Samantha stood in line with the other survivors, her arms crossed as she watched the military personnel work with efficiency. The survivors were being processed one by one, their names called in batches before they were escorted to their designated locations.
The entire system was organized—too organized. It didn’t feel like a temporary shelter but rather the restructuring of a functioning society under military rule.
She inhaled deeply, pushing the thought aside. What mattered was that the fighting was over. She wasn’t trapped in a university overrun with zombies, starving and waiting for death. She was alive. That was enough—for now.
A soldier standing by a desk called out a new name.
"Garcia, Samantha!"
She stepped forward, meeting the eyes of the officer seated behind a digital tablet.
"Name?" he asked, though he was already typing it in.
"Samantha Garcia."
"Age?"
"Eighteen."
"Former occupation?"
"I am a Student, I don’t have work."
"Notable skills?"
Samantha hesitated. Notable skills? In the old world, she would have said something like writing or research, maybe even organizing student events. But here? What did any of that matter?
The officer looked up, waiting. She scrambled for an answer.
"I... I can cook a little. I know basic first aid, and I—uh—I was part of my university’s emergency response team."
The officer nodded, his fingers moving swiftly over the screen.
"Any medical conditions?"
"None."
A few more taps, and then the officer handed her an identification card.
ID: 0371-SG
Name: Samantha Garcia
Civilian Status: Tier 1 Resident
Work Assignment: Community Services (Medical Aid & Logistics)
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Housing Unit: Shore Residence Tower C, Level 4, Room 412
Samantha glanced at the card, frowning slightly. "Community Services?"
The officer didn’t even look up. "That means you’ll be assisting in medical stations and ration distribution until further notice. If you perform well, you may be reassigned based on future evaluations."
"Uhm—what does Tier 1 mean? I have been wondering about it."
"Tiers is the system of where we ranked the importance of a survivor. You being a Tier 1 meant that you are an important personnel, that is of course you are close friends with the Supreme Commander. We have three tiers. Tier 1 consists of essential personnel—those with skills or connections valuable to the survival and growth of the MOA Complex. That includes high-ranking officials, medical professionals, engineers, and… well, those closely associated with Commander Estaris."
Samantha blinked. So that was it. She was ranked highly not because of her skills, but because she knew Thomas personally.
"And the other tiers?" she asked.
"Tier 2 consists of trained personnel—laborers, craftsmen, logistics workers, and others who contribute to maintaining order in the complex. They’re given stable housing and work but have limited privileges."
Samantha listened carefully, taking in every word.
"Then there’s Tier 3," the officer said, his tone shifting slightly. "Those are the unskilled, the ones without any real contributions yet. They do the hardest jobs—cleaning, manual labor, perimeter patrols—and live in the least comfortable conditions. But they can climb the ranks if they prove themselves."
Samantha frowned. It was a strict but effective system. If she hadn’t known Thomas, she probably would have been assigned to Tier 2 or even Tier 3.
"One last thing," the officer said, handing her a small data chip. "This contains your official identification and clearance. Don’t lose it."
Samantha nodded and stepped aside, her mind still processing what she had learned. The survivors were being categorized, ranked, and assigned work like pieces in a larger machine. It was clear that Thomas wasn’t just rebuilding a safe haven—he was establishing a structured society under his control.
A female soldier motioned for her to follow, leading her through the exit toward a waiting military truck. More survivors were already seated inside, each of them clutching their ID cards with varying expressions—relief, confusion, or quiet frustration.
The truck rumbled forward, moving deeper into the MOA Complex. Samantha sat quietly, her fingers tapping against the edge of her ID card as she observed the others. Some looked exhausted, others wary, and a few even appeared resigned to whatever fate awaited them. No one spoke.
The ride wasn’t long. Within minutes, they pulled up near the MOA Arena, where a large, well-organized food distribution center had been set up. Rows of tents and military crates formed makeshift stations, and long lines of survivors stretched across the area, each waiting for their turn.
Samantha stepped off the truck along with the others, immediately falling into line as instructed. Armed guards stood watch, their presence a clear reminder that order would be maintained. There was no room for chaos here.
The line moved steadily forward, each survivor receiving a metal tray with a serving of steamed rice, a small portion of canned meat, and a cup of water. It wasn’t much, but after a week of uncertainty, even a simple meal felt like a luxury.
When Samantha reached the front, a soldier handed her a tray with the same ration. She accepted it silently, stepping away to find an empty seat at one of the long folding tables under a large military-grade tent.
She sat down, glancing around. The atmosphere was tense—muted conversations, the occasional sigh, but no real energy. People were exhausted. Even those who were relieved to be alive knew that survival here came with conditions.
Across from her, a man stirred his rice absentmindedly before sighing. "They really are running this place like a military state," he muttered, more to himself than anyone in particular.
Samantha took a bite of her food before replying, "It’s better than being out there."
The man scoffed. "Maybe. But we’re not free, are we?"
"Do you really care about your freedom when your life is at stake? You can be free outside but die within hours, if you are lucky, days."
"You are young, what Tier are you?"
"Tier 1," Samantha replied.
"Tier 1? You looked like a high school student. How come you are above the rest of us?" The man frowned, studying her as if trying to piece together the puzzle.
Samantha hesitated. She had expected this reaction. It was obvious that she didn’t have any special skills or experience that warranted such a ranking. The only real reason was Thomas.
"I knew Thomas Estaris before all this happened," she admitted, keeping her voice neutral. "We were classmates."
The man scoffed, shaking his head. "Figures. Connections mean everything, even in the apocalypse."
Samantha didn’t bother arguing. He wasn’t wrong. While she had been given a decent position, others who had survived just as much hardship—maybe even more—were forced into lower tiers, working harder for fewer privileges.
She took another bite of her food, chewing slowly. The rice was dry, the canned meat salty, but it was edible. Across the tent, she could hear hushed conversations, people exchanging thoughts on their assignments, their housing, their futures.
Most didn’t know what to expect.
Neither did she.
A commotion near the food distribution area caught her attention. A middle-aged man in ragged clothes was arguing with one of the soldiers.
"I worked in construction for fifteen years! You’re telling me I’m just some Tier 3 grunt now? I should be in logistics or engineering, not shoveling debris!"
The soldier remained unfazed, his rifle slung across his chest. "If you prove yourself, you can move up. Until then, follow your assignment."
The man cursed under his breath but didn’t push further. Samantha noticed the tension in his shoulders as he grabbed his food and stomped toward the seating area.
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It was clear—Thomas had built an efficient system. But not everyone was happy about it.
Samantha finished her meal quickly, placing her tray in one of the designated bins before stepping out of the tent. The air outside was thick with the scent of gun oil and concrete dust, the sound of distant construction filling the space between conversations.
A soldier near the exit noticed her and nodded. "Your residence is in Shore Tower C, correct?"
She nodded.
"Follow that road past the barricades, take a left at the security checkpoint. You’ll find your building there. Show your ID if you get stopped."
"Yes sir."