"Why that feeling?" he asked.
Caroline pointed at Murphy, who was hunched over a disassembled round twenty meters away. "Explain intuition."
Van passed Caroline the mess tin. "Murphy told me to keep my distance. She's obsessed."
"Single-minded focus," Caroline said, blowing steam from the noodles. "Useful. Terrifying."
"What did you do at Meyer?" Van cracked a can of coffee and passed it over.
Caroline paused. She tilted her head. "Lab rat. Post-doc in polymer nanocomposites at a Chinese university, then my father recalled me. Six months later, he was gone. Car accident." She stirred her noodles. "Mother died when I was thirteen. Cancer."
Van said nothing. Three orphans in a truck. Fate had a vicious sense of humor.
"Next move?" Caroline asked. She wasn't asking about the route. She was asking him.
"Survive today," Van said, watching the horizon. "Worry about tomorrow when the sun rises."
He didn't mention the Shadow. Or the brutes. Or the way the infected moved now—coordinated, hunting. Without combined arms and heavy armor, humanity was losing.
Caroline drained the broth. "Will the truck keep evolving?"
Van tried to take her empty tin. She held onto it. He shrugged. "I've mapped the progression."
[ SYSTEM UPGRADE LOG ]
LEVEL 1:
[ OPTION A: ARMOR PLATING ]
[ OPTION B: ENGINE OUTPUT +100% ] ← SELECTED
[ OPTION C: RAMMING BUMPER ]
LEVEL 2:
[ OPTION A: DIMENSIONAL EXPANSION +20% ]
[ OPTION B: ARMOR PLATING ] ← SELECTED
[ OPTION C: FUEL CAPACITY +100% ]
LEVEL 3:
[ OPTION A: DIMENSIONAL EXPANSION +20% ]
[ OPTION B: CUSTOM CONFIGURATION ]
[ OPTION C: WEAPON BONDING ] ← SELECTED
LEVEL 4:
[ OPTION A: CUSTOM CONFIGURATION ]
[ OPTION B: DIMENSIONAL EXPANSION +20% ] ← SELECTED
[ OPTION C: RAMMING BUMPER ]
"Roguelike mechanics," Van said, scratching diagrams in the sand with a stick. "Three choices per level. Unselected options recycle. But the system adapts—offered weapon bonding only after we acquired the rifle."
Caroline studied the marks. "Higher tiers will unlock upgrades to existing features. Armor becomes heavy armor. Engine becomes supercharger."
"Five hundred infected to find out," Van said. He flicked the stick away.
Caroline took her turn at the camp stove. When she handed the tin back, the noodles were half-raw.
Van chewed without expression. "Excellent. Next time, I cook."
She punched his shoulder. "First attempt."
"Hey, lovebirds!" Murphy's voice cut through the dusk. "Van, you don't smoke. Why carry a lighter?"
Van opened the glovebox and retrieved a canvas roll. He dumped the contents onto the tailgate: compass, thermal blanket, water filter, hand pump, magnesium fire starter, chemical light sticks.
Murphy dug through the pile like a magpie. "What kind of life do you lead..."
"Breakdowns happen," Van said. "Middle of nowhere, no signal. These keep you alive."
Murphy pocketed the magnesium rod and Zippo flints. "Got ballpoint pens?"
Van tossed her a bag of retractable pens. "Chinatown surplus. Delivery paperwork."
Murphy scampered off, cackling. "Carry on!"
This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Caroline watched her go. "She's good for morale."
"She's loud," Van said. "Loud is better than quiet out here."
Caroline gave him a look. "If you say so."
The sun touched the horizon. Murphy returned cradling a soup can wrapped in duct tape and bandages.
"Behold," she whispered.
She'd packed the base with blue powder from the system rounds. A pen casing protruded from the center, surrounded by tamped dirt. A wooden peg pierced the pen tube.
"Spring from the pen cap, flint from your lighter, magnesium shavings mixed with the powder," Murphy explained. She tied a long cord to the peg and retreated. "Fire in the hole!"
They ducked behind the Express.
Murphy yanked the cord.
CRACK-BOOM.
The blast wasn't fire. It was pure concussive force—a blue-white hammer of light that turned sand to glass. Shockwave slapped the truck's panels, peppering the paint with gravel.
Caroline's ears rang. She stared at the molten crater. "That's not gunpowder."
"That's physics breaking," Van said.
Murphy danced in the crater, kicking up vitrified sand. "Again! More!"
Van checked his rifle. "Test the ballistic performance first. Then we allocate the daily yield."
Murphy bounced on her toes. "The leftovers?"
"Yours," Van said. "For ordnance."
Caroline loaded the extended magazine with system rounds. She shouldered the AR-15, glancing at Van for confirmation.
He nodded.
She exhaled.
CRACK.
The muzzle brake vomited blue flame. The tracer wasn't orange—it was electric azure, a bolt of violent light cutting through the twilight toward the distant ridge...
Caroline kneaded her shoulder, wincing. "That kick is violent."
Murphy shielded her eyes with one hand, bouncing on her toes. "Again! More!"
Caroline passed the rifle to Van. "Your turn."
Murphy rolled her shoulders. "Me first. Give it here."
She jammed the stock against her shoulder, sighting on a patch of sand. "These bullets definitely respawn?"
Van and Caroline exchanged glances. They hadn't actually fired the system rounds before.
"I'll just shoot twice," Murphy said, finger sliding onto the trigger.
