Right on the money, this spot was near perfect—wide open with a killer view. Peering through the scope, Kevin could clock stuff miles out in every direction.

  A ping from Omnispace hit his head: “Worldhopper 4444—You have secured optimal high ground and established a watchtower. Commence your mission.”

  Kevin hunkered down to keep an eye out. Two hours dragged by, and jack squat happened.

  Time to think shit over. Kevin needed a game plan for his next move. His stats were basic as sin, stuck at rookie level. That high-stakes hidden mission was his ticket to catch up with the average joe. No fancy skills or secret tricks up his sleeve—he felt like a goddamn weakling.

  Man, this blows ass!

  Mallow’s hidden edge, Metabolism Rush, came with a weird catch: His body torched caLorrahes like a furnace, leaving him starving 24/7. Skip a meal, and his skills tanked hard. Flip side? He patched up 25% faster, and poison flushed out quicker than any standard Worldhopper.

  Word on the street was Marissa had the slickest talent going. She rocked something called Talent Charm, juicing her Charisma checks by 5 points. With that kinda mojo, dudes couldn’t peel their eyes off her—hell, no shock Rikk was so whipped he tuned out Lorrah’s bitching.

  In Omnispace, one thing’s crystal: a Worldhopper with no skills or grit is fucked six ways to Sunday, team or no team.

  So where the hell do I slot in? What’s my gig—ranged shooter? Melee brawler? Tank? Healer? Scout? Kevin was drowning in his head, totally lost.

  Then a gunshot cracked the quiet.

  Kevin zeroed in fast—those greenhorn dipshits had stirred up a mess, raiding for guns, grub, and whatever else they could snatch.

  At three o’clock, Razor Hawk and his crew weren’t strutting anymore; they were bolting like scared rabbits, legs churning in a desperate sprint.

  Razor Hawk was hauling a duffel bag, probably stuffed with guns and ammo they’d nabbed. They should’ve smoked regular walkers no sweat, but panic and a shit-ton of dead closing in from every angle screwed them hard.

  Razor Hawk’s crew was losing their minds. The last chick lagged back, and a walker nabbed her—still kicking. Flesh ripped off her as her screams bounced around, dragging on forever—then nada.

  Kevin’s gut froze solid. That chick was a Worldhopper, same as him.

  “Trouble comes in twos” hit the nail on the damn head again.

  At nine o’clock, down in some podunk town, another walker horde was chasing a pack of sorry saps. That squat chub up front? Looked like Mallow and his posse. They’d gone hunting for grub, only to end up on the menu.

  Kevin scoped the whole shitshow and clocked it: total clusterfuck. These two gangs of greenhorns didn’t know jack about not dragging walkers back to camp. Razor Hawk’s bunch were flipping out, bolting every which way, spooked stiff by the screams. No chance they’d think straight. Mallow’s crew wasn’t faring much better.

  Kevin popped off a warning shot, the crack slicing the air like a whip. Rikk and the crew bolted out of camp. Kevin jabbed a finger at three o’clock, then nine o’clock, flagging fat walker packs both ways. Rikk’s face went tight as hell, clocking the signals. He threw a wave and marched off.

  Kevin knew Omnispace had stacked the deck. These NPC chumps were useless—newbies making it back was a fucking coin toss.

  Then more shots popped off from the highway, and Kevin hauled ass to scope it. Holy shit—Marissa’s gang was booking it down the road, a walker horde riding their tails. Mixed in with the dead? Riot cop walkers, decked in heavy gear, lumbering like tanks.

  Kevin pieced it together: they’d hit the prison jackpot. Bad news? These rookie jailbreakers got shoved back, dragging a shitload of walkers with ‘em. Three hordes were beelining for the piss-small camp.

  “No wonder they dropped four side gigs—the fourth’s just a fucking lifeline for the other three. This game design’s a total shitshow!” Kevin snarled.

  Out of moves, he popped off another warning shot to wake the camp. In no time, the place was a madhouse, NPCs scrambling to gear up for a scrap.

  Kevin shot a quick peek down the highway—prime bailout road—but now it was lousy with walkers.

  Marissa, wobbling on those stupid heels, ate dirt hard. Some middle-aged sucker ahead of her didn’t blink, doubling back to yank her up.

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

  Then—

  And holy shit—

  Marissa jammed a dagger into the guy’s thigh, snatched his rifle, bounced up, ditched the heels, and hauled ass like a pro—no more tripping! Her Agility was off the charts.

  The dude howled like a banshee, leg gushing, ripe for the picking. Walkers piled on, dragging him down to the hard ground.

  Clocking Razor Hawk ditch his buddy and Marissa stab hers in the back, Kevin wrote off any quick save. He swung his M16 toward Mallow’s spot—nine o’clock.

