My Closet Connects to a Zombie World (Multiverse Mischief & Mayhem), page 7
“He’s got food.”
“Real stuff.”
“Not even spoiled.”
It didn’t take long for barter to begin.
Ammo. Silver rings. Batteries.
Even a pocketknife with a bone handle, which I admired purely for aesthetic purposes.
I kept it small. One pack of ramen for a box of trinkets I could still sell.
“Gotta maintain my margins,” I said with a grin. “I’m basically the Costco of the apocalypse. Big flavor, limited supply.”
“Where do you keep it all?” someone asked, eyes darting to my bag.
“Magic pockets,” I said, tapping my temple. “High-level hoarder skills.”
They laughed.
But not all of them.
The awe was growing. But so was the suspicion.
And I could feel it. In the looks. The weight behind every word.
Power shifted things.
Even canned food had teeth out here.
✦✦✦
Later that night, I was hauling a fresh load of loot back to the room I’d semi-claimed — old HR office turned private den of mystery — when Jade stepped into my path like a brick wall in tactical pants.
“Charles.”
Her tone wasn’t friendly.
I slowed. Raised an eyebrow.
“Officer Martinez. Late patrol?”
Her arms folded across her chest, biceps flexing under a shirt that had seen better days but still fit like temptation. Her eyes gleamed under the flicker of lantern light — sharp, assessing, dangerous.
“I’ve seen liars,” she said. “Smugglers. Black market punks. You? You don’t smell like a dealer. You smell like a cover story.”
I shifted the bags on my shoulder. “Is that your professional opinion?”
She took a step forward.
I didn’t move.
“Nobody just walks into a ruined city and conjures strawberries out of thin air. You come back clean. You don’t stink like the dead. You don’t flinch like someone who’s bled for every bite.”
Her voice stayed low, but her eyes burned.
And now you’re everyone’s favorite savior — candy bars and fresh meat like it’s nothing. All for stuff that barely matters anymore? You wanna tell me where the hell it’s all coming from?
I shrugged, calm on the outside.
I mean, I could probably sell some of those toys or tools back on my side — if they were new.
Hell, people would buy anything if it looked nice.
Who cared where it was made?
“I’m just a guy with good instincts,” I said. “And excellent taste in vending machines.”
“Bullshit.”
She stepped closer.
Too close.
Her chest nearly brushed mine. Her breath hit my jaw, warm and furious.
“I’ve got people starving,” she said. “Dying. And you — you — waltz in like the world didn’t end.”
“I waltz because I’ve got rhythm,” I said. “You should try it.”
Her hand slammed against the wall beside me, pinning me with that look again.
God, she was hot when she was pissed.
I smiled. Just slightly.
“I’m not the enemy,” I murmured.
Her jaw flexed. “Then stop acting like you’re hiding a nuke under your hoodie.”
I leaned in a fraction. Not to push. Just to meet her halfway.
“And if I was?”
She didn’t blink.
Didn’t pull away.
The space between us crackled.
Heat. Suspicion. Something else.
Something heavier.
Eventually, she stepped back.
Barely.
“Just know this,” she said, voice cool again. “If I find out you’re taking advantage of these people, I won’t hesitate to shoot first.”
I nodded.
“Fair.”
She turned on her heel, stalked into the shadows, boots echoing against ruined concrete.
And I watched her go, heart still thudding, lips curved.
Because that? That wasn’t just suspicion.
That was interest.
✦✦✦
The corridor was quiet — half-lit by a flickering battery lamp, just enough to cast shadows across cracked concrete and rust-stained pipes. My temporary office was two doors down, and I’d dragged a crate into the hallway to sort through the day’s haul.
Barter had been good.
Brand new electronics. Jewelry. A thermos. Some silver cufflinks that still caught the light. Something like a puzzle that looked clean enough to resell. I was halfway through drafting a mental checklist for what would go first on my eStore when I heard the boots.
Jade’s boots.
I didn’t look up right away. Just tucked a multitool into my bag and leaned back against the wall, hands still dusty from sorting.
Waiting.
Not hiding.
And there she was.
Jade stalked down the hallway like she owned the building — ponytail swaying, eyes locked on me like I owed her something personal. Her shirt clung to the shape of her frame, damp with heat and tension from a long day spent keeping everyone alive.
She stopped in front of me.
Close.
Too close.
I caught the scent of sweat, leather, gun oil.
“Looking for something, Officer?” I asked, casual.
Low and easy.
She crossed her arms — slow, deliberate. Her biceps flexed beneath the sleeves of a shirt that deserved a fan club. Her expression was unreadable. Except for the heat in her eyes.
“You’re smug for someone selling candy bars and canned ravioli,” she said.
“I’m a man of vision.”
She scoffed. “You’re a man with a backpack full of snacks and a god complex.”
“Only on weekends,” I said, flashing a grin. “Want to see my inventory?”
She didn’t laugh.
But she didn’t walk away either.
Instead, her eyes dropped — just for a second — to the pile of neatly sorted loot at my feet. Then back up. Slower this time. She took in my rolled sleeves, the faint smear of soot on my forearm, the cocky tilt of my grin.
