Welcome, Apocalypse

Chapter 4: Inflation in the Apocalypse

The brass handle groaned, the metal screeching as it rotated against the locking mechanism. Arga lunged forward, slamming his palm against the reinforced glass.

“Not today, you freak!” he screamed, his voice cracking.

The door held. On the other side, the clawed limb retreated, leaving behind a deep, jagged gouge in the display. Arga scrambled backward, his eyes darting to the crumpled wrapper. ‘Kael isn't leaving. The Warp-Key isn't for an exit. It’s for an entry.’

“Entry,” Arga hissed, clutching his hair. “They aren’t trying to break in. They’re trying to turn my shop into a gate.”

The chime above the door sang—a melodic, cheerful sound that felt like a mockery. Three survivors, blood-spattered and shaking, stumbled inside, falling onto the linoleum.

“Close it! For the love of god, close it!” the first man gasped, clutching a shredded shoulder.

Arga didn’t move. “How many more are behind you?”

“A hundred! Maybe more!” a woman sobbed, crawling toward the snack aisle. “The fog… it’s turning people. They aren’t dead, but they aren’t us anymore.”

“I need supplies,” a third survivor demanded, standing up and slamming a fist on the counter. “Water. Now. I’ve got credits.”

Arga stared at the register. Inventory: 12 Bottles of Water. 4 Med-kits. 2 Bags of Spicy Ramen.

“Look,” Arga said, his voice hard. “You’re safe in here, but the inventory is finite. If you want supplies, the price just tripled.”

“Tripled?” the man roared. “You’re price-gouging in a dying world?”

“I’m keeping the lights on,” Arga retorted, pointing at the amber glow. “You want to go back out there and explain ‘fair market value’ to the things with claws? Be my guest.”

The man hesitated, his face turning a sickly shade of gray. “Fine. Just… give me the water.”

As the transaction pinged—a hollow, digital sound—the glass storefront vibrated. A group of men in heavy, rusted plating shoved their way through the throng outside, pushing toward the shop. They didn't look like victims; they looked like hunters who had found a new prey.

“Merchant!” the leader bellowed, his voice booming through the barrier. “Open up! We’re here to collect the tax.”

Arga felt his stomach drop. “Tax? You’ve got to be kidding me.”

The leader, a hulking brute with a cybernetic eye, leaned into the barrier. “Every survivor in your shop is under our ‘protection.’ That means whatever they pay you, we get a fifty percent cut.”

“Get lost,” Arga snapped, crossing his arms.

“Is that a refusal?” The leader laughed, a grating, metallic sound. “We’ve got a dozen guys out here with thermal cutters. We’ll be inside in thirty seconds. You can hand over the credits now, or we’ll take them from your cold, dead fingers.”

The survivors inside the shop huddled together, whispering in terror.

“Arga, give them what they want!” the woman pleaded. “We can’t fight them!”

“If I pay them, they won’t leave,” Arga said, his eyes scanning the digital interface. “They’ll just keep coming back until the shop is empty.”

“Then we’re dead!” the man with the wounded shoulder yelled.

Arga ignored them, his fingers dancing over the shop settings.

[System: Defensive Deterrent Protocol. Cost: 500 Credits. Effect: Total Boundary Repulsion.]

“I don’t have enough for that,” Arga whispered. He looked at the growing line of people behind him. “Hey! Everyone! I need to clear the debt to upgrade the defenses. If you want to survive the night, you need to contribute your credits now!”

“You’re robbing us!” the leader shouted from outside, drawing a rusted blade. “Don't listen to him! He’s just another leech!”

“I’m the only thing between you and the fog!” Arga countered, glaring at the survivors. “You want to live? Pool your credits! Now!”

The woman hesitated, then slammed her digital wallet against the register. “Take it! Take it all!”

The others followed suit, a desperate frenzy of clicks and pings filling the air. Arga watched the numbers climb: 800… 950… 1,200 Credits.

“Transaction complete,” Arga muttered, his pulse racing. He slammed the ‘Execute’ button on the defensive protocol.

Outside, the leader grinned, raising his blade to strike the glass. “Time’s up, merchant!”

The amber light of the shop suddenly flared into a blinding, violent gold. A shockwave erupted from the glass, rippling outward like a physical hammer. It slammed into the thugs, hurling them backward into the violet smog with a collective, sickening crunch.

The leader scrambled to his feet, his cybernetic eye sparking and flickering. He glared at Arga, his face twisted in a mask of pure, unadulterated hatred.

“You think you’re safe in there?” the leader screamed, his voice cracking with rage. “You just spent your last dime, kid! We’re not leaving! I’m going to camp right on your doorstep, and when that barrier drops—and it will drop—I’m going to burn this place to the ground with you inside!”

Arga leaned against the counter, his knees finally giving out. He watched as the leader pulled his men back, settling into the shadows of the nearby ruins.

“Thirty minutes until the tide hits,” one of the survivors whispered, looking at the clock.

Arga looked at the register. The balance was zero.

The door chattered. Not from a push, but from the shifting of the building itself. The foundation was settling into the crater, and the shop was tilting.

“We aren’t making it to dawn, are we?” the woman asked, her voice barely a breath.

Arga looked at the pile of supplies he had left—nearly nothing. Then, he looked at the dark, oily Warp-Key on his counter.

“Maybe not,” Arga said, picking up the key. “But I’m not dying as a shopkeeper.”

He glanced at the back room, where the wall was beginning to bleed shadow. The entrance to the Void was opening, and something on the other side was already reaching through.