Thomas navigated the darkened subway tunnel, flashlight beam cutting through the gloom, heading towards the Crimson Cabaret. It wasn't far from the Garden Station, only five or six hundred meters, but the surface streets, teeming with refugees and rebels, were too dangerous. The tunnel, despite the extra time it took due to the weight of his gear, was the safer option.
Fifteen minutes later, he reached the Cape of Good Hope Station, the closest stop to the cabaret. He was beyond the range of his purchased station, so his mental map was offline. He switched off his flashlight, melting into the shadows. After two minutes of silence, he climbed onto the platform and cautiously approached the station entrance.
Subway stations weren't prime real estate for refugees, so his ascent was uneventful. He emerged onto the street, spotting the Crimson Cabaret diagonally across the road. As he prepared to cross, a burst of gunfire erupted from a nearby building, followed by two screams.
Thomas's stomach dropped. He checked the Zone Chat. Two fewer survivors. Players caught by refugees, no doubt. The burst of gunfire had contained at least three distinct shots, meaning at least three hostiles. Bad odds.
Can't stay here. Sitting duck, he thought. Gotta get to the cabaret. It's my best chance.
He was so close. Turning back now would severely hamper his progress. Reaching the cabaret, with its active mental map, was his only path to survival.
He checked the street, then darted across, his heart pounding. "Don't see me, don't see me," he muttered under his breath. The thirty meters felt like an eternity.
He reached the other side, scrambling into the alley leading to the cabaret, gasping for breath. He'd made it. The cabaret was less than twenty meters away. He allowed himself a moment of relief, then—
Rat-a-tat-tat!
Crack!
Bullets slammed into the wall beside him. Damn it! Spotted. He didn't hesitate, sprinting towards the cabaret's entrance. He could hear the pounding footsteps of his pursuers.
"Get him! Another survivor! Don't kill him this time! Let's have some fun!"
"Yeah! Maybe we can sell him to Ghostface. He's looking for live ones."
"Careful! He's got a gun!"
Thomas reached the cabaret's ornate brass doors. He fumbled for the key, inserting it into the lock and twisting. The door swung open. As he stepped inside, his pursuers rounded the corner.
Rat-a-tat-tat!
They fired blindly, bullets ricocheting off the brass. Thomas slammed the door shut, bolting deeper into the cabaret. He consulted his mental map, confirming the interior was clear. He holed up in a back room on the first floor, chambering a round in his PM and bracing himself.
He took a few deep breaths, calming his racing heart. He could hear the refugees outside, trying to force the door.
Bang! Bang!
The doors burst open. Four red dots appeared on his mental map.
The cabaret's interior was dimly lit, the only illumination coming from red neon strips, casting long, distorted shadows. He listened to the refugees ransacking the front rooms, waiting for his moment. He wasn't confident in a direct firefight. Close-quarters combat was his only chance.
The refugees, clearly experienced, split into two teams of two, covering each other as they advanced. They were cautious, despite their earlier bravado.
One team swept the first floor, the other headed upstairs. Thomas's eyes narrowed. They were splitting up. An opportunity.
He was in a private room at the back of the first floor, the darkness concealing him perfectly. The first team was approaching the hallway leading to his room. He reached into his chest rig, pulling out an oval-shaped object.
F-1 Defensive Grenade
Type: Throwable Weapon
Size: 1x1
Detonation Delay: 3.5 seconds
Blast Radius: 3-7 meters
Concussion Radius: 12 meters
Shrapnel Count: 90x F-1 fragments
Defensive grenades, unlike offensive ones, relied on shrapnel for their devastating effect. Their purpose was singular: total annihilation.
He pulled the pin, counted to one, flung the grenade around the corner, and slammed the door shut. Fire in the hole!
BOOM!
The two refugees, rounding the corner, saw the grenade rolling towards their feet. A split second of recognition, then a desperate dive for cover.
"Grenade!"
Too late. The F-1 detonated, a storm of shrapnel ripping through them. The blast threw them back against the wall, mangled and lifeless.
The force of the explosion rocked Thomas's room. The wall cracked, exposing the plasterboard beneath. A hole was blown between his room and the next. He was thrown to the floor, covered in dust and debris.
"Cough…cough…" He pushed himself up, spitting out grit. He shook his head, ears ringing. Damn, this place is a death trap.
He scrambled to his feet, sprinting down the hallway in the opposite direction. His mental map showed the other two refugees, alerted by the explosion, racing down from the third floor.
He passed the mangled remains of the first team, resisting the urge to loot them. He couldn't afford the delay. The first-floor hallway was T-shaped. One branch led to his previous hiding spot, the other to the kitchen. He reached the kitchen, slamming the fire door shut.
Rat-a-tat-tat!
The remaining refugees, spooked by the explosion, fired blindly down the hallway, shouting for their companions. Silence met their calls. They realized they weren't dealing with an ordinary survivor. This was a seasoned hunter.
They reached the corner, seeing the carnage. They barely glanced at the bodies. Death was a commonplace occurrence in their world. One of them quickly cleared the nearby rooms, finding nothing. Their attention turned to the kitchen fire door.
They advanced cautiously, hugging the walls, weapons trained on the two small circular windows in the door. Anyone peeking through would be met with instant death. Reaching the door, they exchanged hand signals. One kicked it open while the other lobbed two grenades inside.
Boom! Boom!
They rushed in, firing at anything that resembled cover. They cleared the entire kitchen, finding nothing. Just as they were about to give up—
Clang!
A muffled sound came from the walk-in freezer. They exchanged grins. The survivor was hiding in the freezer. How clever.
They approached the freezer door, one holding two more grenades. The other reached for the handle. They envisioned the survivor's demise, the grenades turning the freezer into a metal coffin.
They didn't notice the freezer door behind them, slightly ajar. A dark muzzle pointed at their backs.
As the freezer door swung open and the grenades left their hands—
BRRRT!
The PM roared, spitting a stream of bullets. In three seconds, the 30-round magazine was empty. The refugees collapsed, riddled with holes, expressions of disbelief frozen on their faces.
Boom! Boom!
The delayed grenades detonated inside the now-open freezer.
Thomas squeezed out of the other freezer, where he'd been hiding, swapped magazines, and put two bullets into each refugee's head. He exhaled slowly. The cabaret was clear, but the gunfire and explosions were sure to attract unwanted attention. He had to loot and leave, fast.
He stripped the bodies, stuffing grenades and smaller items into his backpack. He stashed the larger weapons and armor in a freezer, then did the same with the bodies in the hallway. Thirty minutes passed. He kept a close eye on his mental map, but no new enemies appeared. He was relieved, but remained vigilant. He wasn't the only one who knew how to ambush. At least three other players had firearms now. In this world, betrayal was as common as breathing.
He grinned, excitement bubbling up. Four sets of gear! A massive haul. With the first floor mostly wrecked, he headed upstairs.
The Crimson Cabaret was a three-story building, clearly a high-end establishment before the apocalypse. He'd barely searched two rooms on the second floor when he'd already found 15,000 Apocalypse Coins and two valuable items: guitar picks.
He was in looting heaven.
Gold necklace? Mine!
Doll? A valuable? Mine!
Ibuprofen? Sweet! Mine!
Energy-saving lightbulb? Jackpot! Mine!
He swept through the rooms, leaving nothing of value behind. As he exited the last room on the second floor, he heard it – a faint footstep from downstairs.
He froze, every muscle tensing.