"Beginning base evaluation."
Basic security: complete.
Basic storage: complete.
Basic energy: complete.
Basic agricultural sustainability: complete.
Base combat capability — one war dog. Five percent complete.
Reward: Grade-A package!
Congratulations: base security +100%. Precision ballista tower ×1. Bolts ×100 bundles. State-of-the-art armored vehicle ×1. Fuel ×1,000 tons.
As the rewards came down, my base remade itself all over again.
The electric fence and the gates grew a full size thicker and taller, looming with a deep, brute sense of safety. A turret-shaped tower now rose above my bunker. And my storage space held a thousand tons of fuel — plus one very beautiful armored vehicle.
I pulled the vehicle out first. In the sunlight, the big camo-painted hull threw off that cold, hard steel shine. I climbed straight in and took it for a spin.
I'd driven plenty of military vehicles in my first life — I could handle an armored car. I'd just never handled one like *this*. Off-road grip and protection both off the charts, plus fire support: a compact powered turret on the hull, engine and turret both burning straight off the fuel tank. The system-forged tires were tougher than tracked-vehicle steel plate, and it still handled quick and light. Hull strength a hundred times a standard armored car. Hidden panels all along the body — one switch inside the cab and steel closed over the whole vehicle. I could drive this thing straight through a horde and never notice.
So this was state of the art. Nothing on any market could touch it. *What a prize.*
I ran a full circuit, worked through every function until I knew them cold, and then climbed out with real reluctance and headed straight for the tower.
My bunker had grown a staircase — a second level inside. I climbed up into the system's newest gift: the ballista tower. Eight long slit windows, perfect firing apertures, covering a full thousand yards around the bunker. At the tower's center sat a precision ballista on a full-rotation mount, with ten neat bundles of bolts beside it — a hundred steel-tipped, barbed wooden bolts to a bundle.
Did you know this story is from NovelPhoenix? Read the official version for free and support the author.
A hiss of air, a wet thump — and the bird folded out of the air and dropped dead at the bunker's edge, the bolt punched clean through its whole body.
"Almost silent. Real penetration. That is exactly the right weapon for the end of the world."
I walked out with Summer, dug the barbed bolt back out of the bird, and brought it home. Sustainable munitions. You recycle, and you hoard.
Looking over my stronger and stronger base, I thought back to the evaluation. All *that* — and it was only the Grade-A tier. What would a higher completion rating pay out?
Then I thought about the gap in my score. Combat capability: five percent. Because my entire standing army was one dog.
Which meant I needed more dogs. Noted. I'd pick up strays every chance I got from here on.
"Come on, Summer. Dinner!"
"Woof woof woof!"
Woman and dog went back into the fully upgraded bunker and ate like it was a holiday. Then I got online.
It was day three of the end of the world, and the internet still lived.
The water had died first. After the outbreak, corpses had floated into the treatment reservoirs in numbers nobody was counting; the supply had been poisoned at the source within the first day. Power lasted longer. Small cities with weak grids went dark immediately; a well-built grid could hold one to six months. I remembered that in my first life, City A had held three. Internet only went down when the power did.
And by then, of course, hardly anyone was left to browse. Early on, the survivors still had supplies — water, food — and nothing to do indoors but post. A week in, the taps and the pantries ran dry, and nobody had the heart to post anymore. Visit g.com for the full chapter.
*"HELP. I'm trapped in my bedroom and my parents keep pounding on my door. I haven't eaten in three days. I finished the last soda. Somebody please—*
*"Does anyone know the owner of unit A-101 at Gardenview? My girlfriend has been out of contact for three days. I just need to know she's okay—*
*"The water is gone. What do we do without WATER—"*
*"Crying. We finished the last of our water. Snacks are almost gone too. Please—*
*"Wasn't there supposed to be a rescue?? I've waited three days. Where is it—"*
*"Day three of the end of the world. The stairwell is full of howling. The fridge is nearly empty. Dad says I have to go out and find food for my little brother and sister — he says if I don't, he'll throw me out to them. I'm the big kid, I have to contribute. They're old and they're small. Wish me luck everyone. Fighting! — Sunny"*
I scrolled through the flood of posts — and stopped on the girl called *HopingForSunshine*.
I opened the girl's page. A life-blogger even before the end — and I knew the type of family I'd flagged long ago: mother dead early, father remarried, stepmother quickly producing a new son and daughter. After that, the girl had simply faded into transparency in her own home.
The family's luck had held through the first wave — everyone indoors, doors shut, all of them alive. Then the food ran short. And in a moment like that, what was there to think about? You push out the spare. And the poor thing — sold down the river and still this sunny — had actually gone, and posted about it like it was an adventure.
My newest post was five minutes old. I thought for three seconds, then typed.
*"Armor up first. Put on the thickest, toughest clothes in the house — tape your wrists and ankles three rounds each, wear a helmet, carry a pack. Pick your route in advance. Target: the nearest convenience store. Nowhere else."*
*"If you've got a shovel or a bat, take one of those. If not, take the bed board — not the kitchen knife. Knives don't stop them; they go in and they don't come back out. Aim for the head. Their weakness is the head. Don't be afraid of them — it's early days, and if you can beat the fear, you can beat them."*
I read it over once, and hit send.