The car tore down the deserted highway, kicking up a fat dust cloud in its wake.

  Melk kicked back in his seat, a sly grin plastered on as he loosely gripped the Bushmaster. “Not bad, kid,” he said, smirking.

  Kevin’s hand throbbed where the kickback had nailed him. Muttering a curse under his breath, he shoved the gun back at Melk.

  While Melk kept tearing down the road, Kevin gawked at the freaky new mark on his chest—a bright red stamp shaped like a snarling ghost head.

  Kevin had binged enough sci-fi and fantasy to keep his shit together, but this was next-level—a magic stash he’d only caught rumors about. That mark wasn’t some random tattoo; it was a Spatial Sigil—a weird-ass symbol hiding a pocket you couldn’t see, about locker-sized, holding just one white key. His survival points glowed in there too, floating at a slick 117.

  Newbies kicked off with 100 survival points, and he’d snagged 17 extra from the walkers he’d blasted.

  Kevin grabbed the white key, and a pop-up flashed in his face: “Do you wish to activate this key?”

  Hell yeah, he thought, “Yes.”

  Right then, a white vortex spun up in front of him. A flash of light stung his eyes for a hot second, and when it cleared, a gleaming gold ring shot out and landed in his hand.

  Kevin’s pulse kicked into overdrive. This had to be some big shit—maybe an artifact, or legendary gear. For a split second, he pictured himself glowing with badass vibes, magic loot from all over zooming straight into his grip.

  But the buzz crashed the second he snatched the ring. It wasn’t gold—just some cheap brass. The perk it gave? A lousy +1 Stamina.

  Kevin sighed, eyeballing the junky brass ring in his palm. “Well,” he mumbled with a half grin, “a 25% Stamina bump’s better than jack shit.”

  He slipped the ring onto his middle finger, then nabbed some leather gloves from the car and tugged them on. They were clutch—not just to hide the ring, but to shield his hands from walker chomps and that gross-ass spit.

  “Where we going?” Kevin asked, messing with his gloves and bending his fingers to test the fit.

  Melk sparked a cig with a flick of his lighter, puffing a smoke ring right in Kevin’s face. Kevin hacked, but Melk just smirked, soaking up every damn second of it.

  “Hell if I know, kid. You got any hotshot ideas, genius?”

  Kevin’s brain revved up, digging through what he remembered of the world’s plot.

  Staying alive was the no-brainer goal, but in a fucked-up world like this, it was tougher than it sounded. Driving was a short-term fix—walkers couldn’t keep up with wheels—but that shit wouldn’t last. This place—Omnispace—wasn’t some game you could cheat by hauling ass. Try to outsmart it, and it’d make damn sure you paid big.

  Fools who dare to cheat the wise, will pay the price in tears and cries.

  Survival wasn’t about dodging trouble—it was about staring it down. Kevin got that much. Sooner or later, the tank would hit empty. And when it did, hunting for gas would turn dicey fast.

  Then there was sleep—catching Zs meant dropping your guard. Walkers could roll up at night. Plus, they needed grub, and digging for supplies was never a sure bet.

  Kevin boiled his survival gig down to two big deals:

  1. Stuff like grub, water, threads, and tents.

  2. Staying safe—guns, ammo, a spot to crash, and a crew.

  Weapons were hands-down the top damn pick.

  Kevin peeked at the white dagger Melk had “so kindly” handed over. What a damn joke. Yeah, it dished out 5 damage points and was worth 1 survival point, but that was peanuts. It couldn’t even scare off the wimpiest walkers.

  In this mess, guns ruled the damn roost.

  Where the hell do I snag guns in this damn world?

  Kevin’s brain buzzed through patchy bits of the plot, finally zeroing in on a lifeline: the cop shop in Rikk’s town. Those joints were usually loaded—shotguns, rifles, handguns, and vests. If they could nab that haul, they’d have a solid shot at making it.

  “We gotta hit the cop shop,” Kevin blurted, his voice tight with the heat of the moment. “We need guns and bullets, stat.”

  Melk sucked another pull off his cig, blowing a lazy smoke ring. “Now you’re talking, kid,” he said, smirking. “If you’d pitched hiding like some chickenshit, I’d have booted you out myself.”

  Cold sweat popped on Kevin’s brow. Even in this jacked-up world, where you’re one wrong move from biting it, their team-up still meant something. NPCs mostly rolled with Omnispace’s playbook, but they weren’t just puppets either. Melk wasn’t riding the script—he was sizing Kevin up, sniffing out what kinda guts he was packing. If they didn’t vibe, Melk’d dump him in a heartbeat. Good thing Kevin picked the right call this time.

  The Porsche peeled into Rikk’s town, engine snarling like a pissed-off beast. The place looked chill—lush green trees and tidy lawns hugging quiet streets. But that calm vibe got trashed fast by walkers shuffling around, their dead-ass eyes locked on the car as it burned past.

  Stolen story; please report.

  With a squeal, the Porsche screeched to a stop, smashing a walker and tossing it clean over the hood. Melk and Kevin bailed out of the ride.

  “My bad, buddy,” Melk cracked up, voice dripping with sarcasm as he whipped out his pistol and popped the walker with one clean shot.

  Kevin froze up, eyes bugging out as Melk got busy, mowing down walkers with freaky precision.

  Pow! A headshot from way out. Pfft! Heads rolling up close. Walkers dropped like flies, piling up at Melk’s boots. Kevin’s heart was pounding, half stoked, half freaked.

  Sun was still up, so the walkers weren’t juiced up yet. And there weren’t a ton around, which totally handed Kevin and Melk the edge.

  After cleaning up the last few walkers, they booked it to the cop shop. It was a dinky little joint on the town’s edge, and they hit the armory in no time.

