Xandr “Glaive” Harris Jr., the Roach-Slayer's Arc

Chapter 2 of 2

Xandr walked through the settlement's western quarter, boots scraping against broken asphalt. The barricades and early warning systems were in place, but defense meant nothing without fighters who knew how to use them. He needed to train the survivors. Most had never held a real weapon before the mutants came. They swung bats and pipes like amateurs, wasting energy on wild strikes. That wouldn't work when the roaches attacked in force. He called out to a group near the old warehouse. They gathered around him, tired and uncertain. He drew his glaive and showed them the basics—how to stand, where to aim, when to strike. The lesson was simple but necessary. These people would hold the walls when the time came. But training alone wasn't enough. He needed to understand the enemy better. Where did the mutants come from? What made them vulnerable? The old military outpost beyond the eastern edge might have answers. He dismissed the group and headed out at first light. The outpost sat like a broken tooth against the gray sky. Half the building had collapsed inward, walls cracked and blackened from fire. Xandr approached slowly, hand on his glaive. Movement near the entrance caught his eye—Mole Man Soldiers, three of them, tearing through debris and stuffing papers into canvas bags. They were after the same thing he was. He watched them work, waiting for an opening. When two of them moved deeper into the structure, he struck. His blade cut through the first soldier before it could shout. The other two spun around, weapons raised. He dodged left, drove his glaive through the second one's chest, then kicked the third backward into a pile of rubble. It didn't get up. He stepped over the bodies and entered the outpost. Filing cabinets lay scattered across the floor, drawers pulled open and ransacked. He searched through what remained—technical manuals, field reports, research files marked with red stamps. One folder caught his attention. It contained photographs of the first mutant attacks and handwritten notes about weak points in their anatomy. He tucked it under his arm and kept searching. By the time he left, he had enough information to change how his fighters would train. The mutants had weaknesses. Now he knew where to hit them. Back at the settlement, Xandr hauled the salvaged parts to the outer perimeter. Metal panels, radio components, wire coils—all scavenged from old tech sites over the past week. He bolted the pieces together until the makeshift satellite dish took shape. The tracking array looked rough, but it would work. He connected the power source and adjusted the angle. Static crackled through the speaker, then cleared. The scanner picked up movement three miles out—a small cluster heading west, away from the settlement. Good. When the next wave came, they would have warning. Time to prepare instead of scrambling in panic. He tested it twice more, then headed back inside. The research files sat on the table in his quarters. He spread them out and read through each page. The early defense strategies had failed because nobody understood what they were fighting. Now he did. He knew where the armor was thinnest, which organs to target, how fast they could move. This knowledge would save lives. The dream of ending the mutant threat felt closer now—not just a hope, but something he could actually build toward. The next problem wouldn't wait. Water. The settlement had enough for maybe two weeks if rationed hard. After that, people would get desperate. Xandr grabbed his weapons and headed toward the abandoned water treatment plant. The facility sprawled across an open area, its tanks and pipes exposed to the sky. Giant mutant insects crawled over everything—bloated flies the size of dogs and beetles with shells that gleamed in the afternoon light. He moved carefully, keeping low. The insects scattered when he approached, then regrouped behind him. He ignored them and focused on the machinery. Most of it was broken, but the main filtration system looked intact. He cleared debris from the intake valve and checked the pipes. They would need repairs, but the plant could work again. He marked what needed fixing and started back. One of the beetles charged him from behind. He spun and drove his glaive through its head, then kicked it off the blade. The settlement would have clean water during a siege. That was one more piece of the defense in place. One more step toward keeping his people alive when everything else tried to kill them.