“Clear left!”

  “Clear right!”

  “Push forward! Watch your step!”

  The tactical flashlight sliced the dark. Inside the prison, chaos ruled—bloody handprints smeared the walls, floor a sick stew of busted bodies and splattered guts. Even the ceiling dripped red. Kevin couldn’t shake it—what kind of freak show tore this place up?

  “Blood pumps like a damn beast when panic hits—up to 20 feet a second!” Melk said, grinning like a twisted bastard, kicking a half-ripped corpse. “Bust a big artery, and it sprays like a damn hose, 10 feet easy. No wonder this hole’s a slaughterhouse. Picture a walker chomping your neck sometime—bet it’d fountain just as high!”

  Mallow couldn’t stop the shakes, nerves strung tight. Kevin just shrugged off Melk’s dark jab with a low chuckle.

  The crew hit the second cell block in Zone C. Walkers weren’t as wild as they’d been at night, but double mutations still made ‘em a damn handful.

  Even T-Bone and Guilan, dead-eye shots, couldn’t drop one with a clean headshot. Melk didn’t blink—probably ‘cause he was a wizard with a gun.

  Mallow, stuck with a lousy 5 Strength, was getting owned. His shovel whacked the walker’s neck, barely ticking it off, and with his measly 6 Stamina, one swing from that thing could flatten him. A bite? Game over, no question. He was down to dodging and poking—darting in to jab, scrambling back, then looping around for another weak stab.

  Kevin wasn’t some fuckin’ pushover in a scrap, packing 7 Strength and 8 Stamina. But the walker wasn’t slacking either. After two mutations, it was a tank—guessing 10 Stamina and Strength at night, 8 by day. Straight-up slugfest? Coin toss who’d eat dirt.

  But Kevin’s gear and skills flipped the odds hard:

  Melee Mastery pumped his melee damage by 5%.

  Small Blades Mastery juiced his dagger’s speed and damage by 5%.

  Bulletproof Vest shaved physical damage by 10%.

  Physical Defense Mastery sliced damage another 5%.

  Mobility Mastery bumped his evasion and attack speed by 5%.

  Feather Boots tacked on 2 Agility, 30% movement speed, and 5% evasion.

  And his gold-tier Walker Slayer stacked 20% extra damage against walkers.

  All this turned Kevin into a damn wall in close quarters, cranking his damage through the roof.

  Against walkers, his buffs made his hits faster, harder, and dead-on, letting him slip their swings easy. His dagger, base 5 damage, now smashed walker skulls for over 16 on a crit—triple the punch. Five swings, and a regular walker was toast.

  Since the dagger was the fastest blade in a close scrap, its low damage got offset by rapid stabs. Kevin just had to bait the walker into a dumb charge, then unload a storm of dagger hits from behind and drop it cold.

  He’d also locked down Throat Slash, a brutal move that forced the walker to roll a Toughness check—damn near guaranteed to flop. Even if it clung on, its 80-ish HP couldn’t tank the quadruple damage plus 30 bleeding ticks.

  Kevin felt like a spec-ops killer, shredding anything dumb enough to step up. He danced with the walker, dodging and slicing, while Mallow smashed it from behind with his shovel. Both played hit-and-run, weaving past its swings and striking when it blinked.

  Their grind was slow but solid, piling up walker bodies. Thanks to nights of carnage, Kevin’s tally for the platinum-tier Walker Reaper hit 1,457 out of 2,000.

  But luck had a hand in it. Without that ballsy two-fire stunt, he wouldn’t have sniffed this close.

  In Omnispace, big risks paid fat stacks. Each double-mutated walker now dropped 10 survival points a kill. So Kevin and Mallow kept slashing ‘til they were half-dead, only falling back to lick wounds when they couldn’t dodge anymore. Stingy as hell, they skipped healing gear, letting HP crawl back on its own.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  “Dude, how many’d you bag?” Mallow rasped, sucking wind.

  “Uh, twelve or so. You?” Kevin shot back, chest heaving.

  “Got four you missed. These bastards are toughening up—I damn near ate a swipe. Smart move juicing your close-quarters game,” Mallow said, huffing.

  “Yeah, my close-quarters ain’t exactly king-tier. Check this,” Kevin said, nodding at the mess.

  Mallow watched wide-eyed as Melk stabbed a walker clean through the skull with his strapped-on blade, then slammed it into another’s eye with a quick twist. He yanked both walkers up like they were trash and flung ‘em into the horde.

