Guilan barked, “Move your ass, Prophet! You’ve done enough—get the hell outta here before you’re walker chow.”

  Kevin didn’t flinch, torn between bolting and sticking it out. Back door? Toast—swarming with those nasty sons of bitches too. He hollered back, “We roll out together, or we’re screwed together! If we’re toast, we go down swinging, damn it!”

  Kevin threw himself at the walker, jamming his knife into its throat with all his damn grit. The blade slipped—shit—ripping his fingers open, hot blood splattering the walker’s rotting hide.

  He was screwed, big time. Night walkers weren’t just tough—they were beasts, stats jacked up to 8 or 9. Melk-level badass, and Kevin’s ass was toast up close.

  He peeked at his battle log and winced hard. That bastard could smash him flat—one hit, and he’s a goner!

  Holy hell, ever see a lead this pathetic? Call the cops—sue the author for this shit!

  Guilan had it locked. He barked at his crew to drop the first wall—bricks crashed down, burying a ton of walkers in rubble. But the swarm kept coming, relentless as hell, pushing ’em back to the courtyard’s second wall.

  Kevin’s eyes flicked around—bam, a no-smoking sign sparked a wild idea in his head like a lightning bolt.

  “Guilan, got any gas ’round here?”

  Guilan didn’t skip a beat—he barked at his crew to haul ass and grab gasoline, anything that’d burn.

  Kevin snatched a gas can and bolted forward, sloshing it across the courtyard dirt, the sharp stink of fuel choking the air. He yanked out his lighter and flicked it—boom, a roaring inferno blasted up, flames tearing into the night sky.

  Walkers hated fire and light, day or damn night, but these hunger-crazed freaks kept charging in, frying one after another into crispy husks.

  Everyone hustled to chuck more flammable junk on the blaze, scrambling to keep it kicking.

  A notification pinged in Kevin’s face: plan worked—kill points racked up sweet.

  Payday yet? Kevin was itching to check his battle log.

  He quick figured Omnispace didn’t mess with loopholes—fire-kill points got slashed hard, 5 crispy walkers for one point, barely 10% of what it was.

  Still, with walkers all over, Kevin racked up a solid 100 points—not a total bust.

  Half an hour later, the fire fizzled out, and those bastards crept closer, shadows stretching like hell. Gunshots cracked the night air again.

  By 1 a.m., the nursing home was screwed. Walkers swarmed in waves, flooding every damn corner.

  Out of ammo, the crew fell back to their last stand—the main hall. Walkers ripped a gaping hole in the steel door, and the survivors bunched up, gripping any sharp junk they could snag, jabbing at heads, eyes, mouths in pure desperation.

  Melk’s voice came out flat, damn near dead. “Told you—you’re gonna get us all smoked.”

  Kevin ripped the metal pipe from a walker’s skull with a grunt, flashing a shaky grin. “Chill, bro, cut me some slack. You’re a damn jinx on legs!”

  Melk’s face stayed stone-cold as he droned, “Warned you. We’re all dead now, thanks to you.”

  Kevin, still yanking the pipe, barked back, “How about some good vibes for once? You’re a total buzzkill!”

  Glenor, panting hard, wheezed, “We’ve smashed a ton of ’em—that’s gotta count, right?”

  Melk just shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. More keep coming. This fight’s a bust.”

  Kevin grit his teeth, thinking, Maybe it’s a bust for you, Melk, but I’ve racked up points aplenty. Too bad I’m out of tricks to haul us outta this shit.

  Right when hope was toast, a cheer—bam—exploded from the back, ripping through the crowd fast.

  A nurse busted in, panting like hell, yelling about a whole damn fleet of big-ass rigs—fortified buses included—rolling up. The hall blew up with wild cheers.

  Glenor flashed a grin. “Rikk and the crew finally hauled ass to save us. I radioed ’em earlier.”

  ***

  Melk’s face stayed grim as a brick, but Kevin was cracking up, grinning wide as Omnispace pinged his eyes:

  “Worldhopper 4444. Mission: The Nursing Home’s Downfall—completed.

  Through courage, intellect, and justice, you prevented 82 human deaths, altered the forthcoming plot, and gained a 2% Plot Deviation Rate increase.

  As the initial completer of this hidden mission, you receive a 100% reward enhancement. As a first participant, you receive a 50% bonus. For overcoming adjusted difficulty (night combat, C-level, novice), you are granted an additional 50%. Total reward multiplier: 300%.

