The Wrath of White Phosphorus

Ethan jolted awake the moment the explosion ripped through the silence. Still in his sleepwear, he rolled off the bed and instantly summoned a pistol from his spatial inventory, flipped off the safety, and leveled the weapon.

His fingers danced across his phone screen.

Security cam feeds:

Living room: intact.

Guest room: Chloe was curled up in the corner, trembling, hugging her knees under the blanket—but unharmed.

Ethan exhaled slowly. So far, so good.

He swiped again—external feed.

Outside his front door, a mob of at least a dozen figures moved in the smoke. Shovels. Rebar. Axes. Plywood shields.

Red construction-grade plywood.

Ethan's eyes narrowed. He knew his building. There weren't any contractors or construction workers inside Summit Glen's Building 25.

But next door—Building 26—housed a crew of twenty-something migrant laborers, all shacked up in company-rented flats. This had to be them.

The dust cleared. The crew swarmed the entry, checking the blast impact.

Clearly, they had come with a singular goal: his safehouse.

The bastards had found out.

Ethan's mind snapped into cold focus. So my food stores and tech setup finally reached outside ears…

Outside, Rocco—the wiry one leading the crew—stared at the metal door in disbelief.

"Donkey," he growled, "the hell was that charge? You said it'd blow the damn door clean off."

Donkey, the demolitions guy, looked just as confused. "It should've worked. Maybe the compound was damp…"

Morons. Ethan tapped through the house's structural diagnostics. Reinforced titanium-carbon composite plating—zero damage.

Good.

But the rage brewing in Ethan's chest was molten.

You came to kill me?

Now I kill you.

As the workers grumbled and started banging on the door with tools, none of them noticed the narrow blast slot at the top of the door quietly unlatch.

Ethan lit a Molotov and lobbed it out.

Whoosh!

The hallway lit up with a wall of flame.

Then came the real horror.

From his inventory, Ethan retrieved several white bottles—each filled with a clear, viscous fluid.

Inside? White phosphorus, dissolved in carbon disulfide.

A homemade—but brutally effective—version of an M825 incendiary.

White phosphorus is hell made physical. Once ignited, it burns at over 1,800°F (1,000°C). It clings to flesh. It cannot be extinguished. The agony is unmatched.

It's banned in warzones for a reason.

But Ethan didn't care about conventions. Only survival.

The Molotov fire primed the air. The carbon disulfide rapidly evaporated, leaving the white phosphorus to erupt in a flash of blazing light and unspeakable heat.

FWOOSH!

Hell ignited.

The flames tore through the crowd. Their soaked winter coats and cotton layers made perfect tinder.

Screams tore through the corridor.

"AHHHHHHH!"

"PUT IT OUT! HELP ME!"

The firestorm melted snow, flesh, fabric, and sanity. It wasn't just fire—it was annihilation.

Ethan grabbed his pistol, flicked the safety off, and opened fire.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

No hesitation.

Bodies dropped. Blood sizzled on the scorched floor.

He didn't bother saving rounds. If they were here to kill me, they don't deserve mercy.

When the smoke finally settled, eight corpses smoldered in the hallway. A few survivors—burned, bleeding—scrambled away into the darkness.

Ethan didn't chase.

Safety first.

He sealed the firing port, activated the air filtration system, and checked his ammo. Empty mag.

"Damn… this thing's fun but chews through rounds like candy."

I need real firepower. Assault rifles. Maybe claymores.

The attack had proven something: this world's survivors weren't weak. Anyone left standing now was either a killer or becoming one.

If one of them ever got their hands on military-grade explosives… boom, no more safehouse.

Ethan clenched his jaw.

"I'll kill every last one of those bastards if they try again."

He stormed over to Chloe's room and unlocked the heavy security door.

Inside, she was curled up tightly, head buried between her knees.

"It's over," Ethan said.

Chloe slowly lifted her face. The moment she saw him, her whole body visibly relaxed.

He might've been cold. Brutal. Paranoid.

But he was her safety now.

She stood up, hugging herself. "I wasn't… scared, you know. I thought maybe it was an earthquake."

Ethan chuckled. "Sweetheart, at floor 24, if it was an earthquake, there'd be nothing left to hide behind."

She rolled her eyes, but the smile tugging at her lips said otherwise. "What happened?"

He sat down on the bed, scanning the room.

Pink velvet sheets. Canary yellow comforter. Lacy black lingerie and stockings drying by the windowsill.

Her touch had made this place warmer. More human.

And frankly, having someone like her around made life a hell of a lot easier.

The house was cleaner. Meals were better. And she never complained.

Ethan thought to himself, If this wasn't the apocalypse, a woman like her would cost me at least a $300,000 engagement ring and a house in Beverly Hills.