Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse With My Military System

Graves' attention was abruptly diverted by a distinct voice, harsher and more assertive than the flirtatious calls he'd just shrugged off. "Hey you, American," it rang through the noisy atmosphere of the club.

He pivoted to find the armed guard who had escorted him earlier, his stern face cutting through the clamor of the crowd. The guard held out ten purple casino chips toward Graves. "Courtesy from the Boss," he stated plainly. "For fixing the generator."

Graves, cautious but curious, accepted the chips. He weighed them in his hand, unfamiliar with their value within this isolated economy. "What can I get with these?" he inquired.

The guard's response was matter-of-fact, mirroring the straightforwardness of their surroundings. "With ten purple chips, you can secure a woman's company, rent a deluxe private room, and afford cooked meals for two days. Spend them wisely." His arm gestured towards the poker tables, alive with the fervent energy of gamblers. "Or try your luck and multiply them," he added.

Graves pocketed the chips, strategizing. "You said I can buy a woman's company with these chips, is it possible that I can buy one?" 

"Of course, but that'll cost you 80 purple chips…"

"So women in this camp are treated as property, am I right?" Graves asked sternly.

"Not just women, but men also," the armed guard corrected. "Everyone within this camp is the private property of the boss, and everything can be bought with a price."

With that new information, Graves strategized in his head. It's a convenient system as he can purchase women that he can protect from the camp's militants. If this is the way he could save some innocent people, then understanding and exploiting this system was essential. But first, he needed more chips.

His gaze shifted back to the poker tables and approached it. At that poker table, there are four men and two women playing, all deeply engrossed in the game. Graves took a moment to observe, analyzing their behaviors and strategies. The stakes were high; he could tell by the tense atmosphere and the silent exchanges of calculated glances.

Graves took a seat and joined the game. The others at the table assessed him with swift, evaluative glances. As an outsider, he was a wild card, an unknown variable in their well-worn routines of gambling and power play. He kept his expression neutral, his gaze steady. In this environment, giving away too much could be as dangerous as knowing too little.

"What's the limit?" Graves asked, sweeping his gaze at his fellow players.

One of the men at the table responded. "There's no limit here. You play till you're cleaned out or wise enough to walk away."

Graves nodded. He pulled out the ten purple chips from his pocket and placed them on the table. 

"Okay, let's play."

The dealer, a woman with sharp, scrutinizing eyes, distributed the cards efficiently. Each player, including Graves, assessed their hand quietly. The initial rounds of betting were cautious; players were measuring each other, and evaluating the level of risk and reward.

Graves was adept in the psychological nuances of poker. Each bet, each reveal of the cards, offered insights into the players' tendencies, their risk thresholds, and their strategies. Graves was not just playing to win chips; he was gathering information, discerning behavioral patterns, and understanding the dynamics at the table. Every interaction was an opportunity to learn, and every piece of information was vital.

Graves played several hands, winning some and losing others, currently, he has 140 purple chips and is on a winning streak. One of the women, who had charming looks, looked at Graves and spoke.

"What's your name sir?" She asked.

"Graves Jenkins…Raise 15 purple chips," Graves answered as he pushed his bet into the center of the table. The others matched or folded in quick succession. The woman, with a calculated smile, also raised her bet.

"Graves Jenkins, that name fits you perfectly. I'm Cassandra, what do you do for a living before this zombie outbreak?" 

"I'm an electrical engineer," Graves replied.

"Really? You don't look like someone who works as an electrical engineer," Cassandra said, her eyes scanning his athletic physique. 

"Oh, I get that all the time," Graves chuckled softly. "So, Cassandra, let me ask you this, are you enjoying your stay here in this camp?"

"I do, it's the most protected place on Earth. Though some things may not be perfect, it's better to live here than to run for your life all the time in the streets." 

Graves was sent here to investigate the camp and to confirm that there was an atrocious act committed within. He had confirmed that there is indeed an atrocious act committed but asking questions about them liking it here allowed him to gauge whether everyone is worth saving or not. By the sound of it, Cassandra seemed to have taken a liking to the system, probably benefitting from it. 

The dealer placed the river card on the table. Graves analyzed his hand and the communal cards carefully. His odds were good. He maintained his poker face, giving nothing away as the final round of betting commenced.

"I'll raise another 20 chips," Graves stated, pushing his chips to the center.

Cassandra matched his raise, her eyes locked on Graves. The others folded, leaving the two of them to contest this hand.

"You're quite the player, Mr. Jenkins," Cassandra remarked with a hint of admiration and curiosity. "But I'll take you on. Call!"

Cassandra revealed her cards with a confident flip. A full house. The onlookers murmured in approval. Cassandra's smile broadened, sure of her victory.

But Graves was unflustered. With a knowing smirk, he laid down his cards - four of a kind. 

Graves collected his chips, now totaling 300 purple chips. 

"Nice hand," Cassandra commented. "You have stripped me of 100 purple chips. What do you intend to do with your chips?" 

"That's a secret," Graves grinned before taking his leave on the poker table. 

As Graves stepped away from the table. A commotion at the far corner of the club caught Graves' attention. Two men were forcefully dragging a young woman. Her cries and pleas echoed, cutting through the clamor of gamblers who seemingly didn't care as if they were accustomed to it happening.

Graves' instincts kicked in; every fiber of his being urged him to intervene. But—.

"Don't get in their way," Cassandra warned. "They are militia working under the fifth seat. If you want to have a peaceful life here, learn to turn a blind eye." 

"What are they going to do with that woman?" Graves asked. 

"That girl is in extreme debt and she failed to pay. Now she has to settle it with another form of payment…" Cassandra said nonchalantly.

It doesn't take a genius to understand what the other form of payment Cassandra is referring to. All the more reason to intervene. There's something that he can't tolerate. 

So he decided.