Managing an apocalypse survival group turned out to be depressingly similar to managing a mid-level corporate team, only with significantly higher risks of dismemberment.
The five new recruits sat in a semi-circle on the floor of the penthouse living room. They looked exhausted, dirty, and terrified. Sarah, the Nurse, was bandaging a scrape on her arm. Marcus, the Brawler, was eyeing my coffee with an expression of pure envy.
"Orientation is simple," I said, leaning against the reinforced window. "We operate on a merit system. You work, you eat. You fight, you get gear. You complain, you sleep in the lobby with the draft."
I pointed to a pile of scavenged tools I had laid out. Hammers, crowbars, and a few sturdy kitchen knives.
"Marcus, you are on perimeter duty with Silas. Nothing gets within ten feet of the front door without exploding."
Marcus nodded, picking up a heavy iron pipe. "And the others?"
"Scavenging runs," I said. "But we aren't looking for food today. We are looking for cars."
"Cars?" Sarah asked. "The roads are blocked. We can't drive anywhere."
"We don't need to drive them," I corrected, tapping the [Blueprint] floating in front of me. "I need the batteries, the alternators, and the steel frames. We are building a power plant, and I am tired of living in the dark."