Who, in their right mind, thought it was a good idea to GIVE THE DAMNED GREMLIN A BOMB-MAKING KIT??
Such were the Core’s thoughts during that fateful evening—an evening when it was decidedly a bad time to be a brave undead.
***
They came with vengeance. She greeted them in kind.
The first zombie, leading the howling horde—half staggering, half sprinting across the ruined street at speeds few of them had shown so far–was met with a glass bottle to the face. Shattered teeth and a cracked nose were the least of its worries.
The moment the crude incendiary bomb shattered, a touch of hell graced the damp street.
Fire, the ancient enemy of all things that ought to stay dead, roared to life. Bright and scorching, it clung to everything it touched, crackling up walls, racing along debris, greedily wrapping itself around the undead like an aggressive aunt who’d never heard about “personal boundaries”.
Indeed, it was a terrible evening to be a brave undead.
The first wave of zombies, unable to slow their momentum in time, plunged straight through the wall of flames.
Gurgling and howling, they flailed helplessly about, flesh sizzling and clothes igniting as they spread the inferno even further through their ranks.
The few who thought themselves clever, who attempted to slink around the blaze, were met with an even graver miscalculation.
Because what would a bomb-making kit be, if it only contained materials for a single explosive?
***
Had Wallace been a sentient creature capable of movement, he would, at this very moment, have been inching away from the rather worrying glint in Annabell’s eyes.
But Wallace was, of course, a plushie. Per the unshakable decree of the universe, his fate remained precisely as it was: stuffed deep within the confines of Annabell’s hoodie, forced to silently witness the bright flames reflected in her gaze as she clutched a second and third Molotov, one in each hand.
There was no joy in her expression as she juggled one of them, tested its weight, and sent the bottle sailing toward the second wave of starving undead surging toward them. There was only cold precision, the kind of mechanical efficiency that suggested the universe had ruined her evening, and therefore, it was only fair to ruin it back.
The cat paw gloves had come off.
Literally. On both sides of the skirmish.
The undead no longer shambled at the pace of a Sunday stroll. The polite, aimless stagger that’d once left room for negotiation—if of the somewhat pointless kind—had given way to something far less dignified: a full-tilt, full-horde sprint.
Well. "Sprint" might have been generous. It was more of a messy, uncoordinated rush, a grotesque display of flailing limbs and missing ligaments as they tripped over one another in their singular determination to reach her.
Snarling, snapping, and howling, only the rippling inferno prevented them from swarming the fallen convenience store sign where she’d chosen to make her stand.
Two more flasks arced through the air, shattering with pinpoint accuracy. Fire blossomed. Flames surged. A second wall of heat roared up around her, forming a flickering, seething moat. It was beautiful in its own terrible way—if you ignored the smell.
One ambitious zombie refused to be discouraged. It lunged through the blaze, its half-melted hands reaching for her ankles with single-minded fervor.
For a brief moment, it might have thought itself victorious.
Then, with all the grace of someone dismissing an annoying door-to-door salesman, Annabell drove her heel into its face.
The force knocked it clean back into the inferno.
There was a moment of sizzling. A gurgling screech.
And then—more insultingly than the fire, more hurtful than the boot to the jaw—came the click of Annabell’s tongue, an unmistakable sound of mild annoyance.
She wasn’t even looking. Not a hint of acknowledgment over the undead’s effort as it burned to a crisp.
In fairness, she did have more pressing concerns to worry about.
Up ahead, a deafening roar rattled the pavement.
Through the barricade of flames and two vehicles locked in an eternal, rusting embrace, came the Shambling Colossus (Level 10)—which, despite sounding like an exotic cocktail, was in fact a nine-foot-tall slab of decaying brute force.
Steam curled from its rotting flesh, and it moved with all the grace of a runaway freight train.
Having barely corked her final incendiary nightmare—a rag-stuffed bottle of cheerful arsonist intent—the Colossus’s beady eyes locked onto her.
With the delicate restraint of an irate god swatting a smug mortal, it knocked aside one of the cars blocking its way.
The vehicle tumbled into the flames, the shriek of twisting metal soon followed by the inevitable consequence of sending a half-full tank into a bonfire.
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The explosion punched the air, fire roaring skyward with the enthusiasm of a dragon that had finally had enough.
The Colossus charged.
Annabel, to her credit, did not waste time gawking.
Her latest creation—filled with the remainder of her Boom Liquid—was already ignited, accompanied by a cheerful ping from the System.
Molotov Cocktail+ (Ignited)
Item Type: Throwable Weapon
Rarity: A+
Tier: 2
Durability: 1/1
Effects:
- Explosion Radius: 5 meters
- Initial Fire Damage: 15
- Lingering Burn Damage: 3 per second
- Additional Kick: Temporarily reduces fire resistance by 20%
- Chance to Ignite Nearby Objects: 33%
- Bonus Effect: 10% chance to cause a blinding flash, temporarily rendering enemies sightless
Crafting Materials:
- Glass Bottle (1)
- Rag Cloth (1)
- Alcohol Solution (2)
- Crimsonfire Oil (1)
- Half-Broken Firestarter (1)
Warning: Handle with care. Improper storage may result in—
Annabel didn’t throw the Molotov so much as she introduced it directly to the Colossus’s digestive system.
The moment it reached her, bellowing, mouth wide open, and with massive arms that plowed straight through the sign where she’d been standing, Annabell was already vaulting backwards.
Her incendiary gift, delivered.
The air turned into a whoosh of heat as the Molotov did what Molotovs do best—turn everything a little crispier.
