Where, exactly, does one draw the line between a meticulously crafted, cunningly orchestrated master plan… and a lunatic hurling themselves through reality with the grace of a falling piano and the hope that things will work out by sheer narrative inertia?
If you were to ask a Gremlin—purely hypothetically, of course, and ideally from a safe distance—she would most likely grin, wiggle her eyebrows, and reply: "Absolutely nowhere whatsoever."
Because, really, the only difference between genius and chaos is presentation. And even then, one of them has charts and the other has flaming bottle rockets strapped to her shoes. Guess which one's more fun at parties?
Yours in glorious improvisation,
—A Gremlin With a Plan (or not—it’s all the same, really)
***
Despite the general consensus among architects, civil engineers, and the occasional prophet of doom—all suggesting that no structure was meant to survive a zombie apocalypse—the parking garage shared by Apartment Complex 4C and its slightly less reputable neighbours had done a decent job of pretending otherwise.
It was grimy, yes. The lighting flickered like a disco hosted by moths, and the signage had long since given up on pointing in any useful direction—but it was still, crucially, intact.
Until it wasn’t.
A wall—previously noted for being entirely unremarkable—exploded into a shower of dust, pebbles, and one very surprised Charger (Level 9).
Built like a refrigerator with boundary issues and an appetite for drywall, the zombie had decided to greet the reinforced concrete headfirst, at a speed suggesting a deep-seated grudge against masonry.
Now, one might be tempted to question the intelligence of such behaviour. Slamming headfirst into a wall is not, traditionally, an endorsed tactical maneuver.
But in the defence of the beady-eyed, slack-jawed, low-IQ-high-BMI zombie, it had been aiming—very earnestly—for a small figure in a bunny-eared hoodie.
Said figure—scourge of common sense and wielder of suspicious hygiene instruments—had simply chosen to slip out of the way at the very last possible moment, doing so with a pirouette and, as a cherry on top, a Toilet Brush jabbed firmly into the Charger’s more sensitive undead plumbing.
It caused the zombie to let out a startled moan, yet before it could crumple to the ground, Annabell Smith, Gremlin-at-large and ongoing threat to anatomical regions best left uncharted, vaulted past with the grace of a dopamine-seeking pinball.
In doing so, she narrowly avoided the undead tide she’d been fleeing for the past however-long-it-had-been (no one was really keeping track).
The one thing certain was, that no matter what dents she might have put in their numbers, the streets outside were teeming with them once more, and her well-curated collection of Things That Go Boom had ran worryingly low.
Skidding past a concrete pillar, she risked a glance back, just in time to see the howling horde pour in after her.
They came like bargain hunters on opening day, elbowing each other aside, slamming into abandoned vehicles, tripping over forgotten parking blocks, and generally turning the entire structure into an orchestra of snarls, slams, and blaring car alarms. And, of course, the occasional sad little meep.
It was chaos—loud, angry, and on fire in at least three places.
It should’ve been a situation that seemed hopeless, and yet, floating quietly in the upper corner of her vision, like a smug fortune cookie, was the message:
Destruction Progress: 47%
What exactly was being destroyed, or why 47% was the magic number that made it all feel slightly better, Annabell had no clue.
This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.
But some things in life don’t require full comprehension to be acted upon. And one of those things was the immediate need to introduce a large amount of explosive entropy into a load-bearing pillar.
Annabell, without so much as a dramatic pause, reached for her Magnum Opus—a phrase here meaning “one box of assorted fireworks, (liberated from Mini King’s off-season storage room) three cans of aerosol, a repurposed lunchbox, and a belief in miracles held together by duct tape and poor decisions.”
Mid-sprint, she lit the fuse with the solemnity of a fire priest offering sacrifice to the gods of noise and chaos, hurled it toward a concrete column that already looked like it had been having a long week, and took off without ever watching the results.
What should have been a cheery celebration of coloured sparks detonated with the subtlety of an outraged dragon in a pottery shop.
The pillar, having done its job for years without complaint, was unceremoniously retired from existence. The ceiling, perhaps unsure whether this was part of the plan, began to fall in earnest.
There was a moment of profound architectural reconsideration, followed by the universal sound of “Run or Regret It”: a deep, crumbling KRACK, and the concrete ceiling came down like the sky had just remembered gravity owed it a favour.
