The nauseating lurch of dimensional travel slams Alex back into existence. One moment, he's standing in his cramped, lonely apartment, the ghost of his mother's smile in his mind's eye.
The next, he's back in the cold, echoing silence of the bank vault2, the smell of dust and ancient death filling his nostrils.
This time, there is no panic. No disorientation. Only a cold, hard certainty.
I'm back.
He takes a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the dim, flickering emergency light. The skeletons grin from the shadows.
The air is still and heavy. Nothing has changed here. But he has.
He accesses the System interface, the familiar blue heart icon pulsing reassuringly in his vision.
[Inventory]
The ten slots glow, each filled with the supplies he meticulously purchased: Water bottles. Protein bars. First-aid kit. Solar flashlight. Multi-tool. Zip ties6.
The sight of it, the sheer, beautiful preparedness, sends a surge of confidence through him. This time, he is not a victim. He is an invader.
"Status," he murmurs, the word a puff of white vapor in the frigid air.
[Administrator: Alex Virelli] 7
[Physiological Status: Healthy]
> Strength: 8 (Below Average)
> Agility: 9 (Below Average)
> Endurance: 7 (Poor)
[System Abilities]
> Analysis (Active)
> Extraction (Active)
> Integration (Active)
> Inventory (10/10 Slots Used) 11
The numbers are still pathetic12. A reminder of how weak he is. But it doesn't matter.
His true power wasn't in his muscles; it was in his mind and the glowing blue interface only he could see.
His first priority is clear. Maya.
He has to get back to the comms tower. He has to know if she survived15. The guilt from his abrupt departure still gnaws at him, but now it's overlaid with a pragmatic edge.
She's a potential asset. A skilled ally in a world determined to kill him. He can't afford to lose her.
And the gold. He glances at the scattered bars and coins littering the floor. His ticket to power.
His weapon against the life that broke him.
However, he tells himself.
'Survival first. Then wealth.'
He pulls the normal AR rifle from his Inventory, the action smooth and practiced now. He checks the magazine, chambers a round. The clack of the bolt sliding home is a satisfying sound in the silence. He slings the heavy backpack—his alibi for the Inventory—onto his shoulders.
Without changing his expression, he moves to the edge of the breached vault door. Last time, he was terrified. Now, he is cautious, methodical. He uses the reflection in his new Zippo lighter's polished surface to scan the lobby.
'Empty.'
The smear of blood leading out the front door is darker now, drier. Seven days have passed here.
Seven days of whatever hell this world considers normal.
He steps out of the vault, moving like a ghost through the ruined lobby.
His sneakers crunch softly on broken glass. He steps over skeletons, his eyes constantly scanning the shadows, his rifle held at the ready.
The world outside is as he remembers it: a panorama of desolation under a blood-red sun.
The scale of the destruction still awes him, but the initial shock is gone. He sees not just ruins, but resources.
Scrap metal for the Fabricator he will eventually build. Sheltered locations for future outposts.
An empire waiting to be claimed. He pushes the thought down. One step at a time.
He starts moving west, towards the distant silhouette of the comms tower. He keeps to the shadows cast by the skeletal remains of skyscrapers, moving from the cover of one burned-out car wreck to the next.
The heavy backpack feels cumbersome, but necessary.
He's crossing a wide, rubble-strewn street, the open space making his skin crawl, when he hears it.
A low, guttural snarl, coming from his left.
He freezes, rifle snapping up.
Fifty meters away, emerging from the shattered doorway of a department store, is one of the Infected.
It's humanoid, but horrifically wrong. Its skin is gray and stretched taut over sharp bones. Its jaw hangs slack, revealing rows of needle-like teeth. Its movements are jerky, unnatural, driven by a mindless, consuming hunger.
It hasn't seen him yet.
Alex fell into thought.
'I can just hsoot the creature and kill it efficiently, but there is risk of my action attracting more infected zombies'
After a careful consideration and given the fact that the zombie hasn't noticed him yet, Alex chooses to use 'analyze'.
[Being: Infected (Class-1 Undead).
Properties: Aggression (High), Speed (Low), Durability (Low), Weak Point (Head).]
Low durability. Headshot.
He raises the rifle, the scope finding the creature's lolling head. He slows his breathing, just like he practiced in countless video games, only this time the recoil and the target are terrifyingly real.
He squeezes the trigger.
The rifle bucks against his shoulder. The crack echoes across the plaza. The Infected's head explodes in a shower of gray matter and dark ichor. It collapses like a puppet with its strings cut.
"One shot. One kill. I am genius, yeah!"
He pats himself back but doesn't celebrate much. Only a cold, grim necessity. He quickly scans the area.
No other immediate threats. But he knows the gunshot was an announcement.
He breaks into a limping run, pushing his aching body, heading west. Towards the tower. Towards Maya.
As he rounds a corner, the communications tower finally comes into full view, dominating the ridge ahead.
He stops, his blood running cold.
"Smoke. Why there is smoke coming out the tower??"
A thin, black plume of smoke is rising from the base of the tower.
'No.'
He starts moving again, faster now, ignoring the stabbing pain in his ankle.
He scrambles up the rocky slope, his lungs burning, his mind filled with a single, desperate thought.
'Please be okay.'
He reaches the compound fence. It's torn down.
The signs of the battle are stark and brutal. Bodies of Scrappers lie where they fell, already starting to bloat under the red sun. The bunker door hangs open, dark and silent.
He approaches cautiously, rifle raised, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He pushes the heavy steel door open wider.
The bunker is empty. Wrecked. But empty.
Then he hears it. A faint, metallic scrape. From above.
He looks up towards the tower itself. Towards the rooftop.
Someone is still there.