  Melk smashed the door open, pistol up, ready to blast anything that twitched.

  But the armory was a damn bust.

  The shelves sat empty, just a handful of spent bullet boxes strewn across the dusty floor.

  Melk’s mug turned sour as he spun around to shoot Kevin a death glare. Kevin could only toss back a weak-ass shrug.

  “Looks like we’re screwed on this one,” Kevin mumbled. “Somebody beat us to the punch.”

  Melk clenched his jaw, a mean scowl digging into his face. “Rikk,” he growled, “that bastard probably wiped this joint clean first. Let’s roll.”

  As they bailed from the station, a light bulb popped on in Kevin’s head—Rikk’s pad. Dude lived right here in town, and if anybody had gear or supplies stashed, it’d be him.

  Kevin pitched the plan to Melk, who was all in to check it out.

  Rikk’s pad wasn’t much better—it was a damn wreck, obviously already torn apart by somebody. Melk smoked a couple of walkers that shambled too close while Kevin poked around the joint for anything worth grabbing. He snagged a family pic of Rikk without even thinking, just reflex kicking in. The only decent score was a handgun with 20 rounds tucked in a drawer—other than that, the place was picked clean.

  “Let’s ditch this bullshit and bounce!” Melk snarled, smashing his boot into the table in a pissed-off fit.

  Kevin could feel the heat rolling off Melk, thick as hell in the air. This wasn’t just about staying alive—it was personal. Rikk had screwed Melk into losing his hand, and Melk was itching to settle the score.

  They were about to bounce when Melk sparked a cig, then, just to be a dick, chucked the lighter into the living room. The joint went up in flames in no time, fire chewing through the wooden frame like a rabid beast.

  “Let’s roll. Stay sharp,” Melk growled.

  “I’ve got another play,” Kevin blurted, no filter on his mouth.

  Melk cocked an eyebrow, puffing out a slow cloud of smoke. “Starting to like your style, kid. Lay it on me!”

  Kevin leaned in close, words tumbling out fast, “I know where Rikk’s stash of guns is—a crossroad in Atlanta.”

  Melk clammed up, his face hardening to stone as he chewed on that bombshell.

  Atlanta had turned into a damn nightmare since the world went to hell—crawling with a zillion walkers. Get clocked in that hellhole, and you’re toast.

  Word was an elite tank crew bit it—walls smashed, grunts torn to shreds.

  Kevin knew Atlanta was a gamble that could screw him royally, but the Omnispace alert didn’t give a rat’s ass about his options.

  “Attention, new Worldhoppers: The 12-hour protection period terminates shortly. Tonight, walkers will experience their initial evolution, increasing vitality and speed by 10%, with enhanced sensory capabilities. Plot difficulty will escalate from C- to C. Throughout the 7-day trial, walkers will evolve every 48 hours, with plot difficulty rising in tandem. Reward bonuses will increase accordingly. Prepare yourselves.”

  Dusk was creeping in, signaling the first day’s wrap. Kevin felt the whole damn mess pressing down on him hard. The trial meant hanging on for seven days, and by his math, three evolution jumps would crank the heat up to a brutal B grade. For a D- grade rookie, staying alive in this ruthless shithole was like scaling a busted cliff. The creeping doom of those upgrades just lit a fire under Kevin to gear up quick.

  “Son of a bitch!” Kevin clenched his jaw, cussing Omnispace under his breath. “This is supposed to be a newbie gig? Total horseshit.”

  Tied to the script as an NPC, Melk could smell the trouble closing in too. After a long, grudging huff, he gave Kevin’s plan a stiff nod.

  “All right. We’ll roll to Atlanta,” Melk grumbled, flicking his cig stub to the dirt. “But if this flops, kid, you’re eating the blame.”

  The two guys cruised down the highway in silence, the weight of their gig pressing on their backs. Kevin was wired cautious by nature, but he knew it was time to nut up. No way he’d let fear call the shots—Omnispace didn’t mess around, and only the ballsy made it out alive.

  Melk chucked Rikk’s handgun at Kevin and ran him through a quick-and-dirty rundown on how to use it. The piece was small, easy to grip—perfect for tight-space scraps.

  After Melk’s crash-course lesson, Kevin clocked how sloppy his old shooting attempts were. He had to lock down aiming, keep his sight steady, time his pops, and not freak out when shit hit the fan.

  Outta nowhere, that familiar ping flashed in Kevin’s eyes:

  “Attention, Worldhopper 4444: You have acquired the skill Small Firearms Mastery from Melk. Melk’s skill level registered at 6; yours began at 0. Transfer completed with 98.6% accuracy.

  Your Small Firearms Mastery is now level 1. Damage and accuracy with handguns, large handguns, and submachine guns are enhanced by 5%. Current proficiency: 17/200. Upon reaching maximum proficiency, the skill will automatically advance.”

  Kevin was juiced—visions of badass movie sharpshooters burned through his head. He hammered Melk with a million questions till the guy finally blew a gasket.

  Picking up tricks from these NPCs hinged on a few things: how much they vibed with you, how well you clicked, and their own chops. With a solid hookup, Melk had signed off on teaching Kevin the skill, but he damn well hoped the kid wouldn’t be a deadweight and could carry his load sometimes.

  Kevin was already pretty stoked. Hell, he still had seven days to play with, and in his book, Melk was a walking jackpot now.

  That hungry stare from Kevin started grating on Melk—who was used to freaking folks out—like some yappy pup wouldn’t quit nipping at his heels.

  Melk figured he’d better keep this hyped-up fanboy at arm’s length before the kid started cooking up any wild-ass schemes.

  ***

  Note: Key color tiers in Omnispace are designated as White, Green, Blue, Purple, and Orange. Activation of a key typically yields equipment matching or below its color grade, with a minimal probability of obtaining a rarer item.