Melk stormed in, and Kevin tossed him a quick nod.

  “Hey, kid, solid job at the crossroads. Now grab your crap and let’s haul ass outta here!” Melk snapped, his voice rough and bossy.

  Guilan smirked, arms crossed tight as hell. “Go wherever you want, but the guns stay with us!”

  Melk ran his tongue along his blade, eyes narrowing into a pissed-off squint.

  Kevin stepped up, hands raised high. “Whoa, hold up. Can we chill and talk this out? We busted our asses dragging those guns back from the walkers—you just swooped in and nabbed ’em. But with all these old folks to look after, how about we split ’em fair and square?”

  Guilan snorted, his lip curling like he’d sniffed something rank. “Share with you two punks? Get real—you’ve got zilch on us!”

  Right then, Glenor rolled up, voice cool but steady as hell. “Count me in—makes three,” he said, nodding at Kevin and Melk.

  Melk shot him a filthy look but zipped it. Back in the day, Glenor was one of the guys who’d screwed him over, handcuffing him to that damn roof. Oh yeah, Melk still wanted to rip his head off, but guns and ammo trumped payback right now. Glenor’s help was a damn bonus—settling scores could wait.

  Guilan opened his mouth to snap back, but loud-ass yells exploded outside: “Walkers! Shit-tons of ’em!”

  He barked orders like a drill sergeant, kicking his crew into gear as they hauled ass to face the swarm.

  Kevin’s gut twisted hard as fuck. The story was jumping the gun way too fast. This curveball in the plot had him sweating bullets.

  Right on cue, a mission alert blasted across his vision:

  “Worldhopper 4444, you’ve tripped a hidden storyline: The Nursing Home’s Downfall. You unlocked this arc early, and now it’s go-time. Pick your poison:

  1. Snag half the guns and bounce while Guilan’s crew holds off the walkers.

  2. Talk Melk and Glenor into sticking around to save this nursing home with Guilan’s squad.

  Heads-up: Successfully defending the nursing home will change the original plot and grant substantial rewards. But beware—the large number of attacking walkers makes this mission highly unpredictable. Based on your ability rating, the risk is high. Choose wisely.”

  Omnispace went radio silent, leaving Kevin to chew on his options.

  Option one was the easy out—grab some guns and dip. Safe, but kinda lame.

  Option two? Ballsy as fuck. Bigger risk, bigger payoff—total game-changer if he could swing it.

  Deep down, Kevin knew Omnispace didn’t fuck around with pointless gigs. This was a gut-punch choice: survive like a savage or cling to some shred of decency. Was scraping by enough, or did living like a human actually mean something?

  In the show, Rikk was all about that humanity vibe. He helped folks, built a crew, kept hope alive. That’s what set him apart from selfish pricks like Sharn and Melk, who’d ditch anyone for a can of beans.

  Kevin flicked his eyes at the old-timers nearby. Those calm stares had a quiet weight—knowing life, ready for death. For a guy like him, used to kicking back in peacetime, leaving these people to get chomped by walkers felt like a kick in the damn nuts.

  From a “big picture” angle, this mission had some serious heft. Plus, that “hidden” tag screamed epic loot. And “unpredictable danger”?

  Screw it—the whole world’s already a goddamn dumpster fire; danger’s just Tuesday.

  This seven-day quest was crushing Kevin’s soul—walkers mutating every 48 hours like some fucked-up science experiment gone rogue. The stress gnawed at him, but deep down, he couldn’t shake the itch that bailing out would screw him harder than staying.

  Omnispace didn’t toss him into this shitshow just to watch him die, right? This gig wasn’t pure suicide—saving these helpless folks had to tie into some bigger picture. Maybe some badass would swoop in to pull their nuts outta the damn fire.

  High risk, high reward—Kevin was balls-deep in this mess now!

  “Melk, Glenor, we’re sticking around to smash these walkers!” Kevin hollered, sharp and firm.

  Glenor gave a quick nod, a half-assed smirk tugging at his lips as he sized Kevin up. Back in the old tale, this nursing home was his soft spot—probably some cultural crap about kissing elder ass baked into his bones. Didn’t take much to rope him in.

  “You fuckin’ nuts, kid?” Melk spat, sneering like a junkyard dog. “If you’re so hot to get your ass chewed off, I ain’t stickin’ around for the show—I’m ghostin’ this dump!”