"Wait! That rifle's modified—" Caroline shouted.
Too late. Murphy's finger locked down.
BRRRRT.
The rifle chewed through half the magazine before Murphy released the trigger, yanking her finger away like it burned. She thrust the weapon at Van, grimacing. "No. No no no. My collarbone is shattered."
Van took the rifle. "You saw the trajectory?"
"Not standard ballistics," Caroline said, rubbing her shoulder. "Empty can. Test it."
Murphy opened a can of beans, dumped the contents into a mess tin, and packed the container with sand. "Do it."
Caroline flicked the safety. Red dot settled on the can.
CRACK.
Blue flame belched from the muzzle. The can's rear quarter disintegrated.
Murphy retrieved the wreckage, eyes wide. "Okay. Okay."
The back panel was torn open, edges curled like melted plastic. The sand inside had fused into black glass.
"Excess of eighteen hundred degrees Celsius," Caroline breathed, touching the vitrified slag. "Through-and-through thermal transfer."
"And you've been sitting on this?" Murphy jabbed a finger through the entry hole, glaring. "Free daily high-explosive ammunition, and you use steel-case garbage?"
Van ejected the magazine. Now he understood the asset value. He reloaded with fresh system rounds, chambering a round with a crisp snap.
Murphy's eyes gleamed. "So I can make more bombs?"
"Six," Van said. "Maximum. No flint strikers. Inert fillers only."
He pictured the Express vaporizing because she got twitchy with a detonator in the cargo bay.
"Spoilsport," Murphy muttered.
Night fell. Van sat in the cab, reviewing the updated passenger status on the dashboard hologram.
Van checked the updated passenger module. Both women's comfort levels had climbed to 3.
He glanced back. Caroline had reclined her seat, using a pack as a pillow. Murphy had claimed the expanded rear bay, rolling across the floor like a dog on grass.
Twenty-four hours until the next attribute point purchase.
Van offered Caroline his travel pillow. She shook her head, shifting against the pack. "I'm good. Seat reclines flat now."
Murphy climbed up, rummaging through Caroline's gear. She produced the rangefinder. "What's eight-by-thirty?"
"Eight magnification. Thirty-millimeter objective lens."
Murphy grunted, studying the device. She vanished through the rear doors.
Van heard her scramble onto the roof.
"Lordsburg is burning!" Murphy's voice carried through the hull.
Van and Caroline exited. Murphy stood atop the Express, silhouette against the starlight, binoculars pressed to her face.
"Too far for detail," she called down. "But the whole southern horizon is glowing. Structure fires."
"Vehicle traffic?" Van asked. He didn't care about the town. He cared about vectors of approach.
Murphy extended her neck, scanning. "No headlights. No thermal signatures I can spot."
The refugees with working vehicles had fled at dusk. Anyone left inside was already dead or hiding.
"We move," Van said. "North. Now."
He took the remaining gasoline from Murphy and topped off the tank. The Express swallowed the fuel, gauge climbing past three-quarters.
Caroline checked her phone. "Signal's dead again."
"They're killing the towers," Van said, starting the engine. "Lordsburg fell fast. They need information blackout before panic spreads."
Caroline powered on the radio, cycling through static. She stopped on a fragmented broadcast, voice cutting in and out.
"...CDC compromised... National Guard routed..."
"...do not trust Federal forces... repeat... do not trust Federal forces..."
"...coordinates... 34°52′38″N, 108°03′03″W... three hundred survivors... fortified position..."
She rotated the dial. Other signals bled through—panicked civilians organizing militias, religious zealots preaching apocalypse scripture, military units calling for extraction that never came.
"Do we go?" Murphy asked from the back, clutching the seat rests. "The settlement?"
Van shifted into drive. "Negative. We have thirty days of supplies. We disappear for one month."
CRUNCH.
The Humvee plowed through three sprinting infected, suspension bucking. The driver didn't slow.
Five soldiers occupied the vehicle. Bloodshot eyes. White knuckles on weapons. They hadn't slept in twenty-four hours.
"What the hell is that thing?!" The Lieutenant screamed around a cigarette.
They'd encountered the horde outside Lordsburg—figures moving at sprinter velocity, pale flesh and crimson eyes. Not shambling corpses. Predators.
"Break left! Avoid the pack!" The Lieutenant slapped the driver's helmet. "Gunner! Standby!"
The rear soldier popped the roof hatch, mounting his M16.
The Humvee's diesel roar drew the infected like sharks to blood. The creatures pivoted, tearing across the desert toward the vehicle.
"Gap there! Punch through!" The Lieutenant pointed at a thin spot in the swarm.
Tires spun. Sand sprayed. The Humvee bullied through the press of bodies, M16 cracking overhead, and barreled into Lordsburg proper.
But the town held something worse than the runners.
The Lieutenant checked the side mirror. His face went gray.
A two-and-a-half-meter mass of muscle and exposed sinew loped behind them, keeping pace with the military truck. Skin hung in tatters from hulking shoulders. Each stride covered five meters.
"Grenade!" The Lieutenant roared around his cigarette. "Now!"
The gunner leaned out, aiming the M203 launcher.
THUMP.
The 40mm round punched into the creature's sternum.
BOOM.
Fire bloomed across its chest. The monster staggered—
—and kept running.
The Lieutenant stared as the smoke cleared, revealing exposed ribs and still-beating heart muscle. It didn't slow.
It didn't even flinch.