The Dark Zone Grand Adventure

Cold.

It was so insanely cold that his teeth weren't merely chattering anymore. It felt as if someone had taken a drill to them and started splitting them apart.

"Hah— hahh! Hahh! This— you're sure about this?"

"I-I'm sure! When the monsters in the Dark Zone suddenly start going berserk— I heard it crystal clear! It means a phenomenon called a Wave is happening!"

"Okay, so ducking in here to wait that out was a good call. But when the hell can we leave? At this rate we're going to freeze to death first, you asshole."

Even the man who had answered with such conviction was starting to lose his nerve. He checked the situation beyond the door one more time.

The corridor was already drowned in a thick, settled dark, the air inside it sunk well below freezing. They had slipped into the warehouse before the monsters could close in, and they had been lucky enough to find emergency ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠foil blankets, which they were now sharing as fairly as they could. Even that, though, was reaching its limit.

An hour or two ago the indoor air had still been hovering a little on the chilly side of above freezing. Sometime since then it had plunged below ten degrees below zero. Proper winter gear would have let them move through this kind of cold without much trouble, but the great majority of inmates had not been thrown into the Dark Zone with a situation like this in mind. The ones who had paid extra beforehand to buy information had at least made some kind of preparation. Most of the rest were lucky if they had managed to layer on a multi-pocket vest.

"Shit. Instead of sitting here like this, shouldn't we just go find an exit right now?"

"You walk out like this and your ancestors going to pay off your debts for you? In case you forgot, we never made it into a clan. That means we eat equipment rental fees and protection money."

"I know! That's exactly why I'm saying this! We get out fast, right now, and either hit one more score or sit today out and come back into the Dark Zone tomorrow. What's wrong with that?"

"If it were that easy, everybody would already be doing it. Even those big-shot clan bastards can't go into the Dark Zone every other day. What makes you think scraps like us could?"

"And why the hell not? It's not like there's a cap on how many times you can deploy."

"You idiot. You can wander in and out of the Dark Zone as much as you want. Come back empty-handed too many times, though, and your credit rating takes a hit."

At ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the words credit rating, the inmate who had been talking so boldly went wide-eyed. Credit ratings? For people who had committed crimes and landed in a cell? What kind of system was that supposed to be?

"What lunatic gives a damn about a convict's credit rating? If you're going to bullshit me, at least make it convincing."

"Dumbass. That's why you and I never get out of this gutter. Why do you think the corporations, the government, and the prison all want to do business with us? And who promised you those transaction records just vanish?"

"Get to the point."

"The point is this. There's no limit on how many times we go in and out of the Dark Zone, but every entry is logged, and of course they keep the profit statistics that come with it. So they know exactly who brings back the goods and who actually makes money. They score us convicts on that, and then they drop Assigned Commissions on the ones who rate."

"A-A-Assigned Commissions— I've heard of those. I-I-I heard it's part of the project to turn inmates into mercenaries! The ones they trust get personal jobs from the corporations, the prison, the government— and the payouts are way bigger!"

Another inmate, who had been sitting quiet until then, jumped in to back him up. The one who had been picking the fight finally had no choice but to shut his mouth.

"I told you to get to the point. We walk out empty-handed, we're fucked. Those monsters don't clear out, we're also fucked. That's the point."

Walk out empty-handed and they would at least keep their lives. But who was going to trust a commission to people like them? Who was going to risk a deal?

So would they keep denying that brutal reality, cling to a hope with no date on it, take on more debt, and throw themselves back into the Dark Zone in a huddle of other bottom-feeders?

Even then, nothing would change. Even the people dumped in Seoul Southern Prison—the place they call the very bottom of this society—are killing themselves not to fall to the real bottom. Get pushed any further than this and the only choice left is dying.

The Western inmate who had first brought up credit ratings, a former international trade merchant named Neil Berryburn, quietly let out a fogged sigh.

Honestly, even he thought the present situation looked hopeless. First that bizarre broadcast had rolled through the dark. Then the power had died and the temperature had dropped out from under them. Now the monsters were running wild, and they had crawled into a warehouse without managing to do a damn thing about any of it. In Korean, they were rats in a jar. In Chinese, besieged on all sides. In the language of his hometown, it was FUCK.

He had always figured that a life in trade had at least given him stamina and a decent pair of eyes. Dropped into a mess like this, even his own mind felt like it was freezing solid. This was powerlessness—the first bitter thing a human being tasted when body and spirit both went weak.

I felt like this that day, too.

A rival company's dirty work had framed him for trafficking illicit drugs, and that was how Neil had ended up in a cell. He would not have called himself a clean man, not a hundred percent—but that day, he truly had not been trying to move anything of the sort. The past, though, was already the past. Even if he could not see an answer, Neil decided to look the present in the face.

Freeze to death in here, or shake the monsters, find a decent score, and make it back in one piece. What a choice.