She landed—more or less on her feet—and did not stop to check how well-done her oversized admirer had become.
There were more undead.
So many more undead.
And while some of them were already on fire, the rest seemed determined to make up for the difference.
So, the moment her boots made contact with something vaguely solid, she ducked low and slid across the damp ground, narrowly skimming beneath the half-collapsed support beam that had once held up Mini-King’s proud and mighty entrance.
No Instance Entered notification this time.
No cheerful chime welcoming her into the store.
Of course there wasn’t.
Even as the burning street was dimmed in favor of whatever flickering lights were still alive within the shady interior, it wasn’t hard to tell that the entire place was wrecked.
Half the ceiling had given up entirely, slumping in like an exhausted drunk. Water pooled around her ankles, whispering of electrical hazards and foot rot. The shelves—those proud sentinels of commercialism—had long since toppled, their contents either stolen or stomped into something only archaeologists would find interesting.
Most importantly, there were no snacks.
No sugar boost. No emergency chocolates. Not even a single, slightly smushed bag of gummies lurking under a display stand, waiting for the hero in need.
But there was no time to mourn.
Something with far too many unkempt nails had just made a spirited attempt to relieve her of her ankles.
Spinning aside, Annabell barely avoided the grasping fingers of the moaning undead, currently attempting to squeeze itself through the same gap she had.
And along with it—through every crack, every broken window, every unlikely gap in the ruined convenience store—more of the frenzied horde was coming. Snarling. Snapping. Howling.
The undead weren’t done with her.
Which was fine.
Because Annabel wasn’t done with them either.
With a full-body swing, she brought her stuffed loot bag directly into that nearest zombie’s face.
There was a whump, a distinctly final-sounding crunch, and the satisfying sight of the decayed lady flopping, head first, into the ankle-deep water.
She didn’t wait for any more to reach her.
She turned and ran, dodging through broken aisles with the familiarity of someone who’d made many a late-night snack pilgrimage to Mini-King’s.
Behind her, countless more zombies flooded in through broken windows and cracked walls, groaning, snarling, and clawing at the air.
More pressing, however, were the uneven footsteps to her side, churning the water.
Mid stride, Annabell snatched up a can of beans from a nearby shelf. And just as the footsteps turned into a snarling lunge, she spun towards it.
The can connected with a meaty thunk, and the zombie—mere inches from tearing into her face—crashed into the shelf instead.
Annabel didn’t pause to admire her handiwork.
She kept running; past aisles that had once been temples of chocolaty indulgence and salty delights; beneath a particularly treacherous-looking slab of ceiling that hadn’t finished caving in; and skidded into one of her less frequently visited sections of Mini-King’s: Camping & Cosmetics.
Here, amidst the lonely ranks of forgotten bug repellent and long-expired bronzer, she found exactly what she needed:
Portable gasoline cans, lighter fluid, rubbing alcohol, and an almost comical amount of hairspray. All of which were swept into her loot bag as she made her way down the shelves.
She would have grabbed more, but the increasing volume of undead snarls behind her suggested that it was, in fact, time to go.
So, snatching a hand rake off a nearby display, Annabell took off deeper into the store, dodging around precarious shelves and puddles of ominously murky water.
Gremlin’s Jury-Rigged Arsenal: Activated
Equipped: Hand Rake → Abilities Gained:
Active: [Swipe] (Because smacking things is always useful.)
Passive: [Gardening Level 1] (For those rare, tender moments when a flaming battlefield just needs a bit of pruning.)
The notification had barely flickered across her vision as a great crash announced the arrival of three entangled zombies.
They exploded through the battered shelves ahead of her in a mess of flailing limbs, gnashing teeth, and what was—at best—a questionable sense of teamwork.
Annabel ducked under the first grasping hand and swung the rake, which made decisive contact with a rotten skull.
Thunk.
Mushy bone gave way with the structural integrity of a forgotten pumpkin in late November.
A sharp pull, and all three undead were sent tumbling to the ground—the rake, still embedded in soggy brain matter, she didn’t even try to pull free.
She had just spotted her destination.
A door. A mysterious, always out of bounds, slightly rusted door.
“Staff Only,” it read.
Kicking off against one of the shelves, she jumped over the entangled trio as more howling undead came flooding into the aisle behind her. Hurried. Sprinting. Shambling.
The second her boots hit the ground; Annabell was sprinting, too.
She impacted the reinforced door at full tilt, shoved it open, staggered inside, and slammed it shut as countless thuds of undead enthusiasm crashed into it from the other side.
Chipped nails scraped against the metal surface as she bolted it up, rising in chorus alongside upset howls and angered snarls.
Annabell paid them little mind.
Whether the door would hold or not, it didn’t matter. She merely needed a few minutes.
Her gaze darted across the cramped space.
The small office/locker/breakroom did not, at first glance, present itself as an ideal fortress.
There were no obvious fortifications. No convenient escape routes. And the ventilation system was clearly designed by someone who had never once considered the possibility of impromptu siege warfare.
But that was fine.
Because Annabel wasn’t here to run.
She upended her loot bag onto the floor.
A beautiful, chaotic array of highly flammable, questionably acquired, and profoundly ill-advised ingredients tumbled out, gleaming in the flickering fluorescent light like an alchemist’s nightmare.
This night was only getting started.
Skill Upgrade Available: Gremlin Engineering → Gremlin Demolitionist (Subspecialization)
Because sometimes the best way forward is several loud explosions in roughly the right direction.