Annabell vanished into a cloud of solid dust. Her lungs protested. Her vision narrowed. A message popped up, cheerfully noting that the Destruction Progress had just skipped ahead by some dozen percent.
A list of “Eliminated Threats” trailed beneath it.
She didn’t slow down.
Even as her surroundings turned into a hazy mist of dust and hurtling debris, she’d already confirmed that the path ahead was clear.
As long as she kept a straight course, there was absolutely nothing to worry about. No need to worry about collision, unless, of course—
“OUCH!”
—something decided to collide with her.
Whoever really was the culprit for the sudden impact was hard to say, but Annabell’s knees encountered something very solid at full sprint. There was a brief airborne moment, a tumble, and she found herself intimately reacquainted with the ground.
Somewhere behind her, bits of the ceiling were still coming down with the solemnity of a crumbling empire, zombies were howling in regret, and the air tasted like powdered misery.
Fortunately, Annabell being Annabell, bounced back up with the survival instincts and resilience of a toddler.
She was just about to resume her headlong flight when something caught her eye.
The very thing she’d tripped over: it was glowing.
More specifically, it was being highlighted by the System:
Rotting Phil’s Mobility Scooter
Vehicle Stats:
- Top Speed: Surprising (for a scooter)
- Turning Radius: Questionable
- Fuel Source: Elderly spite
- Storage Compartment: (1) Leather aviator helmet (goggles included), (?) expired sandwich, (1) pair of haunted socks
Special Features:
- Togglable Ability: Seatbelt of Holding – Holds you, your groceries, your regrets, and potentially a small demon if folded correctly
- Active Ability: Wheels of Woe – Sends the scooter into turbo-charge, dealing blunt force trauma, necrotic aura spilloff, and mild embarrassment.
- Passive Ability: Geriatric Drift – Gains increased evasion while turning at sharp angles. Leaves behind a spectral echo of Rotting Phil screaming “YEET THE LIVING!” after each maneuver.
Missing Ignition key. Last seen with Rotting Phil himself.
Annabell blinked owlishly.
“A scooter?”
She let out a quiet cough, the air tasting of burnt toast and regrettable life choices. The pillowcase of loot, attached to her with what could optimistically be referred to as a duct tape harness and pessimistically as a cry for help, dangled precariously off her shoulder.
“Phil, I had you pegged as a bus bandit. Possibly tram. Maybe even an opportunistic tuk-tuk hijacker.”
Then again, this certainly was more convenient.
With a shrug, she tossed the loot-sack into the scooter’s front basket, which immediately sagged under the weight. Then, with surprising ease considering its sheer bloat, fished out one (1) Mysterious Key, previously liberated from the mummified pockets of Rotting Phil himself.
“I was just starting to wonder what this was for,” she said in the tone of someone who had definitely not been keeping it for the novelty of owning a lot of keys.
She flopped into the leather seat.
Helmet: on.
Goggles: snapped.
Ignition: turned.
The scooter whirred to life, roaring with all the dramatic flair of a startled hairdryer.
An instant later, it buckled forward. Because, naturally, Annabell had chosen to start it while pressing the gas down as far as she could.
She bounced, the mobility scooter skid around, turning straight toward a ceiling that’d just finished collapsing.
A ceiling that had—through some strange mixture of physics, fate, and convenient architecture—formed a ramp.
A ramp shaped, quite distinctly, like an invitation written to every impulsive thought better ignored that read: "Yes, you can make that jump."
The only caveat, beyond the fact that it was an absolutely suicidal proposition, was that the undead horde stood in her way.
Hundreds of glowing eyes were spread through the dusty haze, snapping her way the moment she revved the engine. Echoing howls bounced between the walls, their jaws open in hunger.
“Hold on tight, Wallace,” she murmured, flashing a toothy grin—the grin of someone who was in over their head, out of their depth, and still willing to poke the shark with a stick.
“This night is only just getting started.”
With one final, triumphant cackle, Annabell Smith released the brakes, leaned forward, and hurled herself and her hardly street-legal steed into the oncoming mess of monsters, chaos, and opportunity.
Because sometimes the only way out is through, and preferably at a speed that lets no one ask questions.