“Is this your hustle?” she asked, stepping closer. “Pretend to play the generous provider while lining your pockets on the side?”
“Everyone gets what they need,” I said. “Some people just trade in different currencies.”
Her brows lifted.
I shrugged. “Some like silver. Some prefer secrets. Some,” I let my eyes drop to her hips before flicking back up, “might even go for tension and a dangerous smile.”
That was the spark.
She stepped in — fast.
Her hand hit the wall beside my head with a flat thunk. Her body angled into mine, tension radiating off her like heat off asphalt.
“You think you’re clever,” she murmured.
“I know I’m clever,” I murmured back. “But I don’t think that’s what has you breathing hard.”
Her glare narrowed to a knife’s edge — but her pupils were blown wide.
And then she kissed me.
Fierce.
Rough.
Like she was punishing herself for wanting it.
I kissed her back — mouth open, breath hot, hands already sliding down to her hips. She tasted like mint and steal and bad decisions.
The best kind.
The kiss became a storm.
Jade’s hands yanked at my shirt, fisting the fabric like she wanted to tear it or wear it. My hands were on her thighs, her waist, her ass — everywhere I could reach, squeezing, claiming.
She broke the kiss with a gasp, lips flushed, breath ragged.
“If this is a trick,” she growled, “if you’re faking this — ”
“I’m not.”
“Then prove it.”
Challenge accepted.
I spun her without warning, catching her gasp as I pressed her to the wall, hands under her thighs, lifting.
She wrapped around me without hesitation — tight, instinctive.
The way she clung, the way her legs squeezed… Jade was a fighter in every sense, and right now she was fighting not to fall apart.
My mouth found her neck.
Her hands gripped my hair.
I moved fast, rough, real.
Her back hit the wall in rhythm with every thrust, moans caught in her throat, half-swallowed curses that made me bite back a growl.
“You always this bossy?” I rasped against her ear.
“You always this — ah — annoying?”
“Interrogation technique approved,” I muttered mid-thrust.
She laughed — sharp, breathless — but it cracked into a whimper as I hit just right.
Her fingers clawed at my shoulders. Her head fell back.
I pinned her harder, muscles straining, mouth on her collarbone, biting lightly.
The heat between us was volcanic.
No gentleness.
No hesitation.
Just need.
Raw.
Ragged.
Undeniable.
When she unraveled, it was like something inside her snapped loose — hips tightening, breath catching, her whole body clinging to mine like the world had gone weightless.
I followed, biting down on her shoulder to muffle the sound, slamming deep one final time.
Silence.
Except for our gasps.
Her forehead rested against mine. Her breath trembled between her lips.
Neither of us moved.
Then — finally — she slid down from my grip, legs shaky, arms still tangled around my neck.
She tried to speak.
Failed.
Tried again.
“You’re — still — an ass.”
I kissed her one last time — slow this time, like a reward.
“And yet you keep climbing me.”
She shoved me lightly.
Then again. But her palm stayed on my chest. Just resting.
The tremble in her fingers betrayed her.
She stepped back into the shadows, trying to walk off like she hadn’t just clawed my name into the wall behind her.
I let her.
But the smirk on my lips?
That stayed all night.
Chapter 11 – The Broken Mall Raid
The staging area was more hallway than war room, but the survivors had made do — maps taped to cracked drywall, weapons lined along a folding table, and someone’s idea of morale boosting via canned beans heated over a barrel fire.
I sipped lukewarm coffee out of a cracked mug that said “#1 Dad.”
I had no kids.
That I knew of.
“You want to die out there?” Jade’s voice snapped like a whip.
Anya, across from her, twirled her crowbar like a baton.
“Please, your little patrol formations got wrecked last week. Maybe if you stop pretending we’re in boot camp — ”
“This isn’t about ego,” Jade snapped. “We’re outnumbered, and we know the mall has mutants. We go in sloppy, we don’t come out.”
“Speak for yourself,” Anya muttered, then flicked her eyes toward me. “Some of us have cheat codes.”
I raised a hand. “I’d like to point out I’m technically a support class. I bring food and sarcasm. And duct tape. Lots of duct tape.”
Jade didn’t laugh. Emily did — nervous, soft. She was fidgeting with the straps of her medpack, cheeks flushed.
“I-I should come,” she said suddenly. “Just in case. I mean, if someone gets hurt, you’ll need — ”
Anya groaned. “Emily, no.”
“I can do it!” she blurted, then immediately looked like she wanted to crawl into the floor.
I stepped in. “She’s right.”
That earned a triple glare — Anya, Jade, and Emily all staring at me for very different reasons.
I shrugged. “She’s tougher than she looks. And she’s the only one who can bandage a stab wound without flirting.”
Emily squeaked.
Jade didn’t smirk, but her mouth twitched. Just a little.
Anya rolled her eyes and handed Emily a bottle of water.
“Fine. But stay behind me. And if you scream, scream toward the exit.”
I clapped my hands. “Great. Family road trip to hell. Let’s go looting.”
No one laughed.
Not really.