  Select two options:

  A. Strength +3 (was +1)

  B. Agility +3 (was +1)

  C. Stamina +3 (was +1)

  D. Intelligence +3 (was +1)

  E. Wisdom +3 (was +1)

  F. Charisma +3 (was +1)

  G. Hyper Serum—100% Stamina restore.”

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Kevin was pumped as hell about these stat boosts—shit, he knew how rare and badass they were.

  He later found out Omnispace didn’t mess around with basic upgrades—missions juicing stats were scarce. Even hidden ones barely coughed up a +1. If luck hadn’t swung his way and his calls hadn’t synced with the main plot, he’d be stuck on some lame-ass side gig, missing these sweet perks.

  After mulling it over, Kevin pumped Strength and Stamina. In Omnispace, it’s all about surviving—last one upright grabs the prize. (No duh, right?)

  This newbie quest chucks you in deep—survive a week or bust. Total wake-up slap for rookies. Stamina’s the kingpin—burn out, and you’re toast.

  Kevin near bit it in that walker swarm. Without Melk, Glenor, Guilan, and the crew watching his back—or medics stitching him up—he’d be a goner.

  So when a sweet-ass chance like this pops up, picking the Stamina boost is a no-brainer. Kevin also snagged +3 Strength—sick of getting shoved around by even the wimpiest walkers. In those fights, it’s always up close and personal. Lose the upper hand, and you’re screwed. With 7 Strength now, he’s not snapping like a twig under some boot anymore.

  Then Omnispace pinged his eyes with a new title:

  “Worldhopper 4444.

  Title awarded: Fire Captain.

  Rank: Silver-tier.

  Acquisition: Automatically granted for rescuing over 50 humans.

  Effects: Life-saving mission rewards increased by 30%. Favor with human faction characters automatically enhanced. Charisma checks for human interactions raised by +2.”

  A quick peek showed he’d already nabbed the bronze-tier Fire Fighter title too—unlocked at 20 saves—since he’d pulled 82 people outta the fire. Next up: the gold-tier Fire Chief, needing 100 rescues. He’s really close at 82/100.

  Kevin hadn’t just lucked into another badass title—his relentless ass-kicking and sharp tricks had snagged the Walker Killer no damn fluke.

  The Walker Killer title is silver-tier, unlocked by wasting 500+ walkers. It boosts damage to those bastards by 10%, but—heads-up—you’re their first target now. Next up’s the gold-tier Walker Slayer, needing 1,000 kills. Kevin’s at 661/1,000—closing in fast.

  After slugging it out with walkers all night, he scored 7 white keys. Weird as hell, since weapons and fire tanked the loot rate. The keys didn’t open jack—just coughed up some survival points and skill points. By the end, he’d stacked 2,000 survival points and 2 skill points.

  Kevin got that skill points level up skills, depending on type and rank.

  He also got the scoop that Omnispace sometimes tosses in attribute points to juice basic stats—not this round, though.

  ***

  Kevin clocked Rikk rolling up, flanked by his crew. Middle-aged, dark curls, medium build, piercing eyes—Rikk was the damn lead of this end-of-the-world gig.

  Rikk and Melk locked eyes, tension sparking like a live wire. Melk sneered, dripping sarcasm, “Sheriff Rikk, shocked I’m still kicking?” Rikk’s smile was ice-cold, fists balled tight. “Deyl, T-Bone, and I hauled ass back for you.”

  Melk’s face twisted bitter. “Big deal—I’m minus a damn hand!” Rikk snapped, fury blazing, “Melk, you brought this shit on yourself! Quit being a pain in the ass, and we’d be fine!”

  Kevin almost jumped in, but a sharp chick’s voice sliced through the crowd, “Rikk, cool it!” Shockingly, Rikk shut up. Kevin eyed her—not Lorrah, but a short-haired badass who strutted like she ran HR at some corporate hellhole.

  Kevin stepped back, eyeing the bigger-than-expected crew. Familiar mugs like Aundra, Lorrah, T-Bone, and Sharn were there, but what threw him was each had a stranger tagging along—nobodies he didn’t clock from the story. Their gear and vibes rang a bell, though he couldn’t pin it down.

  Then it hit him, replaying that Omnispace drop: he wasn’t the only player in this shitshow. Newbies were paired with the big shots, soaking up lessons.

