Ten minutes later, they were bunkered in the control room. Kevin smashed the two steel doors—inch-thick fuckers—but the glass windows on ‘em shattered like cheap shit.

  Mallow shoved his shovel through the busted window, cracking walker skulls one by one. Kevin rammed a metal pipe into the closest walker’s eye, twisting till the bastard dropped. They were dropping walkers left and right, but the grind was wearing ‘em down.

  The walkers, though, were freak-ass strong. They hammered the doors so hard the inch-thick steel started buckling.

  “Mallow, this might be on me. This gig’s a hell of a lot tougher than I figured. Way more walkers than I clocked. Looks like Omnispace rigged it for a full squad, banking on everyone pulling weight.”

  “Boss, you catch how many walkers we’ve smoked in the last 2 hours? Over 500! I only had 40 in the bag before. Omnispace slapped me with a title: Walker Hunter! You probably nabbed that shit ages ago, right? Trailing you’s dicey, but the payoff’s fat and worth the roll. We ain’t tapped out yet—I’ve still got a full health potion.” Mallow was pumped.

  “Man, that title levels up after 500 kills. Keep smashing ‘em; the tougher you get, the less you’ll bleed.”

  “Sweet!”

  Mallow felt a rush kick in. Before hooking up with Kevin, he was always eating dirt and bolting. Now, shit was still hairy, but he was stacking wins, and there was light ahead. Die? Whatever—at least he wouldn’t go out a total nobody.

  Kevin, meanwhile, snagged a ping from Omnispace:

  “Worldhopper 4444, you have eliminated over 1,000 walkers. You are granted the gold-tier title Walker Slayer. It increases damage against walkers by 20%. The next level is the platinum-tier Walker Reaper; you are at 1,344 of 2,000 required kills. Continue eliminating walkers to advance.”

  Kevin had been rocking the silver-tier Walker Killer, juicing him 10% more damage against walkers. That’s why he was dropping ‘em like flies.

  Now he’d scored his first gold-tier title. It wasn’t top-shelf, and it only popped in zombie joints, but a gold-tier’s a gold-tier—shiny as hell. That 20% boost was gonna stack up sweet over time.

  If Melk hadn’t shoved him into risky dives and dark holes, and if he didn’t know the plot inside out to game it, Kevin never would’ve snagged a gold-tier title in the newbie trial.

  Right as they were about to break, gunshots cracked outside.

  “Over here! Horde of walkers!”

  “Let’s roll! Tons of points to stack!”

  “Waste ‘em all!”

  It was Razor Hawk and his crew. Mallow, beat to shit, could barely lift his arms and near cheered when they showed.

  “Phew, that was tight! Hey, boss, Omnispace just pinged me. My Strength bumped 1 point from all this grinding—up to 5 now.”

  Kevin mused, Omnispace always pays out for Worldhoppers who bust their ass. He’d scored plenty of handy skills himself, like basic moves. But a straight stat boost mid-fight? That was new.

  Kevin figured you could grind basic stats with long-haul scrapping, but there’s a cap. You slam into a wall, like the 5 points of Strength, Agility, and Stamina Omnispace pegs for regular joes.

  Past that, climbing’s a bitch. Kevin had been tangling up close this whole damn time, but his Strength didn’t twitch. Maybe ‘cause he snagged a 3-point boost from that hidden mission, kicking it to 6—above the norm. The higher you climb, the harder it sticks.

  Kevin felt kinda shitty, but back then, he didn’t have a choice. If he hadn’t been tough enough, those walkers would’ve ripped him to shreds right there. He wouldn’t have lasted the night.

  After a bit, the racket outside died down, so those walkers were probably toast.

  “That was nuts! We smoked a shit-ton of walkers, Razor Hawk. We’re topping the charts, right?” a young punk piped up.

  Razor Hawk stuck his chest out. “No shit, kid! You’d be half-dead without your big bro here—smart as hell and strong as fuck, that’s me! Top spot’s mine, hands down!”

  A wave of ass-kissing hit, and Mallow near gagged. Kevin just smirked.

  “Alright, big bro, what’s the next play?” the punk asked.

  Razor Hawk grinned like a jackass. “Heard an alarm screaming in there. Gotta be a control room or some shit. Let’s scope it for loot. Bigfoot, you’re kicking the door!”

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  Kevin and Mallow swapped a quick look and jumped the gun. “Razor Hawk, big bro, hold up—it’s us!” they hollered together.

  Razor Hawk’s jaw hit the floor. “What the hell you two doing in there?” he barked.

  Kevin sighed, looking beat to hell. “Short version: we rolled in to smoke some walkers, but this joint’s dark as shit, and they kept jumping out like fucking ghosts. We got our asses kicked and kept falling back ‘til we hit this spot. Tried blocking the door with every damn thing we had, but those bastards still busted through. Then we bunkered in the control room, and this dumbass Mallow tripped the alarm, pulling in more of the fuckers.”

  He shot Mallow a death stare, and Mallow dropped his head, looking like a kicked pup.

  “We were fucked six ways to Sunday, so we holed up, praying for a bailout. Then, boom—here comes the big bro cavalry! You’re a goddamn lifesaver!” Kevin, all shook up, lunged for Razor Hawk’s hand.

