Chapter 5

The night passed without incident.

Jake stretched and climbed out of the narrow 1.2-meter bed. This was his first night in this apocalyptic world—and he hadn't slept well, drifting in and out of consciousness the entire time.

He opened the system first thing.

[Time Until Gray Mist Arrives: 04:54:02]

He'd driven another three hours last night; otherwise, the mist would have caught up by now. Sure, his motorhome had infinite power, but the Gray Mist was like a cancer—always there, always chasing, always gnawing at the back of his mind.

Jake headed to the bathroom to wash up. The mirror reflected a face that looked about eighteen or nineteen—clean-cut features, black hair, eyes that were sharp but carried a quiet distance. There was a cool, calm stillness about him.

After freshening up, Jake returned to the driver's seat and made himself a bowl of instant noodles. He ate while scrolling through the regional chat.

After a night of the cold front's purge, the survivor count had settled at 5,000,211.

Another two million gone.

The ones who'd made it through had clearly woken up to the game's brutality.

[Buying Universal Fuel!]

[Buying tires! Mine are almost shredded!]

[That monster last night was terrifying. My door nearly got ripped off. I need to upgrade my sports car!]

...

Ten minutes later, Jake closed the system.

From the chatter, he'd gathered some useful intel. Killing zombies dropped upgrade blueprints, Universal Fuel, weapons, bread, water, razors, medicine...

Some players were already teaming up. Crime was on the rise too—without law and order, the worst of human nature was bubbling to the surface.

Jake wiped his mouth and started the engine.

Today's goal was clear: gather the 50 units of steel and 3 units of tires needed to upgrade his RV to Lv.2.

But there was a problem.

Thanks to his infinite fuel, he was way ahead of the pack in terms of mileage. Which meant there were almost no abandoned vehicles around him.

Would he have to turn back?

Jake drove slowly along the highway, mentally preparing to double back.

Then, about twenty kilometers in, his eyes locked onto something in the wilderness to his right.

Half-buried in yellowed weeds lay a massive wreck—a downed military helicopter.

The fuselage was snapped in two. The rotors were twisted scrap. But that thick armor plating, the sturdy landing gear—in Jake's eyes, it was all gleaming "high-grade special steel."

"Lucky break!"

Jake floored it, bouncing the RV off the road and across the field toward the wreck.

As he got closer, he spotted a zombie wandering aimlessly near the helicopter wreckage.

[Target: Agility-Type Zombie (Tier 1)]

[Strength: 10]

(Note: Average adult male = 5.)

[Agility: 20]

(Note: Average adult male = 5. Elite sprinter = 20.)

[Physique: 20]

(Note: Average adult male = 5.)

'An agility-type, huh?'

Jake raised an eyebrow. He didn't slow down—but he wasn't planning to ram it either. He just needed to lure it away.

The RV's engine roared. The agility-type zombie's head snapped toward the sound, locking onto Jake's vehicle like it had spotted a meal. It took off in pursuit, fast as a hunting cheetah.

Jake anticipated its move, wrenched the wheel, and peeled off in the opposite direction.

Ten minutes later, a check of his left-side mirror showed no sign of the zombie. Only then did he make a detour and head toward the helicopter.

Halfway there, something felt off.

At the same time, his vehicle status was updated.

[Current Status Updated]

[Durability: 5%]

(All four tires have abnormal pressure. You can only drive 50 more kilometers. Immediate replacement recommended.)

Jake's face went dark.

He leaned out the window. All four tires were completely flat, the rims digging into the dirt. And on each tire—several homemade, sharpened triangular steel spikes gleamed in the pale light.

Spike strips.

Someone had planted these here.

'An ambush!'

This was no coincidence. Those triangular spikes were designed specifically to puncture tires. And they'd been placed perfectly—right in his blind spot.

Someone had gotten here before him. And they were fast.

Then, an engine hummed in the distance.

Jake's eyes narrowed.

A minute later, a beat-up yellow taxi rolled into view, stopping about twenty meters from Jake's RV.

The doors opened. Two men and a woman stepped out.

The leader was a guy in his thirties with a scar running from his brow to his jaw, wearing a black leather jacket. Behind him to the left was a young woman—pretty face, maybe an 8 out of 10, with a killer body. To the right, a guy with bleached-blond hair, spinning a set of car keys in his hand.

The blond sauntered toward Jake's RV, putting on a concerned look.

"Hey, man, you okay? This place is crawling with zombies. Saw you parked here for a while with no movement—thought something might've happened. Came to check on you."

The scar-faced guy said nothing, but his eyes were fixed on Jake's motorhome with barely concealed greed.

A motorhome. Big. Warm-looking. Invincible compared to their drafty taxi—which, aside from being fast, was basically a trash heap on wheels.

Jake didn't get out. His right hand looked like it was casually tucked into his jacket pocket—but it was wrapped around the cold handle of his hatchet-gun.

"Yeah. Flat tires," Jake said flatly, his voice giving nothing away.

"Ouch, that's rough!" The blond slapped his thigh, laying it on thick. "Middle of nowhere, Gray Mist on your tail... Hey, fate brought us together, right? Why don't you ride with us?"

"Ride with you?" Jake raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah! Our car's beat, but it still runs, doesn't it?" The blond kept talking, while he and Scar-Face slowly advanced—flanking Jake from both sides. "We all got dumped in this hellhole together. Gotta look out for each other, right?"

Look out for each other?

Jake studied them. The blond had one hand behind his back. His steps were casual but tense. His eyes darted around, constantly checking if anyone else was inside the RV.

Jake had seen this act a hundred times in old apocalypse movies. Textbook carjacking.

Plant the spikes. Disable the target. Roll in like Good Samaritans. Then—once your guard's down or you're trapped in their ride—game over.

"No thanks," Jake said coolly, his body tensing. "I can fix it."

The blond's expression flickered. Scar-Face took a step closer—less than five meters away now.

"Don't be so stubborn, buddy," Scar-Face finally spoke, his voice rough and grating, edged with menace. "We're all human. The only way to survive this hellhole is together."

Jake looked at the two of them. A faint, mocking smile tugged at his lips.

"Enough with the act. You two planted those spikes, didn't you?"

The blond froze. Scar-Face's eyes turned cold and vicious in an instant.

"Tch. Guess the jig's up. Don't think you're safe just because you're holed up in that tin can."