The sky hadn’t been blue in twenty years.
It was a permanent shade of burnt orange now, the sun hidden behind a haze of dust and smoke. Some said it was the bombs. TARITOTO Others blamed the factories that never stopped churning until the world broke. It didn’t matter. The air tasted like ash either way.
I lived in what used to be the city of Kestrin. The buildings were skeletons now—hollow, jagged, and ready to collapse if you breathed too hard. We called our little patch of safety “The Yard,” a barricade of rusted vehicles and sheet metal where about fifty of us tried not to die.
Water was worth more than bullets. Food wasn’t far behind.
One morning, while checking the perimeter, I spotted movement beyond the barricade. A lone figure, stumbling through the dust.
By the rules, we weren’t supposed to let strangers in—too dangerous. But when I got closer, I saw it was a boy. Couldn’t have been more than twelve.
He was clutching something to his chest—a metal case, dented but locked tight.
We took him to the medic, who patched up his cracked lips and bloodied knees. When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse.
“My father told me to bring this here,” he said, tapping the case. “Said it’s important.”
Nobody could open it—not even Rook, our best scav-tech. But etched into the side were the words: Central Core Access Key.
That got everyone talking. The Central Core was a myth—or so we thought. An underground facility from before the Fall, rumored to still have working power, clean water, maybe even crops.
If the case really was a key, it could mean the difference between dying in The Yard and starting over somewhere better.
I volunteered to take the boy back to where he came from, to see if the Core was real.
We left at dawn. The wasteland was a graveyard—crushed roads, rusting cars, the occasional skeleton half-buried in sand.
By the second day, we found tracks. Not human. The long, clawed kind that meant raiders had seen us.
They caught us that night.
Three of them, all in mismatched armor made from scavenged plating. Their leader had a mask made from a car grille.
“That’s ours,” he said, pointing to the case. “Hand it over.”
I told him no.
The fight was quick and ugly. One raider went down with a knife in his throat, another when I caved his knee in with a crowbar. The leader fled, but I knew he’d be back.
By the time we reached the coordinates etched into the case, the ground had changed—flat, unnaturally so. That’s when we found it: a rusted hatch half-buried in sand.
The boy slid the key into a slot beside it.
The hatch hissed open, revealing a staircase that led into darkness.
Inside, the air was cool. Lights flickered on as we descended. The corridor walls were smooth, untouched by time.
At the bottom was a door marked Central Core Operations.
When it opened, I had to blink.
Rows of hydroponic gardens stretched out before us, green and alive. Water trickled through pipes. Machines hummed softly.
It was real.
We spent the night there, eating food that didn’t taste like dust. But the boy’s smile faded when he saw my expression.
“This place isn’t safe,” I told him. “Not if anyone else finds out.”
And they would. Raiders. Desperate scavvers. Even The Yard might fight over it.
We left the Core at dawn, sealing the hatch behind us.
I told the boy to keep the key safe. To tell no one.
Some things weren’t meant to be found—not yet. Not until people remembered how to build instead of destroy.
When we got back to The Yard, the others asked what we’d found.
“Nothing,” I said. “Just more ash and rust.”
And maybe one day, when the world was ready, I’d tell them the truth.