The world used to be crowded, but it was never this loud.
Twelve of them. Twelve former people who had traded their humanity for gray, rubbery skin and a singular, frantic desire to turn my insides into my outsides. They circled me in the middle of an intersection where a faded "Grand Opening" banner for a dry cleaner flapped rhythmically against a pole—the only thing left in this city that still seemed to have a schedule to keep.
One of them—a twitchy female with three extra joints in her left arm—screamed and lunged.
I didn't panic. I didn't even really think. My brain just did that thing where the world slows down into a series of predictable geometric shapes. I felt a familiar, white-hot spark in the back of my skull, a sudden, violent clarity that mapped out the trajectory of her leap before her feet even left the cracked asphalt.
I drifted to the right. It wasn't a panicked jump; it was a casual lean, timed so perfectly that she sailed past me, her claws snapping at the empty air where my throat had been a millisecond ago. As she passed, I brought my machete around in a short, brutal arc. The blade didn't even feel like it hit resistance. It was like slicing through cold butter.
One down. Eleven to go. If I die here, I'm never going to find out how Subaru brings back Rem from her sleep. I'm not that big a fan of anime, but I lost a bunch of ration cards in exchange for 2 seasons already. That would be a huge loss if I don't get to know the ending.
Two more rushed me from the flank. They were fast—mutant-fast—but to me, they were moving through waist-deep molasses. I dropped low, the grit of the road grinding against my knees, and spun. The machete whistled, a silver crescent that sent them both staggering back into the dirt, leaking that dark, oily fluid that passed for blood these days.
"You guys really need a hobby," I grunted, parrying a jagged bone-spur from a third attacker without even looking at him. My hand just knew where to be. "Have you tried knitting? I hear it's very soothing for the nerves. Though, with those claws, you'd probably just make a very aggressive sweater."
The biggest one of the bunch, a brute who had kept his varsity football build but gained a terrifying amount of teeth, roared and swung a rusted piece of rebar. My body reacted before the sound of the roar even reached my ears. I didn't block—that would break my arm. I just wasn't there when the bar arrived.
I stepped into his guard, the machete leading the way. As the blade sank into his chest, I looked past him at a row of shattered storefronts. A child's bicycle lay rusted in a gutter, tangled in the same purple weeds that were slowly swallowing the sidewalk. There were no sirens coming. No one was going to call a foul on the play. There was just the wet thud of the brute hitting the pavement and the sound of my own breathing.
I stifled a yawn, my jaw stretching wide enough to crack. The adrenaline was supposed to be pumping, but instead, I just felt the heavy pull of a midday nap calling my name. This "combat autopilot" my brain does is great for not getting eaten, but it's like running a marathon while sitting on a couch; it just makes me want to find a pillow and call it a day.
I blinked sleepily at the remaining nine mutants. They weren't running. They were widening their circle, their eyes fixed on me with a dull, hungry persistence.
"Is it my turn yet?" I asked, rolling my shoulders and blinking back a sudden bout of sleepiness. "Because I'd really like to finish this before the sun goes down. I'm starting to see double, and I really don't want to have to kill eighteen of you. My math is bad enough as it is."
Then I heard a voice from a distance.
"Wakey-wakey, Sunshine! If you close your eyes any longer, I'm drawing a mustache on you with mutant blood!"
Art's voice sliced through the mental fog like an air horn in a library. About twenty yards away, Art was a flickering blur. He didn't just run; he moved with Enhanced Kinetic Velocity. It wasn't magic—just physics on steroids. He snapped from Point A to Point B in a blink, appearing behind a Shambler and cracking its skull with a combat baton.
But as soon as he landed, he froze. He stood perfectly still for a beat, he stopped briefly as if he were waiting for his internal clock to reset.
Beside him, Corporal Oren was the anchor. A massive mutant, skin like wet leather, slammed a meaty fist into Oren's heavy riot shield. The impact sounded like a car crash. Oren's Enhanced Density let him take the hit without budging an inch, but as he shoved the creature back, he let out a sharp, hissed breath, his grip tightening on the handle as if his own arm were paying the price for being an immovable object.
"I'm not sleeping, Art." I yelled back, parrying a clawed hand with a heavy, uncoordinated thud. "I'm... evaluating. It's a tactical headspace."
"Tactical headspace? Buddy, you're in a sugar crash!" Art shouted, glancing at his feet as if counting down the seconds until he could move again. He zipped, appearing five feet to the left and tripping a mutant. "Oren, tell him he's being a liability. He's going to fall asleep mid-swing and become a buffet."
Oren adjusted his shield, his face tight. "His metabolic output is guttering, Art. And your verbal output is at a hundred-percent increase in 'annoyance.' Just keep clearing the flank."
I felt the familiar itch in the back of my head—the instinctual spark that usually ran my combat autopilot—flickering like a dying lightbulb. Every time my brain mapped out a fight in high-definition, it consumed my glucose like a jet engine.
"Five years," I muttered, dodging a lunging mutant so lazily that its teeth actually grazed my jacket. "Five years since the 'Big Surprise,' and I still haven't found an unlooted vending machine."
"Oh, here we go," Art laughed, leaning against a rusted car during his brief, forced standstill. "The nostalgia's kicking in. It's the hunger talking. Corporal, get ready, we are about to hear the same story. For the hundredth time!"
