Ethan crouched behind a burned-out sedan, his back pressed against the hot metal frame. The acrid smell of gasoline mixed with something far worse—blood, burnt rubber, and the sickly-sweet stench of decay—filled his nostrils. He forced himself to breathe through his mouth, slow and steady, just like his master had taught him years ago.
In, hold, out. Control the breath, control the body.
His hands were steady now. The trembling that had plagued him in the first hours after the world ended had vanished, replaced by an eerie calm. The Apocalypse Dominion System—whatever supernatural force had bonded itself to his consciousness when the sky split open—had boosted his reflexes and sharpened his focus.
Not by much. He wasn't some superhuman protagonist from the novels he used to read during late-night shifts at the warehouse. But it was enough. Enough to make a difference between life and death.
His physical stats had doubled from their baseline human levels. Within ten steps, he was confident no ordinary person with a gun could land a shot on him. His body would read their intentions, see the finger tightening on the trigger, and move before the bullet left the chamber.
The System's ultimate goal was clear, displayed in glowing blue text across his vision whenever he focused on it: Build a new world order. Dominate the chaos. Become the Overlord.
But right now, Ethan had only one goal burning in his chest like a furnace: save Emily.
His sister. His only family. Trapped at O'Hare International Airport, surrounded by God-knows-how-many zombies and panicked survivors. Everything else—the System's grand ambitions, the promise of power, the chance to rule over the ashes of civilization—could wait.
Three zombies stumbled out from between the cars ahead, their movements jerky and uncoordinated. Drawn by the faint scrape of his boots against concrete, they turned their gray, lifeless faces toward him. Dried blood crusted around their mouths. Their eyes were filmed over, white and empty.
"Perfect," Ethan muttered, gripping the handle of his folding shovel tighter. The cheap camping tool felt inadequate in his hand, but it would have to do. "Let's see how this feels."
He moved.
A sidestep—smooth, practiced, weight shifting to his left foot. A twist of his hips—generating torque from his core. A blur of motion as the shovel became an extension of his arm.
First zombie.
The flat of the blade caught it across the temple with a sickening crunch. Bone fragmented beneath the impact. The creature's head snapped to the side at an unnatural angle, and it crumpled without a sound.
Second zombie.
He pivoted, bringing the shovel around in a tight arc. The edge—dulled from previous kills but still serviceable—bit into the side of its skull. Crack! The sound was like stepping on a thick branch. Dark, coagulated blood sprayed across the pavement.
Third zombie.
This one was faster, reaching for him with decomposing fingers. Ethan ducked beneath its grasping arms, drove his shoulder forward in a classic Bājíquán technique, and used the momentum to swing the shovel upward. Splat! The zombie's jaw separated from its skull, and it collapsed backward.
Before the undead had even brushed his sleeve, their heads hit the pavement one by one, rolling like broken fruit across the cracked asphalt.
Ten seconds. That's all it took.
Ethan exhaled slowly, feeling the rush of combat still tingling through his veins like electricity. His heart rate was elevated but controlled. His muscles felt warm, loose, ready for more. This was what doubled physical stats felt like. Not just raw strength, but endurance. Stamina. The ability to fight longer, hit harder, move faster without burning out.
"Nice," he whispered, clenching and unclenching his fist. Blood—not his own—dripped from his knuckles. "If I keep this up, Emily's chances just got a lot better."
The System's logic was brutally simple: every zombie was a point. Every point could be converted to power. And power meant survival.
He turned off the faint holographic interface that hovered at the edge of his vision and continued down the deserted street. Chicago's downtown had become a graveyard. Abandoned cars littered the roads. Store windows were smashed. Bodies—some still human, some already turned—lay scattered like discarded dolls.
Each kill came with a metallic voice in his mind, cold and emotionless:
[Killed Level-1 zombie. +1 Point. Current total: 11.]
Two blocks later:
[Killed Level-1 zombie. +1 Point. Current total: 15.]
By the time he'd crossed into the commercial district near the highway, he'd dropped more than a dozen of them. His technique had improved with each encounter, muscle memory adapting to the System's enhancements. He was learning to read their movements, predict their lunges, position himself for maximum efficiency.
But his shovel was done for. The blade had warped from repeated impacts against bone and concrete. The handle was cracked, barely holding together.
"Damn," he muttered, tossing it aside with a metallic clatter. It hit the sidewalk and bounced into a storm drain.
He'd checked three stores already. A sporting goods shop—looted clean. A hardware store—nothing but broken hammers and bent crowbars. Even the police station two blocks back had been stripped bare, its armory door blown open from the inside.
Ethan sighed and pulled out his phone again, more out of habit than hope. He'd tried calling Emily what felt like a hundred times since the networks went down. Each attempt had been met with the same three-tone error message: All circuits are busy. Please try your call again later.
But this time—this impossible, miraculous time—the call connected.
One ring.
Two rings.
"—Hello? Ethan?!"
His heart nearly stopped. "Emily! It's me!"
"Little brother!" Her voice cracked with emotion, half-sobbing his nickname. "Oh God, I thought—I thought you were—"
Tears burned in Ethan's eyes as relief hit him like a physical wave, nearly buckling his knees. Her voice was alive. Real. Not a recording, not a memory. She was still breathing, still fighting, still here. He'd been so afraid—terrified beyond words—that he'd find her only as another corpse among thousands.
"Where are you? Are you safe?" The words tumbled out in a rush as he scanned the street for movement, his free hand reaching for the knife at his belt. "You've gotta stay away from those things. Don't let them see you, don't let them hear you—"
"I'm okay," Emily replied, her voice trembling but clear. He could hear her taking deep breaths, trying to stay calm. "I'm in a café on the third floor of Terminal 3. There's food and water here—vending machines, storage room, the whole setup. The elevators are blocked with luggage and debris, so nothing can get up here easily. It's safe. For now."
She paused, then asked urgently, "What about you? Where are you?"
"I'm fine," Ethan said, his grip tightening on the phone until the case creaked. "Don't move. Just stay exactly where you are. I'm on my way—I'll get you out of there."
"Wait! No—Ethan, don't come!" Panic surged into her voice. "The streets are full of them. Hundreds, maybe thousands! It's suicide to even try! You can't—"
"I'm stronger than before," he said softly, allowing himself a small smile despite everything. Despite the corpses, despite the blood on his hands, despite the apocalypse raging around them. "Things have changed. I even found a gun."
A lie, but a necessary one. She didn't need to know about the System yet. Didn't need to know her little brother had become something other than fully human.
"Ethan, please," she begged, her voice breaking. "Don't do this. I've seen them from the windows. There are hundreds inside the airport itself. Maybe more. You can't fight that many. No one can. Just—just survive. Find somewhere safe and—"
He cut her off, his voice steady and firm. "Emily. Listen to me. I've made up my mind. If I stay here, if I let fear stop me, I'll regret it for the rest of my life. However long that is."
Before she could argue again, before she could try to talk sense into him with logic and reason and all the sensible objections he'd already considered and dismissed, he said: "Just hold on. I'm halfway there already. I will save you."
Then he hung up.