Chapter 1: Dead Zone East

The wind was dry,
but the ground still stank of gunpowder and blood.
Not rain.
Not life.
Just the bitter memory of a war no one finished.

A boy walked across the wreckage of what was once called District 9.
Barefoot.
Carrying a torn bag filled with nails, broken batteries, and silence.
He looked fifteen
but something in his eyes felt much older.
Like he had already buried time.

Behind him, a dark sunrise painted the sky the color of rusted metal.
Ahead of him: the invisible border they called Dead Zone East.
No gates.
No warning signs.
Just a long scar in the earth where the last bullet fell.

The boy stopped near a collapsed transport truck,
its wheels half-buried in red dust.
He crouched down, pulled a sharp glass shard from his ankle.
No sound.
No cry.
He’d learned early: pain was private, and silence kept you alive.

The truck’s side door was marked with black spray paint:
“Return means rot.”

He didn’t flinch.
He’d seen worse carved into people’s skin.

A long whistle echoed from the ridge above:
One long, two short.

He answered back by tapping a broken metal rod three sharp strikes against the truck.

Seconds passed.

Then three shadows moved from behind the rocks.

They came fast and low,
like they’d done this before.

The first was a girl with thick braids and bare feet.
Maybe ten years old.
She carried a slingshot and a pocket full of marbles that weren’t marbles
they were tiny shrapnel bombs made from glass and wire.

The second was a thin boy with burnt sleeves and a plastic bottle of gasoline.
His eyes twitched every few seconds,
like he’d seen too much smoke and never recovered.

The third was the smallest just a kid.
But his hands were bandaged, wrapped in cloth,
and he held something sharp in each palm.

They didn’t greet the older boy.
Just stood there, silent, like pieces of something broken that still fit together.

The boy stepped forward, unslinging the black bag from his shoulder.
He emptied it slowly.
Nails.
Wires.
Two matchboxes.
And a piece of torn cloth with red lines drawn across it like a map someone wanted to forget.

The little girl whispered,
voice shaking just slightly:

“Is this it? The place?”



The boy didn’t answer.
He reached into the bag again, pulling out a tiny folded note.

He read it twice.
Then dropped it into the dust.

It burned quickly when the match hit it
like someone had soaked it in gasoline.

Then came the sound.
A thud.
Heavy. Close.

All four dropped low.
The girl raised her slingshot, trembling.

It was a sack.
Thrown from the ridge.

The boy approached it slowly.
Opened it.

Inside:
half a loaf of bread,
six 9mm bullets,
and a crumpled polaroid photo
a man’s face, scratched out with red ink.

The twitchy boy stepped forward.

“What does it mean?”



The older boy stared at the scratched face.
Then turned to the others.

“It means someone wants us to find him.”



“And kill him?” the girl asked.



He didn’t answer.
He just looked toward the smoky skyline, where the old buildings leaned like drunks in the wind.

The youngest asked, voice flat:

“Do we even know his name?”



The older boy stood tall.

“Names don’t matter now. Not here.”
“They lit the fire first.”
“We just finish what they started.”



The others said nothing.

But their silence agreed.

They picked up the gear.
Loaded their pockets.
Wiped dirt from their faces.

And then, like ghosts,
they disappeared into the smoke
toward a city that erased their past
but would never forget their return.