Shane stared at the broken window, baseball bat gripped low and tight in both hands. His freshly minted undead minion stood sentinel by the front door like the world's most grotesque doorman. The scraping sound outside had faded, probably just another zombie wandering off in search of easier prey, or maybe the wind playing tricks on his already frayed nerves. Either way, he wasn't about to stick his head out like some horror-movie extra begging for a jump scare and a quick death.
"Alright, Brutus," he muttered to the zombie, keeping his voice low and casual as if he were talking to a roommate about pizza toppings. "Hold the fort, big guy. If anything with more teeth than brains tries to crash the party, give 'em the ol' undead bear hug. No biting me, though; we're still in the trust-building phase here. No hard feelings if you accidentally nibble. I get it, old habits die hard. Or, well, don't die. You know what I mean."
The zombie didn't respond, of course. It just stood there, leaking quietly onto the carpet in slow, black drips. Shane shook his head, a wry grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Man, you are the worst conversationalist I've ever met. At least in the novels, the summons get sassy backtalk. You're giving me nothing. Zero charisma. We're gonna have to work on your banter game if you're gonna be my ride-or-die undead bro."
He backed away from the window, heart still thumping a little too hard against his ribs, and headed upstairs. The house, a two-story rental smack in the middle of what used to be a bustling college town, felt like a tomb now. Creaky steps groaned under his weight; dust motes danced in the thin, dirty bars of daylight sneaking through the boarded-up windows. He paused at the top of the stairs, glancing down the short hallway. Three doors: two bedrooms, one bathroom. His room, Shane Walker's room, was at the far end.
Pushing the door open, he stepped into a perfect time capsule of pre-apocalypse mediocrity. Posters of indie bands and video games peeled slowly from the walls like old skin. A desk sat cluttered with textbooks on environmental science, hilariously ironic now that the planet had decided to solve its human problem the hard way. A twin bed with rumpled sheets waited in the corner, and on the nightstand sat a framed photo: a woman in her forties, smiling warmly, arm slung around a younger version of this body. His Mother. She looked kind, tired around the eyes, like someone who'd worked double shifts her whole life just to keep the lights on and the fridge stocked.
Shane picked up the frame. A pang hit him, not entirely his own emotion, but borrowed from the original owner of this body. Flashes of memory flickered through his mind like static on an old TV: Thanksgiving dinners in a cramped apartment two towns over, phone calls about grades and "staying safe," the last one crackling over spotty service. "Shane, honey, they're saying on the news, people are getting sick. Lock your doors. I'll come get you if it gets bad."
It got bad.
He set the photo down gently, rubbing his temples. The possession, or transmigration, or whatever cosmic prank this was, hadn't come with a full user manual. But the more he focused, the more the original Shane's memories seeped in. Like osmosis, but for souls.
"Okay, brain," he said aloud, flopping onto the bed with a dramatic sigh that made the springs creak. "Download time. Give me the lore dump. Hit me with the exposition, because I'm not reading the wiki on this one. I'm living it."
He closed his eyes and let the memories come.
It started exactly one month ago, October 15th, or as the news had dramatically labeled it, "The Day of the Fever." It swept through like a biblical plague: high temperatures, delirium, violent seizures, then death. But not clean death. The infected rose within hours, driven by a hunger that turned neighbors into monsters. No one knew the source: virus, bioweapon, alien spores, divine punishment? Conspiracy theories exploded online before the grids collapsed entirely.
Society crumbled fast. Big cities fell first, New York, L.A., Chicago, overrun by hordes within days. The military tried quarantines, airstrikes, containment zones, but it was like swatting mosquitoes in a swamp. Power flickered out in waves; water stopped running. Phones died when cell towers overloaded or got chewed through by the undead.
Here in Elmwood, a mid-sized college town in alternate-USA's Midwest, things held a little longer. The university barricaded the campus, armed security patrolled the dorms, and for a week or two it felt like they might actually ride it out. But cracks formed fast. A bite in the freshman dorms. A professor turning mid-lecture. Panic spread faster than the infection itself.
Shane Walker, original flavor, had been holed up in this very house with two roommates: Kyle, the gym bro who bench-pressed his ego more than actual weights, and Mia, the art major with an obvious crush on Kyle that everyone pretended not to notice. They stocked up early: canned goods, bottled water, a generator for the fridge. Boarded the windows. Played cards by candlelight, joking about how this was "just like that one game" or "basically Resident Evil but with worse graphics."
