Sweet Apocalypse System

Chapter 6

Two shadows shot through the air, colliding with a sickening thud of flesh.

*BUGH!*

Dogy, though outmatched in size, used his momentum to ram the Hellhound's neck. The Golden Retriever's fangs sank into the monster's muscular shoulder. But the Hellhound's hide was as tough as a truck tire. Dogy's bite only left a scratch.

*GROAAAR!*

The Hellhound shook its body. Its strength was immense. Dogy was flung away, crashing into the iron workbench, denting it, and then tumbling onto the concrete floor.

"Dogy!" Boby screamed. He tried to run closer, but his legs turned to jelly again.

[System: Combat Intent Detected. Initiating Combat Mode Activation...]

[Loading... 1%...]

[ERROR: Fuel Empty. Please refill your glucose.]

[Advice: Don't be a premature hero on an empty stomach, sir. Just sit tight.]

"You bastard, System! My dog is about to die!" Boby cursed internally. He frantically searched his pants pockets. Empty. He had thrown away the mint wrapper. Lab coat pocket? Only dust crumbs and lint.

Up front, the Hellhound showed no mercy. The monster leaped toward Dogy, who was just trying to get up. Its front claws, as large as meat cleavers, slashed down.

*SREET!*

Dogy narrowly dodged, but the claw managed to tear the skin on his hind leg. Fresh blood spurted out. Dogy whimpered softly, but immediately retaliated by biting the Hellhound's back leg, trying to sever its tendon.

"Ren! Shoot it!" Boby yelled reflexively.

"I'm out of bullets, idiot! I told you that already!" Irene stood in the corner, holding her karambit knife defensively. Her face was tense. She knew that if she entered the monster's attack radius with a melee weapon, she would be torn in half in a second.

Dogy kept moving. He was agile. He wasn't fighting like a house dog squabbling over a bone. He fought like a tactical wolf. He leaped onto the Hellhound's back, bit its ear, then jumped away before the Hellhound could grab him.

But Dogy's stamina had limits. His breathing became ragged. His tongue hung long. Meanwhile, the Hellhound seemed tireless, driven by the virus that endlessly pumped adrenaline.

*CRASH!*

The Hellhound managed to corner Dogy against the wall. The monster opened its split jaw, ready to chew Dogy's head.

"NO!"

Boby looked around desperately. His eyes caught something on the wall above the Hellhound's head. An old yellow pipe with a faded warning sticker: *DANGER: METHANE GAS LINE*.

Methane gas pipe. Waste gas from sewage treatment.

Boby's chemical brain ignited.

"Dogy! Duck!" Boby yelled with all his might.

Boby grabbed the karambit knife Irene had thrown at him. With the last bit of energy from the mint candy, he didn't throw the knife at the monster. He threw it at the heavily rusted gas pipe *valve* on the wall.

Boby was no professional knife thrower. His throw missed the valve, but the iron handle of the knife struck the brittle pipe hard.

*CLANG!*

The old pipe cracked.

*SSSSHHHHHH!*

High-pressure methane gas hissed out, spraying directly into the Hellhound's face. The smell was far worse than a thousand zombies farting.

The monster was startled, backing up a step and shaking its head because its eyes were stinging from the direct blast of gas.

"Now, Dog! Lure him!"

Dogy understood. Despite his limp, Dogy leaped under the Hellhound's belly, then ran toward Boby. The enraged Hellhound, its eyes stinging, turned and blindly chased Dogy.

"Over here, Ugly Dog!" Boby stood near the room's exit, holding an old Zippo lighter he had found on the workbench (a relic of a possibly heavy-smoking technician).

"Irene! Get down!"

Irene immediately dropped to the floor, covering her head with her hands.

As the Hellhound passed through the gas spray area that now filled half the room, Boby flicked the lighter and threw it into the center of the gas cloud.

"Happy birthday, bastard."

*CLICK. WHOOSH!*

The small flame ignited the gas.

*BOOM!*

The gas exploded. Not a massive, building-collapsing explosion, but an orange fireball large enough to instantly burn the oxygen in the area.

The Hellhound was right at ground zero.

