Doomsday Elevator

Ethan Quinn stared at the blood-smeared elevator floor, his breath ragged. The upgrade counter glared back at him like a taunt: [12kg Wood / 75kg Iron Remaining]. Splintered chair legs littered the cramped space—he'd dismembered two chairs to make room for the incoming haul. His stomach growled as he unwrapped the last caramel-filled chocolate square, the sickly sweetness doing little to quell his hunger.

"Fucking math," he muttered, eyeing the trade interface. The snake carcass listing finally blinked [SOLD]. A 5kg iron counterweight materialized mid-air, crashing inches from his toes. "Christ! Warn a guy next time!"

The chatroom exploded with manic energy:

[Survivor_889]: Confirmed! Teamed up with another survivor! We're merging resources—20kg wood from Level 2!

[Survivor_102]: Legend! Show us the upgraded elevator!

[Survivor_556]: Anyone else smell bullshit? Two strangers sharing? Yeah right.

Ethan's fingers hovered over the screen. His gut churned—not from hunger, but the unspoken truth scrolling through the messages. Survival stripped people raw. Trust was gasoline, and someone always had a match.

——

In another elevator reeking of sweat and urine, a woman clawed at the steel walls. Her captor—the same man boasting about "teamwork" in the chat—pinned her wrists with calloused hands.

"Please…" she choked, her voice raw.

The man grinned, yellowed teeth glinting. "New world, new rules, sweetheart." He tore her last shred of clothing, the fabric ripping like a gunshot.

——

Back in his metal cage, Ethan reloaded the P229. The weight grounded him. When midnight's chime reverberated through the elevator, the System's monotone sliced through the tension:

Next Floor: Recycling Center

Hazard Level: 1

The doors parted to reveal a metallic Eden—mountains of sorted scrap under artificial sunlight. Ethan's pulse quickened. Iron beams. Copper wiring. Aluminum sheets stacked like forbidden library tomes.

"Jackpot," he breathed.

A clang echoed across the yard.

Ethan froze. Another survivor—a lanky teen—was stuffing scrap into a burlap sack thirty feet away. The boy hadn't noticed him yet.

The P229's safety clicked off.

"Hands up," Ethan barked, sights trained on the kid's temple. "Now."

The teen dropped his haul, trembling hands skyward. "D-don't shoot! We can split this! I'll give you everything!"

"Walk. To your elevator."

Panic flashed in the boy's eyes. He bolted.

Ethan's bullet caught him mid-stride.

——

Blood pooled around the body in Rorschach patterns. Ethan methodically looted the dead teen's elevator—28kg iron, 15kg wood, a half-eaten protein bar crawling with ants.

"System," he rasped, hauling the final load into his own compartment. "Upgrade."

The walls groaned outward, doubling the floor space. A stainless steel toilet unit erupted from the corner.

"About fucking time," Ethan croaked, bladder screaming.

He barely made it before releasing a torrent that seemed to last epochs. The chat buzzed with fresh insanity as he zipped up:

[Survivor_115]: PSA: Zombie bites cause fever in 3...2...

[System Alert: Survivor Count -14]

Ethan collapsed onto his makeshift bed—eight desk panels lashed with electrical tape. The P229's grip bit into his palm as sleep dragged him under.

Somewhere, a blackboard's crimson slogan dripped fresh ink:

Kill Hard. Survive Harder.

——