Welcome, Apocalypse

Chapter 5: Protection Money is Bad Business

The brass door handle rattled one last time, then fell silent. Arga leaned his forehead against the cool counter, the Warp-Key heavy in his palm.

“You’re really not going to let them in?” the woman whispered, her voice trembling. “They have thermal cutters, Arga. They’ll melt the hinges.”

Arga didn’t look up. “Let them try. The barrier isn’t tied to the hinges. It’s tied to the concept of a ‘door.’ If they melt it, the barrier just becomes a solid wall.”

“I think they’re starting to realize that,” the man with the wounded shoulder grunted, gesturing toward the glass.

Outside, the gang leader was pacing, his face a grotesque mask of crimson in the flashing alarm lights. He slammed his fist against the invisible wall, the impact silent but visible through the ripples in the air.

“Hey, Merchant!” the leader screamed, his voice muffled by the field. “I know you can hear me! When this thing fails—and it will—I’m going to make you eat that register piece by piece!”

Arga finally stood up, his gaze flat and tired. “You’re repeating yourself, cyber-eye. Don’t you have a gang to run?”

“I’m running it right here!” the leader roared. “We’re camping this spot! Nobody goes in, nobody comes out! You’re out of stock, kid! You’re gonna starve in your own cage!”

“Starve?” Arga raised an eyebrow, reaching behind him into the snack rack. He pulled out a bag of chips and popped it open with a loud crack. “I’ve got three months' worth of inventory. How much do you have out there in the smog?”

“You little bastard!”

“Arga, look,” the woman interrupted, her eyes wide as she pointed past the gang. “The violet smog… it’s thickening. It’s turning black.”

Arga looked. The street was vanishing. Not just obscured by fog, but seemingly erased by a creeping, oily darkness that moved against the wind.

“Hey, boss!” one of the gang members outside shouted, his voice high and thin with fear. “The sensors are spiking! Something’s coming out of the crater!”

The gang leader spun around. “Form a circle! I don’t care what it is, we’ve got enough firepower to level this block!”

“You really don’t,” Arga muttered under his breath.

“What was that?” the leader snapped, looking back at the shop.

“I said, I hope your life insurance is paid up,” Arga said, leaning back against the cigarette rack. “Because you’re standing in the exact center of the dinner plate.”

A low, vibrating hum began to emanate from the pavement outside. It wasn’t a sound so much as a pressure, one that made Arga’s teeth ache and the shop’s display cases rattle.

“Oh god,” the wounded man whispered, backing into the ramen aisle. “Is that the Void-Tide?”

“It’s the scouts,” Arga said, his eyes fixed on the darkness. “Watch.”

Outside, a scream cut through the air. One of the thugs in the back of the group was suddenly jerked upward, his boots vanishing into the black ceiling of the smog.

“Fire! Fire at anything that moves!” the leader bellowed.

Muzzle flashes illuminated the street in strobe-light bursts. They were shooting at shadows, at shapes that didn't seem to have solid forms. Arga and the survivors watched in a frozen silence as the gang was picked apart right outside the safety of the glass.

“They’re right there,” the woman said, her face inches from the pane. “That man… he’s reaching for the door. Help him?”

“If I open that door, we all die,” Arga said firmly. “He chose to stay outside and rob me. Now he gets to pay the cover charge for the apocalypse.”

A bloody hand slammed against the glass, sliding down slowly as the thug behind it was dragged backward by an unseen force. The gang leader was the only one left, standing in a pile of spent shells, his cybernetic eye spinning wildly.

“Merchant!” the leader sobbed, his bravado completely gone. “Open the door! I’ll pay! Five thousand credits! Ten thousand! I have it on me!”

“The store is closed for the night,” Arga replied, his voice cold.

“Please! Just—arrgh!”

A long, spindly limb—something like a pale, segmented finger—wrapped around the leader’s throat and pulled him into the mists without a sound.

Silence fell over the street. The violet smog swirled peacefully again, though it was now stained with fresh streaks of dark ichor across the asphalt.

“It’s over?” the wounded man asked, his voice shaking.

“For them, yeah,” Arga said. He let out a long, shaky breath and looked at the three survivors huddled near the snacks. “You guys okay?”

“I think I’m going to throw up,” the woman said, though she didn’t move. She looked at Arga with a mix of awe and terror. “You didn't blink once.”

“I was blinking inside,” Arga admitted, walking over to the register. “Listen, the barrier held. We’re safe for now. But you saw what’s out there. This isn’t a store anymore—it’s a bunker.”

The man with the shoulder wound looked at Arga, then at his companions. He stood up straight, ignoring the blood on his shirt. “Look, kid—Arga. I’ve seen ‘merchants’ in the neutral zones. They’d have sold us to those guys out there just to keep the glass clean. You didn’t.”

“I like loyal customers,” Arga said with a shrug. “Harder to find than bandages.”

“You’ve got them,” the woman said, extending a hand. “I’m Mira. This is Ben and Elias. If you can keep the monsters out, we’re with you. Whatever you need done in here, just say it.”

“Welcome to the team,” Arga said, but he wasn’t looking at them.

The system interface above the register had begun to pulse with a color Arga hadn’t seen yet: a deep, royal purple.

[System: Transaction data analyzed. Defense capability demonstrated.]

[System: Trust-tier reached with survivors. First permanent base detected.]

[System: Expanding inventory beyond 'Basic Survival'...]

“What is it?” Mira asked, noticing Arga’s fixed stare.

“Wait,” Elias said, moving closer to the shelf. “Look at the ramen rack. Something’s happening.”

The empty spaces on the shelves weren't just being filled with water and snacks this time. A localized static filled the air as items began to materialize—items encased in black boxes with glowing, shifting symbols on the lids.

Arga walked over, his heart doing a slow, rhythmic drum-roll in his chest. He touched the interface, and the names of the items flickered into view.

“Arga,” Mira whispered, her voice full of dread. “The prices… look at the currency icons.”

Arga looked. It didn’t say 'Credits' anymore.

“It wants souls?” Ben choked out, reading the symbols.

“No,” Arga said, his voice dropping an octave as the system notification finally clicked into place. “It says 'Void Fragments.' These items aren't for humans.”

The entire shop shuddered again, lower this time, as if something gargantuan were settling itself underneath the floorboards.

[New Category Unlocked: Eldritch Commodities.]

[Warning: High-tier entity approaching. Expected Arrival: 3... 2... 1...]

The bell above the door didn't ring. It shivered and shattered into dust.

The door didn't turn. It simply stopped being there, replaced by a swirling vortex of deep-space stars.

“Arga?” Mira gasped, backing away. “What’s happening to the entrance?”

Arga stood his ground, gripping the counter until the laminate groaned. “We just got a new VIP customer.”

A tall, multi-jointed shadow stepped out of the starlight, its head brushing the ceiling. It didn't look at the survivors. It didn't look at the food. It looked directly at Arga with a hundred shimmering, unblinking eyes.

“Manager,” the creature hissed, its voice sounding like dry leaves being crushed by a boot. “I have seen your display. I require… satisfaction.”