Recipe for the Apocalypse: I Cooked an S-Rank Monster

Chapter 6: Raw Materials

"I need ten Rank-B Hunters for next week's perimeter patrol. They need buffs. Can you cook for them?"

Kael stood at the counter of The Rusty Skillet with both hands on her hips. Not sitting. Not sipping soup in the corner. Standing. Like she was delivering a briefing. Like she was demanding an answer.

Dash was wiping down the cast-iron skillet with a rag. He didn't look up. "Ten portions. Rank-C technique. Dry-brine and slow render. I can do it."

"Can you?"

"I can." Dash set the skillet down. Looked at her. "But I need ingredients. And not five kilos scraped off carcasses you drag in during a siege. I need thirty kilos minimum. Fresh meat. Glands intact. And I can't hunt on my own."

Kael nodded. Like she already knew what he would say. "Then you come with me. Outside the walls."

Silence. Dash stared at her. Kael stared back.

"I'm CIV-7," Dash said.

"I know."

"CIV-7s aren't allowed outside the perimeter. Aldric's rule. It's written on every guard post."

"I know," Kael repeated. She pulled up a chair and sat at the counter. "So I'll register you as Hunter logistics support. Under my command. I'll handle the paperwork myself."

"That's illegal."

"That's technically illegal." Kael shrugged. "I'm not going to ask permission to feed people. You want to argue about regulations, or do you want to argue about four thousand people eating empty cans next week?"

Dash stared at her for a long time. Then he let out a breath. "When?"

"Tomorrow. 0600. South gate." Kael stood. "Bring your fillet knife. Bring salt. Bring a portable skillet if you have one. Don't bring a weapon. You're not a Hunter. And if anyone asks, you're logistics. Not a cook. Not CIV-7. Logistics."

"I'm a cook," Dash said.

"On paper, you're logistics." Kael was already at the door. "Outside the walls, you can be whatever you want. Just don't die."

**

The desert outside Ironway's walls was not the desert Dash remembered.

Three years. Only three years. But the ground that used to crack under the Arizona sun was now split by something else. Black veins spreading beneath the surface like rotting blood vessels. Alien vegetation grew in the gaps between them: fleshy plants, deep purple, reeking of sulfur. The air itself felt thick. Like breathing in smoke you couldn't see.

Dash walked behind Kael. On his back, a canvas bag holding his fillet knife, three packs of coarse salt, a small cast-iron skillet, and a thermos of water. No weapon. No armor. Just kitchen tools.

"Sandvein Lizard," Kael said without turning around. She moved low, tracking claw marks in the dirt. "Rank-C. About the size of a small horse. The meat is high in collagen, which is good for defense buffs. The toxin glands sit in two spots: the base of the tail and behind the jaw. You stay clear of those two spots, the meat comes out clean."

"And if I don't stay clear?"

"Permanent poison. No technique can fix it. Dry-brine won't pull it out. Slow render won't break it down. That meat becomes toxic waste." Kael stopped. Pointed ahead. "There. Behind that rock."

Dash saw it. A Sandvein Lizard. Gray-green skin, the size of a pony, basking in the morning sun with half-closed eyes. Blue veins traced visible lines under its hide. Sandveins. Toxin pathways.

"Once it's down," Kael said quietly, "you have four minutes. After that, the gland at the base of the tail ruptures and the toxin floods every muscle in the body. There's no stopping it. Four minutes to fillet what you need and get clear of the glands."

"Four minutes," Dash repeated.

"I'll take it down. You cut. Don't talk. Don't ask questions. Just cut."

Kael moved.

Dash watched. Not as a spectator. As a cook reading his ingredients. He saw how Kael circled to the blind side. How she waited for the Lizard to lift its head, the one moment the neck was exposed. How her knife slid in under the jaw, not to kill but to disable. Cutting the motor nerves. The Lizard crumpled. Alive but unable to move.

"Now!" Kael shouted.