Then Kyle got scratched during a supply run to the campus store. He hid it and turned in the night. Bit Mia while she slept. Shane, panicking, bat in hand, bashed Kyle's skull in before the transformation finished, but Mia was already feverish. He locked her in the bathroom, listened to her screams turn to moans, couldn't bring himself to finish her. Instead, he barricaded himself in his room, rationing what was left, staring at the walls as the world outside went silent.
No rescue came. His family, just Mom, Dad long-gone, lived-in Oakridge, forty miles away. Too far to risk on foot. Roads were death traps: abandoned cars, roaming packs, and the occasional military convoy that shot first and asked questions never. He'd tried the radio once, caught snippets of broadcasts: "Safe zones in the Rockies… abilities awakening… stay strong…"
Abilities.
Shane's eyes snapped open.
That word tugged at something deep in the borrowed memories. Vague rumors and survivors whispering about people who "changed." A guy in town who could shoot fire from his hands. A woman who healed wounds with a touch. Not everyone, maybe one in a thousand, but enough to spark hope. Or fear.
"Superpowers," Shane murmured, sitting up with a manic grin. "Of course. Because zombies weren't enough drama; the universe had to throw in a progression system. Classic. Absolutely classic. I'm living a goddamn LitRPG now. Next thing you know, I'll get a status screen and a harem questline. Wait, don't jinx it, brain. Don't jinx it."
He glanced at his hands, flexing them experimentally. His own ability, the zombie control, had to be one of those awakenings. Triggered by the transmigration? Or was the original Shane already on the verge? Didn't matter. It was his now. Time to test it properly.
He stood, pacing the small room like a caged animal with too much caffeine in its system. Downstairs, Brutus was still on guard. Shane could feel the connection, a faint, constant hum in his skull, like a phone on vibrate in his pocket. Stable. No strain.
But could he push it further?
He focused, sending a mental probe outward. Like casting a fishing line into thick fog. At first, nothing. Then, a nibble. Faint, distant. Another presence. Empty and hungry.
Outside.
Shane crept to the window, peeking through a crack in the boards. The backyard stretched out below: overgrown grass, a rusted swing set from previous tenants, and there, shambling along the fence, a second zombie. Female, mid-twenties, clothes torn, one shoe missing. Probably a former student.
He grinned wide enough to hurt. "Come to papa, sweetheart. Daddy's got a new toy for the collection."
He latched onto that presence, tugging the silver thread.
Pain flared, sharper than before, like a migraine spike straight through the skull. The new zombie jerked, head snapping toward the house. It lurched forward, claws scraping the fence.
"Yes!" Shane hissed, pumping a fist. "Gotcha!"
But the connection wobbled. Downstairs, Brutus twitched, his own link fraying at the edges like cheap yarn.
"Shit, multitasking penalty," Shane muttered, grimacing. "Okay, universe, noted. No dual-wielding pets yet. One at a time. Baby steps. We're still in the tutorial zone."
He eased back on the new one. The zombie halted mid-step, swaying like a drunk. The pain dulled to a dull throb.
One at a time. For now.
He severed the distant link, felt it snap like a rubber band. The backyard zombie moaned in confusion, then resumed its aimless wander.
"Okay, limits logged," Shane said aloud, still pacing. "Single-target control. Probably levels up with use. Or kills. Or… something lewd, knowing the genre. Wouldn't surprise me if the next upgrade is 'waifu mode' or some shit. I'm ready. Hit me with the harem route, system. I'm not scared."
He chuckled at his own joke, but the sound felt hollow in the empty room. Too quiet. Too lonely.
Memories surged again: Mom's last call. "I'll come for you, Shane. Just hold on." But she never did. Was she alive? Turned? Holed up in Oakridge with her own barricades and canned hope?
The college town had emptied fast. Students fled home at the first signs. Faculty barricaded the admin building, but gunfire echoed for days before silence swallowed everything. Rumors of a convoy heading west, survivors with abilities leading the way. Shane had missed it, too scared to leave after the roommate fiasco.
"Pathetic," he muttered, but without real venom. Original Shane was just a kid, twenty-two, sure, but soft. Environmental science major dreaming of saving the planet. Now the planet was saving itself by culling the herd.
