternator.”

Marcus let out a weak groan and tilted his head back.

“The... main bypass switch...” he struggled to say. “It's behind the unit. If you trip the breaker while it's shorting out, the feedback will fry whatever battery it's charging.”

“Luggard, stay with Marcus,” I ordered, handing him the trauma kit. “Apply pressure around the wound, but don't pull the rod out until we've secured the room. Keep your iron pipe close.”

Luggard tore open the first package of sterile gauze with his teeth.

“Understood. Be careful.”

Donald and I moved along the rows of steel shelves, keeping behind the tall pallets of rations. When we reached the wall station, he unhooked two heavy red fire extinguishers and handed one to me. The canisters felt cold in my hands, and I could feel their weight as I adjusted my grip.

We stopped beside the breaker room door.

The air smelled of burning plastic and ozone. It was so sharp that it stung the back of my throat. Through the narrow opening, I could finally see what we were dealing with.

The machine stood taller than an average man. Thick steel plates had been bolted together to form its body, while exposed coils ran along its spine like glowing orange veins. Two heavy copper clamps extended from its forearms and connected directly to the exposed busbars of the building's main power transformer.

Sparks poured down its back, and a deep electrical hum vibrated through the floor.

Its head had no visible features except for a single vertical lens glowing with an unstable amber light. The machine was firmly connected to the power supply, drawing thousands of watts from the city's sub-grid.

I raised three fingers toward Donald.

Three.

Two.

One.

I kicked the door open.

It slammed against the concrete wall. The machine's amber lens turned toward us, but its copper arms remained locked onto the live transformer.

“Eat this, you pile of scrap!” Donald shouted.

He stepped inside and squeezed the trigger.

A thick cloud of pale yellow powder burst from the nozzle, hitting the machine across its face and the exposed cooling vents on its chest.

I moved beside him and aimed my extinguisher at the glowing coils along its spine.

The two streams covered the machine in a dense cloud. Fine chemical powder settled over its exposed wires, coating the connections around the hot copper coils.

The amber light in its lens suddenly flared.

A deafening pop erupted from the transformer. Blue electrical fire raced across the machine's limbs, snapping and twisting like whips. Its deep hum turned into a high-pitched electronic shriek that shook the ceiling lights.

It tried to wrench its arms free from the busbars, but the current held it in place.

“The bypass switch!” I shouted over the electrical noise.

Donald dropped his empty canister and rushed behind the smoking transformer. He found the long red lever mounted on the masonry wall and grabbed it with both hands.

With a grunt, he threw his weight against it.

The heavy steel lever slammed downward.

A tremendous bang shook the concrete floor as the main breakers tripped.

Everything went dark.

The electrical hum stopped, and the machine crashed onto the floor with a hollow metallic thud.