"It was a Tuesday," I said, sidestepping another creature. My body was moving on pure muscle memory now. "I was in line for a double-caramel macchiato. The lady in front of me was arguing about a coupon for ten cents off. Then—pop—the sky didn't fall, but her jaw did. Right onto the floor. Next thing I know, she's growing extra limbs and trying to eat the barista's face. No memo. No 'Save the Date' card. Just 99% of the world turning into a horror movie overnight."
"And look at us now!" Art chirped, zipping forward to shatter a mutant's kneecap before locking into another rigid pause. "From baristas to bodyguards. Though, to be fair, I bet that barista is still better at his job as a mutant than he was at making my decaf."
"Focus," Oren snapped, his shield arm trembling slightly from the repeated shocks. "We have nine hostiles left, and our point man is currently narrating the apocalypse like it's a bedtime story."
"I'm just... pacing myself," I argued, though I had to lean against a rusted mailbox. "I've spent five years looking for a Snickers bar. That's a lot of walking for a guy who used to get winded taking the elevator."
I looked at the remaining nine. My vision was starting to blur—the double vision was becoming a very annoying reality.
"Art," I said, my voice dropping its playful edge. "If I pass out, don't let them eat my face. It's the only part of me that's still 'Limited Edition'."
"Don't worry, buddy," Art replied, his feet finally snapping him across the pavement for another strike. "I'll save the face. The rest of you is negotiable. I've always wanted a pair of boots made out of your jacket anyway."
We fought with our energy levels going down. And the dance was getting sloppy.
Art was a flickering ghost, snapping from one side of the street to the other, his batons leaving trails of gray mist in the humid air. But every time he landed, the pause lasted a fraction of a second longer. He was breathing hard, his forehead slick with sweat that had nothing to do with the sun.
Oren, meanwhile, was a mountain under siege. Three Shamblers were throwing themselves against his shield in a rhythmic, sickening cadence—thump, thump, thump. Each hit forced a low grunt from his chest, and I could see the way his boots were beginning to scuff the asphalt as he held his ground.
"Oren! Pivot left!" Art yelled, zipping behind a cluster of mutants and cracking their skulls before stumbling into a rigid stance.
Oren didn't waste words. He planted his back foot, roared, and shoved his shield forward with enough force to send the three mutants sprawling. "Fall back to the Quick-Mart!" he barked, his voice rasping. "Now!"
We scrambled toward the boarded-up storefront, our heels hitting the cracked concrete of the entrance. We backed up until the rotted plywood pressed against our shoulder blades. The remaining nine Shamblers drifted into a semi-circle, their pale eyes reflecting the dying orange light of the sunset. They knew we were cornered.
"Okay," Art panted, his shoulders slumped as he waited for his legs to stop trembling. "Fun's over. I'm starting to think about my bed, and my bed doesn't have claws. Can we wrap this up?"
Oren didn't lower his shield. He adjusted his stance, his face pale and tight from the constant rattling of the density shifts. "Agreed. We're pushing our luck. If one more of these brutes shows up, I'm going to be a permanent part of the sidewalk."
I leaned against the plywood, my head swimming. The world was tilting. "I'm... working on it," I mumbled. "Just need... a minute."
"You don't have a minute, Sunshine. You're about ten seconds away from a permanent nap," Art said. He reached into a hidden pocket of his tactical vest and pulled out something small and crinkly. "Tell me you have a backup stash. Anything?"
"No," I croaked. "Empty."
Art looked at the approaching mutants, then at the pathetic state of my flickering 'autopilot.' He sighed, a dramatic, suffering sound. "Fine. But you owe me. This was my 'survived the week' prize."
He tossed a small, rectangular object at me. My hand shot out, catching it on pure reflex—the only part of my power that was still working. It was a dusty, slightly squashed chocolate bar. I tore the wrapper with my teeth, the sugar hitting my tongue like a lightning bolt.
I could feel the spark in the back of my brain catch fire, the "double vision" snapping back into a single, razor-sharp image of the battlefield. The lethargy didn't vanish, but it retreated, pushed back by a sudden, artificial surge of fuel.
A switch flipped on. The world slowed down. The Shamblers became statues.
I looked at Art, my eyes finally focusing. "Make it three," I said, my voice steady again.
"Three what?" Art asked, blinking.
"Sweets," I said, stepping away from the wall and raising the machete. The blade caught the dying sunlight, a cold silver promise. "Give me the two later when we get home. Consider it a performance fee."
Before Art could even complain about the price, I move.
I didn't wait for his reply. I stepped off the wall, and the world dissolved into a series of jagged, silver lines.
I wasn't just fighting anymore; I was editing reality. One second, a mutant was lunging; the next, its head was rolling across the asphalt before the body even knew it was dead. I moved through the center of the swarm like a whisper through a graveyard—unseen, untouched, and utterly lethal.
The high was a screaming rush, but as the last body hit the pavement with a heavy, wet thud, the world snapped back to full speed. The silence of the dead city rushed back in, colder and heavier than before.
I wiped the blade on my sleeve, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Let's go," I whispered, the sugar already starting to burn out. "Before the rest of the world realizes we're still here."