  Razor Hawk yanked back from the sweaty grip, pissed. “Drop the whiny horseshit! Don’t screw me over! What’d you two snag in there? Cough it up, or you’re stuck here eating shit!”

  Razor Hawk’s grin twisted into a shitty smirk as his crew piled on, guns locked on Kevin and Mallow.

  Kevin and Mallow swapped a quick look.

  Mallow stuttered, “Boss, big bro’s solid as hell. He bailed us out big time. Maybe…we just cough up the survival points we scored.”

  Razor Hawk sneered, “Damn straight, fork over every fucking point you’ve got. Try pulling any slick shit on me, and you’ll be hurting so bad you’ll wish you were dead, assholes!”

  Kevin’s gut dropped as it hit him—Razor Hawk wasn’t fucking around. The bastard had a trick up his sleeve. Kevin scoped the room, and every punk was sporting a smug-ass grin, eyes glued to Razor Hawk’s chest.

  It was a pair of sunglasses, flashing faint. Kevin clocked it—a newbie who rolled with Razor Hawk ate it outside, and he’d bet his ass those shades were on that kid.

  Gear! Kevin’s ticker started hammering like a son of a bitch.

  Kevin had done damn good in this scrap. Before they hit the walkers, he’d peeked his survival points—4,136. After the shit-show with fires and kills, he’d stacked another 900 or so, pushing him to about 5,000. Just now, he’d swapped 2,000 to Mallow for Feather Boots, leaving him at 3,000. Mallow was sitting on 3,000 too.

  Together, they were hauling 6,000 survival points—fat fucking cash. But here’s the rub: they couldn’t let that shit leak, or they’d be in deep-ass trouble. If Razor Hawk sniffed it out, no way that bastard’d let ‘em walk with that haul.

  With no heavy hitters backing ‘em, that many points painted a big-ass target. Less, and they’d just get jumped. This much? Razor Hawk’d fucking kill ‘em for the whole stash.

  Razor Hawk was grinning like a smug prick. “Snagged this gear off that dead-ass loser. Shows me your survival points, so don’t even try pulling any bullshit on me, fuckers!”

  Kevin’s brain clicked. “Big bro, you’re fucking unreal! Top dog, hands down!”

  “Quit the bullshit! Fork over your damn points!”

  “Hey, big bro, gimme a sec before we hand ‘em over—cool if I check out those shades? Never seen anything like ‘em.”

  “What’s your fucking angle?” Razor Hawk squinted hard.

  “Look, you’re the big swinging dick here, and we’re just two chumps. No way we’re dumb enough to scrap back, and jacking you’d be a shit move. How about you let us eyeball those glasses?”

  Razor Hawk paused, then smirked like a prick and chucked the sunglasses over. “Fine, peek at ‘em. Maybe it’ll shut your asses up about stashing points and save me the hassle of smashing your fucking heads in. Plus, this crew could use more meat. Check this badass gear, you sorry fucks!”

  Kevin and Mallow huddled up, scoping the glasses, eyes popping like they’d hit the jackpot. These shades were cool as shit.

  Ray-Block Glasses:

  Slogan: Play it cool, break the rule.

  Item Type: Worldhopper’s built-in gear, jacked by a thief with real-world game tech, hauled into Omnispace and tagged.

  Effect: See-through, level 1.

  Instruction: Pit the caster’s Willpower against the target’s Willpower Check. Flunk it, and the target clocks you. Nail it, and you scope the Worldhopper’s stats and survival points.

  On plot characters, you get a peek at some gear and stats. Fuck up, and they turn hostile as hell—favorability drops 50 points. If it dips below 30, they’re swinging.

  Note: Shitty unauthorized mod job—tech’s rough as fuck. Burns 50 energy points per pop, one shot every 24 hours. Special gear dragged into Omnispace, upgradable once at HQ.

  Kevin scoped the shades, flashed a grin, and tossed ‘em back to Razor Hawk. “Big bro, you’re the fucking king! Snagged some killer gear!”

  Kevin felt the heat ease off. He slid 2,800 survival points to Mallow first, then flicked the scraps—314 points—to Razor Hawk. That’s all a newbie like him, always bolting from shit, could ever stack—or so it looked.

  Razor Hawk fired up his Ray-Block Glasses and gave him the once-over.

  Since Kevin was Mallow’s boss, Razor Hawk reckoned the fat loot was all in Kevin’s stash. He didn’t sweat Kevin dumping points to Mallow—figured if Mallow grabbed too much, he’d just ditch the bastard and bounce.

  “Mallow’s my right-hand dog, and I run this shit,” Kevin said with a laugh.

  Razor Hawk clocked Kevin’s empty pockets and pumped his fist under the table like a smug asshole.

  Truth is, Razor Hawk was a slimy fuck. Even in this dog-eat-dog hellhole, he couldn’t resist jacking anyone he ran into. Robbing shit gave him a sick-ass buzz.

  Then Mallow, bowing and scraping like a champ, coughed up 50 survival points.

  Kevin flipped his shit. “You little punk, hiding points from me?” He cracked Mallow upside the head.

  Mallow, steaming, fired back, “What kinda boss are you, you greedy bastard? You stripped me clean! How the hell am I supposed to live? Fuck this—I’m out. Done with your sorry ass!”

  In a flash, the yelling turned to fists—full-on brawling, swinging like mad dogs.