  “Melk! You gonna keep bolting like a scared rabbit?” Kevin yelled, voice sharp but steady, cutting through the chaos. “Don’t you get why folks can’t stand your ass? Deep down, you’re dying to fit in—you’re just too damn stubborn to own it. You’ve got this—”

  Before Kevin could spit another word, Melk’s fist slammed into his face like a freight train. The guy was a rabid dog unleashed—grabbing Kevin’s shirt, he yanked him close and snarled, “Who the hell died and crowned you king, huh? You think you’re hot shit ’cause you’re some scrawny nerd? You’re no different from this wimp—both of you are dead weight! Wanna croak here? Be my guest, I ain’t cryin’ over your sorry corpse.”

  Kevin hit the dirt, groaning as he spat out a tooth, blood trickling down his chin like a busted faucet. But he wasn’t folding. Wiping his mouth, he locked eyes with Melk and rasped, “Look at these old folks… they’re cool as hell under this mess, and you’re the one losing it.” His glare sharpened. “You’re the real coward here, man.”

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  Kevin sucked in a breath, steadying his voice like he was piecing a puzzle mid-fight. “Here’s the truth: Glenor and me—the ‘wimps’ you keep yapping about—we’re ready to throw down. But you? The big bad Melk?” His lip curled, eyes narrowing with a cold jab. “You’re scampering off with your tail tucked tight.” He hawked a bloody glob onto the dirt. “Go ahead, run. Let’s see how far your sorry self—”

  WHAM! Melk’s fist crashed in again, sending Kevin’s skull smashing into the wall with a sickening crack. Blood gushed from a split scalp, streaking down his face like war paint. He crumpled to the ground, vision blurring—if this was a game, his health bar’d be flashing red by now.

  Pain throbbed through his skull, heartbeat hammering in his ears. But even through the haze, Kevin couldn’t shake the knot twisting in his gut—Melk had pulled him out of the fire too many times for this to sit right. This Omnispace mess had him pinned, and he was stuck playing hardball to keep the guy here. If Melk bailed, their shot at winning would be near zero.

  Glenor stepped up, planting his boots square in Melk’s path like a brick wall. “Listen up,” he said, voice steady as steel, “me and this guy are set to bust some walker skulls together. You? Go play your little lone-wolf hero act you’re so damn proud of.” He snagged a riot shotgun from a busted locker nearby and marched out, not sparing Melk another glance.

  Kevin hauled himself up, yanked out his pistol, and flashed a shaky grin. No damn way he’d look weak—not when he had to bullshit his way tough.

  Melk was a hard-ass who’d only nod at balls of steel. Hold your shit together, he’d give you a nod. Flinch one bit, and he’d ditch your ass cold.

  Kevin brushed past Melk, jaw tight, and sneered, “Surviving ain’t shit if you got nothing to bleed for—you’re just a damn walker with a pulse!”

  Melk let out a nasty cackle, then smashed his boot into Kevin’s gut, dumping him flat.

  ***

  Outside—chaos. Kevin clocked a shit-ton of walkers—lurching fiends swarming the streets like a plague.

  Guilan’s crew—sixteen or so hardened fighters—braced for the onslaught. Packing the guns and ammo Kevin had snagged, they locked down a tight formation, blasting walkers back with stone-cold grit.

  Glenor held the front, pumping his shotgun like a beast, popping walker skulls clean.

  Brain or bust—that’s the game.

  Kevin hung back, Melk’s gritty lessons ringing in his head, picking his shots like a sniper.

  Deep down, Kevin hated pissing Melk off. Melk had the chops and had been schooling him hard in this screwed-up hellhole. No payout needed—those tricks were gold.

  Surviving wasn’t enough—life’s gotta mean more. Kevin—yesterday’s gamer geek—couldn’t ditch these old folks to rot. He’d hate his damn guts if he bailed.

  Bet you’re thinking—it’s just a game. NPCs, story fodder. Who cares if they croak?

  Kevin bought that crap once. Then he caught their eyes—raw anger, gut fear, a flicker of hope—and it hit him: these weren’t just NPCs or code. They were flesh-and-blood folks clawing to live. He wasn’t some hero ready to eat dirt for them, but he could damn well hold the line and slug back.