He rummaged through the desk drawers. Found a notebook, original Shane's journal. Scrawled entries, dates counting down from Day 1.
Day 3: Kyle's acting weird. Says he's fine. Mia made soup.
Day 7: Power's out for good. Generator's chugging. Heard screams from campus.
Day 12: They're evolving? Saw one run yesterday. Fast. Like it remembered how to sprint.
Shane's eyebrows shot up. "Variants? Oh, great. Because regular zombies are so last season. Next, you'll tell me there's a boss zombie with a health bar and phase transitions."
He flipped pages.
Day 18: Radio said some people are 'awakening.' Powers from the virus? God? Mia's quiet now. Just scratching at the door.
Day 25: Alone. Food low. Mom, if you read this… I tried.
The last entry: a shaky sketch of a map. Elmwood to Oakridge. Marked paths, danger zones. "Too risky," scrawled in the margin.
Shane set the notebook down, a plan forming in his mind. But first, more testing.
He headed downstairs, bat slung over his shoulder like a hiker's walking stick. Brutus turned as he approached, milky eye tracking him with eerie precision.
"Alright, buddy," Shane said cheerfully. "Advanced commands time. Let's see what kind of party tricks you've got."
He focused. "Pick up that chair leg." He pointed to a broken piece of furniture.
Brutus shuffled over, bent stiffly, and grasped it. Held it like a club.
"Good boy! Now… swing at the air."
The zombie complied, slow, awkward, but deliberate. A whoosh of air.
Shane nodded approvingly. "Fine motor skills intact-ish. Not just shambling. Progress! Okay, next level: speak. Say 'brains.'"
Brutus's jaw worked. A gurgle emerged, wet, garbled. "Brrraaaiinnnsss…"
Shane burst out laughing, genuine, delighted. "Holy shit, it works! Okay, new rule: only groan if I say so. Don't want you scaring off potential… allies. Or dates. Or whatever we're calling the hot survivors we're definitely going to meet. I'm manifesting a harem arc here, don't ruin it."
The word hung in the air. Allies. Harem. The tags from his old reading list flickered in his mind: smut, erotic, incest. His mom was out there. Alone?
He shook it off, hard. "One crisis at a time, pervert brain. Focus."
Next test: range.
He sent Brutus to the kitchen. Still connected.
To the backyard door. Fainter, but holding.
"Open the door. Step outside."
Brutus obeyed. The door creaked open. Daylight spilled in. The zombie lurched out, standing in the overgrown grass.
Shane stayed inside, closing his eyes. The link stretched, thin, but there. "Walk to the fence."
It did.
"Further. Down the alley."
The zombie shuffled off. Shane felt the thread attenuate, like Wi-Fi dropping bars. At about fifty yards, pain spiked again. He yanked back mentally. Brutus froze, then turned and returned.
"Range: one block or so. Upgradable, probably. Cool. Not bad for a starter skill. I'll grind it later. Maybe raise a whole choir of undead backup dancers. Call it the Thriller squad."
He called Brutus back in, securing the door. The tests were draining, headache building behind his eyes like a storm front, but exhilarating.
Society was gone, but not dead. Pockets of survivors, abilities blooming like weeds through concrete. Zombies evolving, faster ones, smarter ones? He needed to level up. Fast.
Glancing at the map in his mind: Oakridge. Mom.
"Road trip time?" he murmured, already moving to the closet. "Gotta gear up first. Backpack, canned beans, kitchen knife, flashlight. Photo of Mom for sentimental value. And maybe a spare pair of underwear, because you never know when you'll need to seduce a hot survivor in a supply closet. Gotta be prepared."
He shouldered the pack, tucked the photo in the side pocket, then froze.
A new sound, distant, but clear. Engines? No, voices. Human voices. Arguing.
From the street.
Shane froze mid-step.
"Survivors?" he whispered. "Or raiders? Plot twist incoming. Either way, showtime."
He gripped the bat tighter, signaled Brutus to follow quietly.
Peeking through the broken window: three figures. Armed. One with a faint glow around his hands. Ability user probably.
They spotted the house. Headed straight his way.
Shane's grin returned, wide, feral, a little manic.
"Alright, universe," he said under his breath, twirling the bat once like a showman. "You want drama? You want action? You want spicy tension? Let's give the readers what they came for. Time to make some new friends… or some new corpses. Dealer's choice."
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