  Right then, a Mohawk kid spotted walkers pinned at the door—free points. He yelled, cocked his piece, and charged, blasting undead asses for score. The other rookies piled in, scrambling to stack points. Gunfire popped off everywhere in seconds.

  The main crew swapped pissed-off looks, fed up with the damn chaos.

  “Move it!” Rikk snapped, throwing a hand up.

  The crew started peeling back, tripping over themselves toward the rides in a messy-as-hell scramble. Melk planted his feet, scowling like a pissed-off bull, all grit and no give. But Deyl wasn’t taking that shit—he slammed Melk into the car with a hard shove.

  The wheels were set to burn rubber, but a few stragglers were AWOL. Rikk grimaced, giving the horn a quick tap. Unlike Sharn—the group’s loose cannon—Rikk kept his cool. Sharn would’ve ditched their asses already.

  Then Razor Hawk, king of the punk-ass newbies, swaggered in, blood-soaked and grinning like a jackass. He whistled loud, reloading his piece with a showy flick. “Hell yeah! Top spot for Walker Hunter’s mine!” A couple of his buddies crowed about their kills and loot, swinging guns like they’d won the damn lottery.

  Kevin watched it all, soaking up the chaos in silence.

  The short-haired chick hit her limit. She wheeled on Razor Hawk, barking, “We had a deal to stick tight! Why the hell’d you bail like that?”

  Razor Hawk shrugged, playing dumb as hell. “What? We’re off walker-killing duty now? News to me.” He smirked like a creep, eyes glued to her chest, pulling chuckles from his crew.

  The chick steamed, arms crossed, spinning away from that jackass. She scoped the crowd, then clocked Kevin in the corner. Strolling over, she shot him a quick look and grinned. “You’ve been rolling with Melk. Held your own in the chaos, yeah?”

  Kevin flashed a blank grin. “Sure, I’ve got muscle, but walkers are a pain in the ass, and I’m no speed demon. Good thing Melk had me loading his rounds.” A few dirty looks swung his way.

  Day two, and the rookies were jumping into the fray, getting cocky. Razor Hawk was already past a hundred kills, others piling up scores. Then there’s this newbie, ducking the real action, claiming he’s just the ammo bitch.

  The short-haired chick, sharp as hell at sniffing out crap, sized up Kevin’s basic gear and figured he wasn’t worth a damn. She almost grilled him on what he got from tagging with Melk, but smirked and bailed instead.

  Kevin hit it off fast with the chubby dude beside him, Mallow, a laid-back homebody like him. Mallow slipped into the crew smooth as butter the second he rolled in. No scars from wild shit, just a chill vibe that spilled everything—Kevin tossed a few easy questions, and they were yakking like old pals in no time.

  Omnispace had dumped a mess of new Worldhoppers into this world at once. Each got yanked from the jaws of death by a different vet in their own missions, setting up a mentor-rookie hookup. Take Mallow—he’d nearly turned into walker bait till T-Bone swooped in and pulled his ass out.

  Mallow and T-Bone were an odd duo—short and pale versus tall and dark—but they clicked like nobody’s business.

  Then there’s Marissa, that short-haired chick always glued to Rikk. She had a knack for staying on his good side, whether with slick talk or… well, who knows what else.

  Razor Hawk teamed up with Sharn, the group’s resident shit-stirrer, a match made in chaos.

  Lorrah rolled with Sally, a blonde pal who vibed with her hard—they were tight as hell.

  But Sally and Marissa? Those two tied to the big shots couldn’t stand each other, bickering over every damn crumb.

  Next to the Sword Lady stood Morimaru, a skinny Japanese kid straight outta some anime wet dream. Rocking a loud outfit that screamed cosplay nut, he still hauled a massive blade like a boss and dropped his name with swagger.

  This kid flashed a big grin, but something about him felt off. Kevin eyed his right hand, face going dark—those wide, beat-up knuckles screamed years of Kendo, no poser shit here.

  A Korean dude, Jungwoo, rolled up to Glenor, and they kicked off in fast Korean. Sharp jaw, pretty-boy looks—too perfect to read his grit off the bat.

  So, the big bad, Governor Philip, had to have a Worldhopper in his pocket too, right? If so, that bastard probably knew every twist of this story. Was he gearing up to hit the crew hard, faster than anyone figured?

  Sweat popped on Kevin’s brow. The newbies were a hot mess, and the enemy was getting sharper. Shit was turning bleak fast.