Dash ran. Dropped to his knees beside the Lizard. Fillet knife in hand. Four minutes.

He cut into the back leg. Fast. Precise. The meat was pink, threaded with thin blue veins. Collagen visible between the fibers like marbling in wagyu. He cut again. Two kilos. Three. Four.

His hands were shaking. Not from fear. From the clock. Three minutes twenty. Three minutes thirty.

He slid the knife toward the base of the tail, reaching for the last usable cut. And there, under a layer of fat, he saw it. The gland. Small. Yellow. Pulsing slowly like a second heartbeat.

Dash's knife drifted toward it.

"DON'T."

Kael's hand clamped around his wrist and yanked him back. The blade stopped two centimeters from the gland.

"Four minutes, Dash," Kael said. Her breathing was heavy. "You nick that gland, every piece of meat you've already cut gets contaminated. All of it. Thirty kilos drops to zero. You understand me?"

Dash swallowed. Nodded. Kael let go of his wrist.

"We have enough," Kael said. "Let's move. Before the blood smell draws something else out here."

They walked back toward Ironway with thirty kilograms of Sandvein Lizard meat packed into two canvas bags. The sun was climbing. The air was getting thicker. In the distance, the walls of Ironway looked like a thin gray line on the horizon.

Kael walked in front. Dash behind. Two kilometers of silence.

Then Kael spoke. Without turning around.

"Your left hand."

Dash didn't answer.

"That burn scar," Kael went on. "The old one. Not from the Jackal. Not from the Gristle-Boar." She stopped walking. Turned to face him. "Before the Convergence, I was a paramedic. Three years in the trauma unit at Tucson General. I know burn wounds. I know the difference between an accident and something done on purpose."

Dash stopped. Stared at the ground. Black veins crept under the sand at his feet.

"That wasn't a kitchen accident," Kael said. Softly. Not accusing. Confirming.

Dash didn't answer. Not for a long time. Then he hoisted his canvas bag back onto his shoulder. Started walking. Past Kael.

Kael didn't chase him. Didn't ask again. She just watched his back for three seconds, then fell into step behind him.

They didn't speak again until the walls of Ironway were close enough to see clearly.

**

South gate. Guard post. Dash and Kael walked through with bags on their backs, meat dripping clear fluid onto the dirt.

And there, standing with his arms folded across his chest, was Sergeant Voss. Behind him, grinning with split lips and claw scars on his jaw: Griggs.

"I reported it to the Commander," Griggs said. His smile was wide. Satisfied. "A CIV-7 outside the perimeter without authorization. And bringing unverified biological material into the fort." His eyes dropped to the bags on Dash's back. "Monster meat. Raw. No quarantine."

Voss stepped forward. His face was flat. But his eyes weren't on Griggs. They were on Kael.

"Lieutenant Mireaux. You registered a CIV-7 as logistics support under your command. Without the Commander's approval. Without forms. Without verification."

"I'll take full responsibility," Kael said.

"You'll be summoned," Voss corrected. Then his gaze shifted to Dash. "And you. Commander Aldric wants to see you. Now." He glanced at the canvas bags. "And bring the meat."

Kael stepped forward. Her jaw tightened. "Voss, this is..."

Dash caught her arm.

"I'll go alone," Dash said.

"Dash..."

"I'll go alone." He looked at her. "You guard the meat. Don't let anyone touch those bags. If Aldric tries to confiscate it, tell him it's logistics material for next week's patrol. You're the one responsible. Not me."

Kael stared at him. For a long time. Then she nodded. Once. Hard.

Dash walked toward Voss. No bag. No meat. Just a fillet knife in his pocket and empty hands.

"The Commander is waiting," Voss said. "Move."

Dash walked. Behind him, he heard Griggs let out a small, satisfied laugh. And ahead of him, behind the walls of Ironway, four thousand people were waiting for a dinner he hadn't cooked yet.