Kevin scoped the newbies around him, scratching his head over what the hell Omnispace saw in them.

  He figured he was a sharp dude, liked kicking back at home, mulling shit over, but this world’s madness screwed with his head hard. Now, staring down survival’s ugly mug, he knew one slip-up could mean lights out in the next 24 hours.

  Kevin pushed himself to stay on point, keep his edge, and not slack off for a damn second.

  Near as he could tell, Omnispace was cherry-picking folks with some real tricks up their sleeves.

  When it tossed newbies into the mix, Omnispace hooked them up with story vets based on their skills, plot gaps, and even their vibe—one-on-one, like a coach and a rookie, probably just for these training gigs.

  With all these greenhorns grinding together, Omnispace’d likely throw some team challenges their way to weld them into a tighter crew.

  Kevin, a lone wolf type, liked hanging back, grinding steady when the team shit clicked. If the crew pulled together and everyone scored something, he’d step up and throw a hand—no sweat. But if the backstabbing and bullshit kept rolling, he wasn’t about to burn energy on those clowns. He’d bounce solo and level his own game.

  Kevin scoped his new squad, zeroing in on Marissa, the wannabe “leader.” She strutted like some office hotshot, all charm and slick lines to sell her fast climb.

  But Kevin didn’t buy that crap. He clocked her game: a ladder-kisser riding Rikk’s coattails, not real chops. No brains for strategy, no juice to fire up the crew, and no spine to lead—pure flash, zero guts.

  Meanwhile, the new cat on Governor Philip’s squad was still a total wild card.

  Outta nowhere, Mallow piped up next to him. “Dude,” he croaked, voice all shaky, “we could legit die here, you know?”

  Kevin cocked an eyebrow. “What’s your deal?”

  Mallow sucked in a big breath. “I’m losing my shit, man,” he stammered, voice wobbling. “Yesterday, that new chick—Amy’s rookie—got bit. A walker nabbed her while we were hauling ass for cover. Amy had to ditch her.”

  He stopped, shaking his head. “I saw her go down, man—ten feet off. Throat torn out, blood gushing like a horror flick.”

  Mallow kept shaking his head, still reeling. “I thought this was some game—like a time-travel joyride or whatever,” he muttered. “But this ain’t playtime. Die here, you’re toast. Life or death, man.”

  Kevin got it, hard. Just 24 hours back, he’d been a couch king, parked in his AC, gaming, binging flicks, downloading junk—the full deal.

  Now he was stuck in this hellhole, feeling every scrape and ache, staring down death’s ugly mug, scrapping to stay alive.

  ***

  The car screeched to a dead stop, and Rikk’s loud voice smashed the quiet. “Everybody out! Group up, now!”

  Kevin stumbled outta the ride, legs stiff from the long haul. After five brutal hours burning rubber in the dark, he clocked the first red streaks of dawn bleeding across the sky. Another shitshow day of chaos and blood was coming fast.

  The story crew and fresh meat piled up, faces dark as they scoped the mess. The caravan had ballooned past a hundred heads after snagging some old-timers from a nursing home, a big mob. But with all the creaky, weak, sick, and busted folks, less than fifty could actually throw down.

  After last night’s ugly scrap, their ammo was running on fumes. Tension was thick as fuck.

  Rikk’s voice roared through the morning chill. “Alright, listen up! We’re in deep shit here. One, food and water’s near gone. Two, ammo’s low, so we ain’t scrapping anytime soon. Three, no safe spot yet—sucks ass. Four, we’re blind out here, no clue what’s lurking.

  Here’s the play: this morning, we hit the road and scrounge up some grub and bullets. Then, before the sun drops, we snag a spot to crash for the night. It’s a big-ass haul, but we can pull it off if we stick tight. Move it!”

  A ping from Omnispace sounded in Kevin’s head:

  “Worldhopper 4444—You are now assigned to the main team. Your contribution is required to establish your value. Select one of the following branch missions:

  1. Food Scout: Search a town within 5 miles to obtain food and water supplies.

  2. Ammo Loader: Enter a police station within 5 miles to retrieve firearms and ammunition.

  3. Shelter Builder: Locate a shelter within 5 miles and remove any threats.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  4. Danger Lookout: Establish an observation post on high ground within 5 miles and eliminate any threats.

  Note: This task must be completed independently. Story characters will not provide assistance.”

  The fresh meat itched to roll out, but some of the chicks were twitchy as hell. They weren’t exactly a powerhouse crew, and staying alive in walker-riddled woods was a brutal gig.

  Omnispace continued:

  “5. Home Helper: Care for elderly and children requiring assistance. Ensure their well-being. Performance tracked. Note: Team leader Rikk sees nursing home as dead weight. Low reward expected.”

  Yeah, busywork bullshit, plain as day.

