Logan moved with purpose now, shaking off the tremor in his limbs. The status panel blinked once, then faded into nothing like a dream you forgot right after waking. But it wasn't gone. He could still feel it—just behind his vision, like looking at the back of your eyelids and knowing something's there.
He didn't pick a class. Not yet. That was a commitment. One, he couldn't afford it until he knew more. He didn't even know if other people had this system—if everyone who survived got one, or if it was something unique. Knowing the truth would take time if time were still a thing the world gave out.
He rechecked the corpse. It had stopped twitching, but its skin was still shifting, like worms moved under it. Logan backed off and didn't hesitate this time. He turned and ran.
His neighborhood used to be quiet. He'd grown up here. Cul-de-sacs. SUV moms. Kids on scooters. Now, it looked like the beginning of a war movie, with abandoned cars sitting at odd angles in driveways. Doors were left wide open. Mailboxes overflowed with days-old flyers about evacuation routes that didn't mean shit anymore.
A smear of blood trailed across a front lawn like someone had been dragged screaming into their garage.
He picked up the pace.
His house was at the end of a side street. Brown brick exterior. Three bedrooms. Looked like nothing special. That was the point. He didn't need neighbors poking around. He'd renovated it in secret and reinforced the foundation. Rewired the breaker box to be off-grid capable. Buried a secondary air filtration line that ran into a chamber under the shed in the backyard.
He'd spent four years building it up, piece by piece, while working shit IT jobs and stocking every paycheck into survival gear, canned food, and black-market components. They all thought he was wasting his life.
It was the only place in the county not burning or crawling with corpses.
He slipped through the back alley, then into the backyard through a gap in the fence he'd cut years ago. The shed looked like hell—weathered metal siding, a busted lock on the door, spiderwebs covering the corners. But it was just a skin.
He stepped inside, kicked the latch, and dropped the bar across the frame.
It was dark inside. Hot. Dust choked the air.
He crouched, pulled aside the rug and shelving, and revealed a steel hatch with a biometric scanner on the side. It blinked red at first—until he pressed his hand to the sensor.
A low hum answered. Then a green flicker.
Access Granted.
The hatch popped open with a hiss. Cold air rolled up from the depths below.
Descent
The twenty-foot-deep, steel-welded ladder was slightly damp from condensation. It smelled like copper and ammonia—sterile, like a hospital built inside a tomb. When Logan's boots hit the floor, the sensor lights kicked on one by one, trailing through the corridor ahead.
He was home.
The bunker wasn't big, but it was thorough. It had concrete walls insulated with thermal foam. Shelves upon shelves of vacuum-sealed rations and rotating emergency food. A water purifier built from scavenged RV filters and surgical-grade tubing. Several hand-built battery stacks are charged from solar panels hidden in the backyard.
A 3D-printed hydroponic setup grew stringy spinach and vat-grown meat cultures in the corner. It was still experimental and barely edible, but it meant he wouldn't starve if he stayed long enough.
And in the far back? His war room.
Steel desk, hardened laptop, hand-built shortwave radio, maps of the local area marked with evacuation zones, bridges, and choke points, corkboard covered in red thread and pinned satellite photos, like something out of a serial killer documentary.
He dropped his gear, pulled the tactical hoodie off, and walked to the sink.
Water ran. Clean. Cold. He washed the blood from his hands, scrubbing until his knuckles bled. The scent of rot was in his nostrils. It wouldn't leave.
He stared into the mirror above the sink.
His reflection stared back—gaunt, eyes sunken but alert. Unshaven. Wild.
"You made it," he whispered. "Don't relax. It's not over."
He opened the weapons cabinet. Pulled on the ballistic vest. Loaded the shotgun. Pocketed a few extra shells and a pouch of steel screws. Just in case.
Then he sat down at the desk and flipped open the hardened tablet.
One blinking notification.
[Status Panel Synced – New Integration Detected]
He tapped it, and the panel opened again.
[STATUS SCREEN – LOGAN WALKER]
Class: [Unassigned]Level: 1Race: Human (Awakened)
Attributes
Strength: 6Endurance: 8Agility: 7Perception: 9Intelligence: 10Willpower: 10Charisma: 4
Skills
Scavenging [Lv. 1]Engineering [Lv. 1]Close Combat [Lv. 1]Survival Instinct [Lv. 1]Base Management [Locked]Leadership [Locked]
Perks
Prepared for DoomsdayLone Wolf InstinctTinkerer's Eye
Class Selection AvailableSurvivalistTechnomancerSentinelOutriderWarlord – Locked
He hovered over Technomancer for a moment.
The description blinked.
Specializes in automated defense systems, drone support, and field tech. Increases crafting speed and electrical weapon effectiveness.
Tempting.
But Survivalist had its own perks—silent movement, longer stamina drain, and improved looting odds. Sentinel meant fortified bases and stronger defense zones.
Not yet.
Logan closed the panel again. The world was still too unknown.
He needed to scout, secure the area, and confirm whether this "System" was everywhere or just in him.
But as he stood up, something shifted outside.
The lights in the bunker flickered. Then the ground began to move.
At first, it was a slow rumble like a train passing somewhere overhead.
Then it escalated.
The whole room shook violently. Shelves rattled. A water jug tipped and burst open on the floor. The hydroponic wall collapsed. One of the solar batteries sparked and smoked.
Logan hit the ground and covered his head, the old military routine kicking in instinctively.
The quake lasted thirty seconds.
Longer than any quake he'd felt in this region.
Then silence returned. He sat up slowly, ears ringing. Eyes wide.
He accessed the seismic scanner—his tablet's DIY earthquake log.
No signal.
Nothing.
"Bullshit," he growled. "That was at least a 5.0."
He stared at the walls, breathing fast.
The bunker held.
But something was very wrong.
He climbed back up the ladder.
Above Ground
The hatch opened with a hiss.
Logan blinked as he emerged back into the shed. Sunlight—or what passed for it—glowed red through the slats. The air was thicker. He felt it immediately—the pressure, like the atmosphere had dropped twenty degrees in one breath.
Birdsong was gone.
Insects were gone.
No dogs barking.
Only wind. And it sounded different. Hollow. Like it came from a deeper sky.
He stepped outside slowly, shotgun raised, eyes scanning.
Everything was still in place—mostly.
Except...
The backyard fence was gone.
Not broken. Not smashed.
Gone.
As if something had melted through it in a single pass. A line of black soot stretched from where the fence had been into the neighbor's yard—and beyond. Trees drooped like they were weeping. The grass was burnt, even though there was no fire.
And in the middle of it all?
Footprints.
Massive ones.
Like a reptile, but upright. Talon-shaped. Deep. Burned into the soil.
Logan exhaled through his teeth. "Well. That's new."