  The old gunslingers from Guilan’s nursing home saw it and lost their shit, spraying bullets wild. Walkers dropped like flies.

  Mallow stuck out his tongue. “Yeah, that dude’s a damn beast—way scarier than any walker.”

  But the real hell was the night swarm. Too many to count, way past what any human line could hold—a straight-up saturation assault. By day, they split into small packs—weak solo, perfect for hunting practice.

  Melk shot ‘em a look. “Alright, ladies, ready to roll? We gotta hit the next spot before dark. No slacking on my watch.”

  Kevin gave a sharp nod, and they hauled ass up. The crew moved out.

  ***

  As they pushed deeper, the prison turned alien. The first stretch was creepy and dim, sure, but had vents and skylights leaking some glow. This new chunk? Pure concrete jungle.

  The walls loomed thick—30 inches of hardcore reinforced concrete. Cell doors were solid steel slabs, way tougher than the rebar junk from before. No windows, just a skinny slit at the bottom to shove food through.

  “Man, what the hell’s this—Alcatraz? Fox River? Why’re the walls so damn thick?” Mallow griped, kicking dust.

  Kevin cracked a grin. Mallow’s grumbling hit his dark funny bone—gamers gonna game, even with walkers chewing the world.

  Melk busted out a laugh. “Welcome to America’s max-security shithole, ladies! Land here, and you’re kissing daylight and your pretty mugs goodbye. You’re good for now, but walking free? That’s all on how hard you kick ass.”

  Mallow’s nerves were shot again, but Kevin smacked his shoulder. “Chill, Mallow.”

  “Man, you some damn psychic? How’d you know I was losing it?”

  “‘Cause your flashlight’s shaking like a disco ball in a shitty flick, dumbass!”

  Mallow’s voice broke. “Big man Melk, you said this is a max-security joint, right? What kinda freaks we got in here?”

  Melk flashed a crooked grin. “Why don’t you go peek?” He kicked Mallow through the next door.

  Mallow’s scream tore through the prison, outdoing the world’s top tenors on a bender.

  Kevin, wired over Mallow’s safety, bolted in, T-Bone hot on his heels.

  Mallow was a mess, sprawled on the floor, hugging a corpse and freaking out. Five days in this hellhole, and he’d held it together—‘til Melk booted him into a walker-infested dark pit.

  Kevin hauled Mallow up and shot Melk a death stare. “Dude, for real? Quit scaring the shit outta him!”

  Melk chuckled low. “Just stirring the pot, boys. You needed a damn laugh.”

  Mallow, still shaking like a leaf, yanked out a notebook—a diary he’d snagged from the body pile. This joint was stuffed with felons, locked up and just waiting to rot.

  With nothing but time, tons of ‘em turned to scribbling diaries—guess it beat staring at walls.

  Kevin flicked on his tactical flashlight, cracked the diary open, and started reading.

  The felon’s name was Outlaw—either his folks saw his fate coming or they jinxed him into a cage.

  Anyway, this poor bastard scored his dream gig: a long-term crash course in the big house, “studying” ‘til his days ran dry.

  Outlaw lived for writing, jotting down daily scraps that somehow meant something to him. If he’d hit Kevin’s era and posted online, he might’ve blown up as a writer.

  Kevin skimmed a few pages—nothing but dull crap.

  Melk, itching, raised his gun. “Move it, ladies. His old cellmates are hungry, and we ain’t got time to dick around.”

  Right then, Kevin yelped—a key clattered outta the damn diary. He kept digging, secrets starting to spill.

  “…I heard a loud bang—couldn’t tell if it was a gun or what. Then a key fell outta some dead guard’s pocket. It bounced a couple times and landed right in my cell. Holy shit, could this be my ticket outta this hole? I grip it like I used to choke those hookers. Only metal I’ve seen in years, ‘cept them damn dog bowls. A pack of guards stormed in, took down this giant dude—sounded like the floor caved when he hit. They said he was the meanest crook in the damn country! They started hunting the key, but I stashed it good. Couldn’t find it for shit, so this little prize is mine…”

  “…Son of a bitch, I heard the guards yakking—this key ain’t for my cell. It’s for that psycho locked deep down in a special pit, sun gone forever. The door’s a beast—three feet of solid steel, hydraulic, self-powered. No busting through without this key, not even with a nuke…”

  “…Caught the guards muttering ‘bout some big government secret buried down there. Even after the world went to hell, folks kept slipping in and out that door. Got me thinking—maybe this prison’s locked tight to keep something else in…”