But we went.
✦✦✦
The mall loomed like a corpse — glass shattered, steel beams warped, plastic signage hanging limp like severed tongues.
Inside, the silence wasn’t peaceful.
It was waiting.
No wind. No creaks. No distant zombie shuffle. Just the faint smell of mold, old grease, and memories gone sour.
We moved slow. Quiet. Flashlights slicing through shadowed storefronts and wreckage-strewn walkways. Mannequin parts littered the floor like the aftermath of some retail horror film.
“This place is cursed,” Emily whispered, her fingers clutched tight around her medpack straps.
“I’ve seen worse,” I said. “There was a mall in Jersey that had three nail salons and one working toilet. Apocalypse started there, I’m pretty sure.”
Anya chuckled once. Jade didn’t even blink.
We swept the pharmacy first — half-looted, but not empty. I snagged gauze, antiseptic, a bottle of antibiotics that made Emily’s eyes go wide with silent gratitude.
The ding of items sliding into my inventory felt smoother now. Like the system knew me better. Like I was getting faster.
Then we hit the food court.
And the air changed.
Thicker. Heavier. Like rot wearing a cheap perfume.
“Keep alert,” Jade said.
We moved fast. Looted quietly. Cans. Tools. Even a register full of coins — maybe useless now, maybe not.
Then came the noise.
Wet. Slurping. Wrong.
Followed by a hiss that didn’t belong in any human throat.
“Contact,” Jade snapped, raising her blade.
From behind the frozen yogurt stand, something oozed into view — skin dangling in strips, mouth stretched far too wide, frothing with bile.
It vomited.
The acid splashed tiles a few feet from us.
Sizzled.
Smoked.
“Spitter!” Anya shouted, dragging Emily back.
Then the second monster came — bigger, bulkier, with bone-like growths jutting from its arms and shoulders like riot armor molded from corpses.
“Armored,” I muttered. My pulse jumped. “Fantastic. Elite variants. Mid-boss music cue.”
No hesitation.
We moved.
The spitter hissed again, winding up for a second spray.
Jade shouted, “Scatter!”
We ducked and split. Acid hit the ground where we’d just stood, melting tile into slop.
I rolled behind a knocked-over drinks cooler. Anya rushed in from the left, crowbar slicing down with brutal precision. She aimed for joints — knees, throat, the soft patch just above the collarbone.
Jade came from the other side — blade flashing, all clean angles and deadly intent.
The spitter twisted toward her.
But I was already moving.
I reached into my inventory mid-sprint, fingers closing on the grip of the heavy-duty hammer I’d bought two days ago. Rubber grip. Reinforced steel head. Nothing fancy — just satisfying weight and the promise of splattered skulls.
I charged the armored one head-on.
It growled. Raised one spiked arm to block me.
I didn’t stop.
I ducked low, slammed the hammer into its kneecap — heard the crack, felt the jolt up my arms. It staggered.
Off balance.
I pivoted. Second strike — side of the head. The armor deflected it partially, but the thing reeled anyway.
Third strike — straight to the temple.
It fell like a chopped tree, crashing into a kiosk with a thunderous crunch.
“Stay down,” I growled, raising the hammer again.
And then drove it through what was left of its skull.
Skull met steel.
Steel won.
Across the food court, the spitter screamed.
Anya took the opportunity — leapt onto a fallen bench and came down on it with the crowbar like a reaper in skinny jeans. The blow struck home.
Wet crunch.
Rattle.
Collapse.
Jade backed away from the mess, chest heaving.
“Clear.”
Emily was still crouched behind cover, trembling — but unhurt.
I stood over the armored corpse, hammer dripping with black sludge, breath catching.
Then —
[EXP +50 → LEVEL UP]
The mall was quiet again.
Broken bodies lay in the dust.
We were still breathing.
And I wasn’t just surviving anymore.
I was learning how to win.
✦✦✦
Back at the refuge, people moved like ghosts — exhausted, bloodied, eyes hollow with what they’d seen.
But alive.
I dropped onto the makeshift cot in the clinic corner like I’d been shot — sweat-soaked, aching, bruised to hell.
And then Emily was there.
Soft hands. Warm voice. Shaking fingers.
“You shouldn’t have rushed like that,” she whispered, pressing gauze to the gash on my bicep. “That was so reckless.”
“I had a plan,” I muttered.
“You ran at it with a hammer.”
“Best hammer I ever bought.”
She bit her lip, trying not to laugh — but her hands shook harder. I winced dramatically as she dabbed antiseptic.
“Careful, nurse,” I murmured, voice low, teasing. “You’ll make me think you’re nervous.”
“I-I’m not,” she blurted. “I just — just trying to — um — ”
I caught her wrist, gently.
Held it still.
Her breath hitched.
“You’re adorable when you lie,” I said.
That did it.
The words cracked something in her.
She leaned in like the world was slipping out from under her — and kissed me. Hard. Desperate. Shaking with adrenaline and leftover terror.
Her lips crushed against mine. Her body pressed to me like she needed to feel every inch. She was trembling, breathless, flushed with something that was not just fear.