*GROAAAAARRGHHH!*

The monster's scream was agonizing. Its hairless, slimy skin burned fiercely. Fire enveloped its body. The monster rolled on the floor, crashing into the walls, trying to extinguish the flames consuming its flesh.

Dogy, who had run to the safe side near Boby, turned around. He didn't bark. He just stared at his roasting enemy with a cold gaze. The gaze of a winner.

Finally, the Hellhound stopped moving. Its body was charred, black smoke billowing from its blistered carcass. The smell of burnt meat filled the room, which strangely made Boby’s stomach rumble (a side effect of the system messing with his appetite).

"Ha... hah..." Boby slumped down. His legs were shaking violently. "Crazy... we just burned a hellhound..."

Irene stood up, brushing the dust off her pants. She looked at the charred carcass, then looked at Boby with astonishment. "You... you're truly insane, Bob. You almost burned us all alive."

"That's called risk calculation, Miss," Boby replied with a grin, despite his face being smeared with black soot.

Dogy limped toward Boby. There was a deep laceration on his right thigh. Blood dripped onto the floor.

"Oh my god, Dog..." Boby immediately panicked. He tore the rest of his shirt to bandage Dogy's wound. "Does it hurt? I'm sorry... I was useless back there."

Dogy licked Boby's hand, then stared intently at his owner. The look was not that of a pampered pet. It was an equal gaze. A look that said: *'I just saved your life again, Boss. You owe me a steak dinner.'*

"Yes, yes. If we find a cow, the whole cow is yours. I'll just eat the horns," Boby whispered while tying the makeshift bandage.

Irene walked over to examine the room. The workbench that the Hellhound had crashed into turned out to be hiding something behind it. A dried soldier's corpse was sitting against the corner. His uniform was intact, though his helmet was shattered.

"Bob, look at this," Irene called out.

Irene crouched in front of the corpse, reaching into the pocket of its tactical vest. There were no weapons (likely taken by others), but in the inner jacket pocket, there was a map neatly folded in a Ziploc bag.

Irene opened the map under the flashlight beam.

"This is a military operation map for the Bandung zone," Irene murmured, her finger tracing red lines on the map. "Look at this. There's a large cross marked in Sector 4."

Boby approached, dragging his feet. "What is it? A mass grave? A headquarters?"

"Neither," Irene's eyes narrowed, reading the small note on the map's margin. "It says: *EMERGENCY FOOD LOGISTICS DEPOT - MILITARY COMMAND III*. Status: *Full Stock / High Security*."

Boby's eyes widened. The words "Food" and "Full Stock" buzzed in his ears like a heavenly song.

[System: Keyword 'Food' Detected. Initiating Simulation...]

[Logistics Depot = Chocolate. Sugar. Carbohydrates. Heaven.]

[Analysis: If the Host goes there, the Host can become the God of Sugar.]

"Chocolate Heaven..." Boby drooled unconsciously. His previously dull eyes now shone brightly, glowing greenish in the dark. "Ren... Is Sector 4 far?"

"About 5 kilometers from here. Taking the upper route would be suicide," Irene pointed to a blue line on the map. "But if we follow this drainage tunnel east, we can exit right behind the depot complex."

Boby immediately stood up straight, his weakness seemingly gone due to food motivation. He patted Dogy's shoulder.

"Hear that, Dog? We're going to feast. Not just steak, but a whole warehouse full of food!"

Dogy wagged his tail slowly, despite his sore leg. Food motivation was always effective for the dog (and his owner).

"But..." Irene pointed to a dried bloodstain on the map. "A place full of food is bound to be contested. Don't expect it to be empty. There could be zombies, or worse... other humans."

"I don't care," Boby said, his face turning serious, the shadow of hunger clearly visible. He picked up Irene's karambit knife from the floor and returned it to her. "Anyone who stands between me and that sugar... I'm turning them into fertilizer."

Irene accepted the knife, glancing at Boby. She saw another side of this clown doctor. A dangerous, obsessive side.

"Okay, Junkie," Irene said. "Let's go. But if you go into withdrawal on the way, I'm leaving you."

The three of them limped away from the still-smoking Hellhound carcass, heading into the darkness of the tunnel that promised hope—or a new death.