  The blood-junkies, like Razor Hawk, swarmed the Ammo Loader gig, whooping and hollering like jackasses. Kevin watched, gut screaming something was off—those pricks were probably scheming to hog all the bullets. Too bad Omnispace ain’t that dumb; they’d be shit outta luck.

  Marissa, all slick and chatty, roped a crew for the Shelter Builder gig. She strutted like some TV guru, flappin’ her damn mouth about her insider scoop on the story’s playbook—spinning a wild yarn about the main crew stumbling on a locked-down prison a few miles off the highway, basically jumping the line to snag the juiciest loot. Her smooth talk and charm hooked most of the greenhorns into her prison raid.

  Sally wasn’t buying Marissa’s bullshit. She nabbed Morimaru—the dude with the monster sword—plus Jungwoo and Mallow, and they peeled out for the Food Scout run.

  Mallow, the old face, sidled up to Kevin, pushing the “safety in numbers” line hard. Kevin brushed him off with a quick “nah.”

  He locked in on the Danger Lookout job.

  Every gig balanced risk and loot, so each job paid out fair. More bodies meant more rivals, less juice per head. Kevin knew that from scoring jack squat after borrowing a gun and roasting walkers—Omnispace wasn’t some dumbass system you could game.

  Razor Hawk couldn’t stash the guns and ammo he nabbed, and Sally couldn’t hog the food and water she dug up. They had to cough it all up.

  Marissa’s big plan to “hit the prison early and win” was pure horseshit! This was just a side hustle, nowhere near the main score. Even if they sniffed out that prison, Omnispace already said the story crew wouldn’t lift a finger. With a pack of greenhorns and shitty gear, they’d get fucked up trying to take it.

  In the original tale, half the cast got chewed up clearing that walker-infested dump!

  The Danger Lookout gig was a hot pick for a couple reasons:

  1. Solo run—keep all the loot for yourself.

  2. Right by camp—bail fast if shit gets dicey.

  The story crew wouldn’t lift a finger, but they’d be too busy scrapping to bug you, so you’d probably skate by.

  Before rolling out, the greenhorns got a hype-up from the big shots. Melk swaggered over to Kevin, smirked, and dropped, “Man up, buttercup,” then peeled off.

  Kevin stood there, jaw slack. What the hell was that? I’m pretty sure I’ve been up just fine, thanks.

  Rikk strolled up and hit him with, “Ready, rookie?”

  “Yeah, boss, I’m good,” Kevin shot back, catching Rikk’s nod of respect. “But I’m stuck with this rusty pistol and flying solo here.”

  “Got it,” Rikk said. “You’re on lookout alone. Gear up, bring it back when you’re done. Good luck.” He clapped Kevin’s shoulder and bailed.

  Kevin scored an old M16 and a scope.

  Made sense—Kevin had snagged the Fire Captain title, landing him in Rikk’s good books. That Charisma +2 perk patched up his shitty base Charisma of 2.

  With the greenhorns swiping gear like a pack of looters, Kevin was the last bastard stuck guarding the base. Naturally, the NPC crew tossed him some temp firepower and supplies to hold the line.

  Omnispace played fair, so scoring an M16 screamed trouble was inbound. Action was sure brewing today.

  First move: lock down a solid perch. Kevin scoped the area fast and picked a water tower two football fields out, sitting pretty on a hill. The tower stretched up like a four-story stack, and the hill jacked it another five, giving him a clean shot over the camp.

  Through his scope, Kevin could sweep a fat radius, spotting details miles out. Walkers’d need half an hour to shamble a mile in daylight—plenty of time to raise hell, hold the line, or haul ass back to camp.

  Man, these poor bastards were scraped dry. One peek at that rusty M16 said it all—old as hell and stuck with four beat-to-hell 30-round mags. That’s rock bottom right there.

  His banged-up pistol came with two mags and a measly 20 rounds. Shit was stretched razor-thin—every bullet had to count.

  Heading to the water tower, Kevin ran into a couple walkers, prime chance to flex his chops. Knife tucked in his belt, guns hot in his hands, he sucked in a breath and pushed on.

  Catch ‘em sleeping, the blade’d slice quick; too close, he’d pop a headshot. He carved his way up, shoving past every walker in his path.

  Kevin had always been the patient type, the kind who’d grind hours indoors to hit 100% in Grand Theft Auto V. Now was prime time to sharpen up—with no one around to jack his kills, he could cut loose.

  A quick escape would be a hell of a lot smoother without walkers creeping up to jump him.

  Kevin spent an hour wiping out maybe 30 walkers in a 500-yard ring around the water tower. Drenched but grinning, he hauled himself up the tower.

  At the top, he clocked two walkers in plumber overalls, fumbling up the ladders like they still had a pulse.

  “Hey there, fellas! You the Mario Brothers?”

  After a quick tussle, Kevin put down the Mario wannabes and—king of the damn tower—took over the perch.