  The pistol kicked light, and Kevin locked it tight, popping rounds like a pro with his Small Firearms Mastery jacked up. Walkers rushed in, and he blasted straight ahead, unloading rounds like a machine. Sixty seconds flat—40 rounds gone, 32 walkers dropped, 64 survival points racked up, all his, thanks to his own gun.

  Guilan’s crew battled tooth and nail too—him ripping walkers apart with an M16 like a butcher. Spotting Kevin jump in, Guilan’s hard-ass mask slipped, and he flashed a shocked smirk.

  Glenor, old hand at this, pumped his shotgun, dropping walkers with every blast and slamming shells in smooth. The rest squared off with walkers too—total shitshow, even kids clutching Uzis, unloading like it’s the damn end! Some gray-haired vets, ex-soldier types, gripped rifles tight, nailing walkers clean.

  Anyone with a pulse hit the front—humanity versus “them,” scrapping ’til they dropped. But the walkers—too damn many—kept lurching in, dead-eyed and starving for blood.

  Kevin popped the empty mag and snapped his head up—a walker was sneaking up on Guilan. Guilan drove his rifle butt into a walker’s skull, blind to the bastard slipping in behind.

  Kevin barked a heads-up and cracked his pistol across the walker’s dome, knocking it back. He jammed his knife in quick, blade ripping through with a wet crunch. Blood splattered as he twisted it, nailing it dead for good.

  Guilan went pale as hell. “Watch it!”

  Kevin whipped around, face-to-face with jaws snapping for his shoulder—BAM—the walker’s head popped like a melon, and Melk’s growl cut through: “Dumbass, I said watch your back.”

  Melk—damn near too late. Kevin’s legs wobbled, but he slapped on a dorky grin that screamed “I’m screwed.”

  Melk booted Kevin’s ass hard. “Move it! Back’s swarming too—I ain’t your damn babysitter. Ain’t playin’ your fairy-tale hero neither, bonehead—you’ll screw us both dead!”

  Kevin shot Glenor a quick “what the hell” look—both too stumped to yap.

  Melk spun and barked, “Eyes on, crew! Wanna live? My lead! Line up and scatter—rifles snipe ’em far, 100 feet plus. Shotguns blast mid-range, 30 to 90. Pistols face ’em close, 30 or less! Guard your slice up front!”

  He stopped, eyes locking on some lug. “Yo, fat-ass! You deaf or just slow as hell?!”

  Melk cackled like a loon, letting loose a bullet storm, shredding walkers into bloody mush. Carnage central.

  The guns kicked into high gear, flipping the fight. Defense locked tight, shots popping off clean—walkers dropped like flies, letting the crew catch a breath and slap in fresh rounds.

  Guilan chucked Kevin an Uzi with spare mags. Pumped as hell, Kevin clutched it like a lifeline, the Uzi rattling in his sweaty grip, spitting lead into walker meat.

  The fight roared on, but Melk jumping in—plus those sweet wall perches—let ’em shred hundreds in a nonstop hail of bullets.

  Kevin nailed 125 walkers, racking up 250 survival points—total now 421. He’d smoked past the 100 kills for Walker Hunter, chilling at 174.

  A light pinged, and Omnispace intoned: “Worldhopper 4444 has secured Bronze-tier title: Walker Hunter. Effect: +5% walker damage. Activate now?”

  That 5% walker damage bump? Hell yeah, Kevin slotted it fast.

  Omnispace declared: “Silver-tier Walker Killer title available. Progress: 174/500 kills.”

  Guess “go big or go home” fits this dumbass move. Mowing down that many walkers ain’t easy for a green Worldhopper like Kevin. Even playing it safe, he still caught some ugly gashes.

  Good thing his 40 HP base—plus 10 from that brass ring and that vest’s padding—kept him clinging at 25 HP. Damn good the nursing home’s med stash patched him up, staunching the blood. Slapped together, his HP ticked back up slow.

  Ammo burned low quick in the shitstorm—soon they’re down to scraps, and night slammed down, swallowing all in pitch-black hell. Walkers turned meaner—quicker, tougher, and damn unstoppable.

  Kevin locked up, eyes popping, as one of those bastards vaulted six feet like it was nothing and slammed into the loudmouth Melk was ripping apart. That walker didn’t play—jaws clamped down on the guy’s throat, shredding skin, blood spraying like a busted pipe. No saving that dumbass now. Some chick nearby lost her shit and ate dirt, out cold.

  And the walkers? Yeah, still hauling ass their way. No chill.