  That M16 could nail targets up to 600 yards out, but Kevin needed 100 yards clear to bolt if it went south. That gave him 500 yards to pop off before the walkers rolled up on his ass.

  No slick Medium Firearms Mastery perk for Kevin, so a dead-center shot was a crapshoot. Good thing walkers were thicker than flies on a dumpster—he’d just spray and pray, bound to tag something.

  Truth be told, chilling up here on high ground, watching the chaos below, felt fucked up but damn good too.

  Right as a walker lunged for Mallow, a round smashed into it, sending the bastard flying. Mallow was so spooked he nearly bawled—inches from being walker chow.

  Later, he waddled over to thank Kevin, eyes bugging out. “Dude, you’re hardcore as fuck! You wield pistols and that M16 like a pro. You train for that, or you just born badass?”

  Kevin didn’t bat an eye, just flat-out owned he wasn’t some M16 hotshot, and it damn near blew Mallow’s skull apart. The little guy gawked, jaw on the floor, before choking out, “Why the hell’d you take that wild shot with a walker practically humping my back?”

  Kevin, balls-out shameless, shrugged it off—said they weren’t that tight, so it was a freebie save. Shooting walkers made more sense than not. Worst case, he’d clip Mallow and spare him the hell of getting chowed down alive. Mallow was too stunned to even yap back.

  Kevin’s trigger finger stayed hot up on the water tower, and the crew below caught a second wind, hauling ass double-time.

  After torching two mags, Kevin clocked Mallow and his posse damn near safe, so he flipped the script and sprayed cover fire every which way.

  Razor Hawk was a prick, no question, and Marissa? A slimy-ass snake in the grass. But screw it—they were still team, for now. The Governor was lurking out there, and bleeding bodies wouldn’t help jack.

  Kevin burned through all four mags like a madman. With walkers so close he could damn near spit on ‘em, he slid down from the water tower, cool as hell.

  His M16 game wasn’t exactly pro-level, but those walkers were jammed up like sardines in a can—spray-and-pray racked him up over 60 kills. His hail of bullets bought the other two crews some breathing room as they hauled ass, stalling the walker swarm just enough for ‘em to limp back to camp by the skin of their damn teeth.

  “Worldhopper 4444,” Omnispace chimed in as Kevin rolled into camp, “Your Danger Lookout mission is complete. Rewards issued: 1,000 survival points, 2 attribute points, 2 skill points, and 136 additional survival points for walker eliminations. Team points gained: 10. Options for use:

  1. Acquire team items, weapons, and equipment from Lorrah.

  2. Acquire skills from any plot character.

  3. Influence team decisions to a limited degree; locate Rikk.”

  The crew huddled up to tally heads and got hit with a gut punch—three greenhorns bit the dust in the shitstorm. Every mission tanked.

  Razor Hawk pussed out and dumped the jacked gun bag—total bust. Sally’s food and water grab was a lousy joke—another flop. Marissa’s posse sniffed out the safe house, but got shoved back—strike three.

  These clowns didn’t level jack, and they owed Kevin big for pulling their asses out of the fire. Kevin played it chill, shrugged it off as dumb luck, and acted like it was no big deal.

  The two chicks who couldn’t swing a fist stayed back at camp, patching folks up and raking in decent loot. Go figure—they outscored the meathead hotshots who had brawn but no brains.

  At the team powwow, the newbies who usually ran their mouths a mile a minute clammed up fast. After a quick huddle, the squad nailed down the game plan: hold walkers off from three sides and send some poor bastard to snatch those ditched guns for extra juice.

  A ping from Omnispace sounded for all Worldhoppers: “Due to your reckless actions, the majority of missions have failed. The team is now at risk. Select an emergency mission:

  1. Defend the camp.

  2. Retrieve the gun package.”

  Razor Hawk’s crew blew off the gun run and just shot icy stares at everybody.

  Kevin was already set on picking Melk’s brain for fighting tricks—prime chance right there—so he stuck with holding the camp. He tossed his M16 to Rikk and rolled up beside Melk.

  Getting lit up wasn’t Kevin’s vibe after hogging all that spotlight, and chasing the guns would paint a fat target on his back. He got the old saying: tallest trees catch the most wind.

  Even with the last gig tanking hard, Jungwoo roped speedy Glenor into snagging that gun stash nobody else had the guts for.

  Rikk stepped up, flipping vehicles into a janky barricade beefed up with wood and metal slabs. Then he dished out guns and ammo, barking orders to lock down every corner.

  Good thing it was daylight—walkers were half-asleep, and the crew had enough chops to hang on for a hot minute.