A Small Fortune

Lucas peeked through the glass panel of the apartment building's entrance.

The first floor was clear. No zombies in sight.

Without hesitation, he slipped inside and gently pulled the steel-framed glass door shut behind him.

Click.

The heavy lock re-engaged.

He pressed his riot shield to his chest, axe tight in hand, every muscle coiled with tension. Anything could be lurking in the shadows.

Building 3 was a low-rise structure—five floors, no elevator. The entrance opened into a narrow corridor with four concrete steps leading upward. Two apartments faced each other on the ground level.

The door across from the stairs was sealed tight, its surface smeared with dried blood and handprints. The stains had long since darkened into rusty brown streaks.

Someone tried to get out... or in.

The neighboring unit's door was cracked open—just a few inches—but it was enough to be dangerous. A dark trail of blood stretched from the hallway into the apartment.

There's definitely something inside.

Lucas considered his options.

He could shut the door. Seal it off. Zombies couldn't turn doorknobs or operate locks. If he closed it, whatever was inside would be trapped.

But that would mean walking away from potential supplies.

And right now, food and water were everything.

He didn't hesitate.

Survival required risk. And unless he wanted to die of thirst in a few days, he needed to search every viable shelter.

He stepped inside and closed the door behind him with a heavy clang.

"Grrhh... aaah..."

Two zombies stirred.

One emerged from a bedroom, the other shambled from a grimy bathroom. Both locked onto Lucas immediately.

Damn. Both sides.

Lucas adjusted his stance and grinned under his helmet.

"Come on then, you rotting freaks!"

The creatures lunged.

They covered the distance in less than a second, slamming into Lucas's shield with enough force to rattle his bones. These weren't sluggish walkers—they were fast, aggressive, and unrelenting.

Lucas shifted to the side, angling his shield to trap both zombies against the steel-reinforced door.

Now!

He raised his axe and brought it down.

Squelch. Squelch.

Both bodies dropped instantly.

The fight had lasted maybe five seconds.

In movies, battles against zombies were always drawn-out dramas. In reality, they were over in a flash. One mistake, and you were dead. No do-overs. No heroic recoveries.

Strike first. Strike hard. And never hesitate.

Lucas didn't stop to admire his work. He swept the apartment, room by room, checking for threats.

Once he confirmed the space was clear, he returned to the fallen zombies and activated the collection prompt.

[You collected: Energy Core ×1, Clean Cloth ×2, Mutated Fertilizer ×3]

[You collected: Clean Cloth ×3, Mutated Fertilizer ×2]

[Clean Cloth]: Reinforces armor. Can be used to craft protective clothing once Sewing Blueprint is acquired.

Lucas nodded and deposited the loot into his storage ring, leaving just enough space to gather more.

This world's apartment doors were different from Earth's. They were all steel-core, outward-opening, and lacked external handles. Without a key or card, there was no way to force them open from the outside.

Even in tight corridors, it would be nearly impossible for a horde to overwhelm the entrance.

This place is a gold mine.

He moved straight to the kitchen.

Food. Water. That's what matters now.

The apartment was a three-bedroom, one-bath, open kitchen layout. He flung open every cupboard, every drawer.

Nothing useful.

Most of the dry goods—rice, flour—had long since spoiled. Strange red-spotted fungi covered green-stained grains.

[These supplies are expired. One bite and you'll see dancing spirits. Two bites, and you're one of them.]

Lucas smirked at the system's gallows humor.

He didn't need the warning—he had no intention of eating anything that looked like it belonged in a toxic waste barrel.

He checked the fridge next.

The refrigerated items were all rotted, but the freezer...

Two cans of beer. Still sealed. The date printed read October 15, 2012. Best by: 20 years.

Twenty years?!

Back on Earth, beer had a shelf life of maybe two—three years at best. This stuff was engineered for the apocalypse.

He glanced at the wall calendar.

December, 2012.

That meant the outbreak here had occurred at the end of that year.

Lucas brushed a finger across the dining table—thin dust clung to his glove.

Only a few months had passed. A year at most.

And in that time... civilization had fallen.

He recalled the system's early warning: The zombies were currently suppressed by some kind of global constraint. But every 30 days, that suppression would weaken.

Eventually, the creatures would return to their true, monstrous form.

There was no time to waste.

Grow strong—or die.

Lucas opened the freezer's lower compartment.

Inside: a block of frozen meat. Huge. Still solid.

He grinned.

Jackpot.

Beer and meat.

Enough food for three—maybe four days.

That was wealth in this world.