The inmates he had been randomly matched with did not look like they were going to be much help. The one who fanatically believed every strange rumor and the one with no real opinions, who only wanted to ride along, were not so different from each other.

He was just starting to wonder whether he ought to throw them out as bait and save at least himself when a peculiar noise came sliding down through the ceiling vent, and Neil turned his ear toward it.

Tap-tap-tap… tap-tap-tap……

It was not the sound of some grotesque thing scrabbling madly across the ceiling. The rhythm was suspiciously clean, the regularity so exact it almost felt human.

Wait. Isn't that Morse code?

It was the old, traditional signal that anyone who spent enough time on ships or planes eventually learned without meaning to. Even in the cutting-edge 2040s, it was still the first language people reached for in an emergency.

The signal means… survivors. Respond. Hope?

Neil felt the last dying spark of hope catch and flare up again.

"Everybody start loosening up and get ready to move. I think we've got a way out."

"F-for real?"

"There are still monsters out there, though, right?"

"There's a smart one out there trying to talk the human way so those things don't catch on. I'll try to make contact. So get off your asses and stand up. If you don't want to get out of here alive, you can keep rotting in this hole. I won't care."

His companions scrambled to their feet, working the cold out of muscles gone dull, trying to drag some heat back into their bodies. While they did, Neil carefully eased the vent cover open and tapped the exhaust duct with the tip of a dagger.

Fortunately they were on the same floor; the sound carried reasonably well along the ducts. Even if the distance had been a little longer, the rhythm of the vibration would have been enough to pick the words out of it.

And the monsters don't know Morse code. That much is certain.

They would have noticed that an oddly rhythmic noise was traveling through the dark. What they had no way of confirming was whether it was environmental sound the Dark Zone produced on its own, or noise a human being was making. They had never encountered Morse code in their lives.

If we'd tried lights or a human voice, they would have caught on immediately. I don't know who this is—but it's someone who uses their head.

A human who turned a crisis into an opening. A human who reached into despair as if it were nothing and pulled hope back out. That was a truly terrifying kind of human. And if the person on the other end was a convict who had committed a crime and landed in a cell, the fear doubled. You found yourself wondering how remarkable they had to be, how great a sin they must have committed to end up here—and, at the same time, how well they had adapted, to move like this inside the Dark Zone. Anticipation and awe arrived together.

Someone this capable… could they be with a clan?

The thought rose unbidden. Neil erased it just as fast. Before deployment, there had been no one in the isolation cells who looked even remotely like clan material.

Which means there's a high chance they're a skilled solo—or a member of a small, elite standing party…

A strange flutter started up in Neil's chest.

What is this? This feeling is almost like—

Right then.

Dadadadadada! CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!

Out in the corridor, the metal-chunk monsters, large and small, went thundering off somewhere in a mass, like a swarm of ants that had found prey. Before Neil's group had ever hidden in this warehouse, those things had already butchered three or four inmate parties in a blink, ground them down, and drunk what was left—and after pulping that many human beings they had performed the little miracle of nearly doubling their ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠numbers. The count out there was already more than anyone could handle. If it grew from here?

Even if the capable one who had thought to use Morse was coming this way, Neil was starting to wonder whether any of them would get out alive—

KRA-KOOOOOM!

A sudden explosion blew the worry, the dread, the anxiety, and the fear clean out of him. He eased the door open to see what ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠had happened, and the pitch-dark corridor was blazing with orange light.

A group was walking slowly out of that burning center. In their hands were every kind of vicious, grotesque weapon that could be improvised from robot parts: makeshift explosives built from the skulls of Slaughter Robots, an ultra-high-heat Chainsword converted from an industrial cutter, a flamethrower hooked to a transparent tank sloshing with viscous liquid. Neil had no way of telling whether they were human at all, or a legion of Terminators merely pretending.

If not for the bone-chilling conversation drifting out from among them, he would have slammed the warehouse door without a second thought, wrapped himself in foil, and shaken in the dark.

"I sense some Ass-ei over there."

"They're in cold storage, so they should still be fresh."

"Even if the Ass-ei is a little past the sell-by date, that's fine. The use-by date ought to have some time left."

"And don't forget to harvest materials from these Cans. The compact power cells especially—a little work and they make instant explosives, so yank every intact one you find."

In this Dark Zone, human beings were supposed to be the ones being hunted. Amazingly, these people had turned it around. They were hunting the metal monsters, pulling anything useful out of the wreckage, and converting it on the spot into weapons. Just as the metal things ground human beings down and drank them to swell their own numbers, this group was grinding the metal things down and looking for ways to make those numbers shrink.

He was still staring blankly at the carnage outside when the man at the very front of the dozen-strong party walked up to Neil.

"…Gladly!"

Better that than crawling the floor of the Dark Zone like some pathetic loser and dying by inches. He would be reborn as a member of this party of real men, and he would stand up straight and dream of turning it all around in a single stroke.

Every man, after all, carried a little romance in his chest.