Chapter 4: The Battery
The alarm was so loud it burrowed into Bright's skull like a parasite. Made his molars vibrate. Made his vision pulse white at the edges. The shriek bounced off glass and marble, multiplying, layering over itself until it became physical pressure crushing his temples.
Bright stumbled through the doorway, Cherry's dead weight pulling at his shoulders, and the penthouse opened around him like the mouth of some chrome-and-marble god.
Floor-to-ceiling windows. White leather furniture. A chandelier that cost more than his life. Everything pristine. Untouched. A monument to wealth that meant nothing now.
The alarm was even louder inside.
Louder.
His hands were shaking. His teeth ached. Blood from his shoulder wound dripped onto white marble and spread like a Rorschach test.
He needed to shut it off.
Now.
His eyes found the source—a white security panel near the entrance, red LED blinking in perfect sync with the shriek. Each pulse felt like a nail driven into his brain.
Bright crossed the room in four strides. Set Cherry down against the wall with trembling hands. Grabbed a stone sculpture from a side table—abstract, heavy, the kind of art that existed only to prove someone had money to burn.
He swung it into the panel.
Once.
Plastic cracked. The shriek stuttered.
Twice.
The panel exploded. Wires spilled out like mechanical entrails, sparking, hissing. The smell of burning electronics mixed with the copper-rot stench already clinging to his clothes.
The alarm choked.
Died.
Silence crashed down like a guillotine blade.
Bright stood there, chest heaving, the sculpture still raised. His ears rang—a high, thin whine that wouldn't stop. Sweat poured down his face, stinging his eyes. His heart hammered so hard against his ribs he could feel it in his throat.
He dropped the sculpture.
It hit the marble with a sound like a gunshot.
The echo died slowly.
Bright went back to Cherry. Picked her up. Her head lolled against his chest. Her skin was cool, the night air had stolen her warmth.
He kept moving.
The roof door was still open behind him. He could hear things still. Screaming, ripping, scraping, clicking. The wet sound of something being dragged across concrete. The swarm hadn't left. They were just keeping themselves occupied.
Bright found a bookshelf in what looked like a study—dark wood, heavy, filled with leather-bound books no one had ever read. Probably worth thousands. Definitely useless.
He grabbed it with his free hand tried to drag it across the floor. No good. He spotted a heavy looking coffee table and tried to move that instead. The legs scraped against marble. The sound made his teeth hurt. Made the ringing in his ears worse.
But he managed. Shoved it against the door.
It wouldn't hold forever.
But he wasn't planning on settling here. He needed to get out of the city tonight.
The penthouse sprawled like a cathedral to excess.
Bright moved through it quickly, Cherry cradled against his chest, his eyes scanning every room with mechanical precision.
Open-plan living space. Kitchen with appliances that gleamed like surgical instruments. Hallways reaching deeper into the apartment. Bedrooms. Bathrooms. Everything pristine. Everything untouched. A museum of the world that had ended three hours ago.
He needed somewhere safe.
Somewhere he could leave her.
He found it two rooms down.
A recording studio.
Soundproofed walls lined with acoustic foam. No windows. The door was solid—reinforced steel with a deadbolt that locked from the inside. The kind of door that said privacy in a language money spoke fluently.
It smelled like leather and expensive cologne and the faint chemical tang of new electronics.
Bright carried Cherry inside and set her down on a leather couch. Her head lolled to one side. Her arms hung loose. Her fingers were slightly curled, like she was trying to hold something that wasn't there.
She was still naked.
He'd carried her out of the flat without thinking. Without thinking about anything except getting her away from the creatures. Away from the clicking and the chittering and the wet sounds of things eating.
But now, looking at her in the dim light, he realized how exposed she was.
How wrong it looked.
How vulnerable.
Bright left the studio and moved through the penthouse. He opened doors. Checked rooms.
The master bedroom was at the far end. King-sized bed with silk sheets. Walk-in closet bigger than his entire flat. Ensuite bathroom with a tub carved from a single piece of marble.
The closet was full of women's clothes. Designer labels he recognized from billboards. Silk. Cashmere. Fabrics that felt like water between his fingers.
He grabbed a dress. Simple. Black. Long enough to cover her legs. Soft enough not to irritate her skin.
Back in the studio, he dressed her.
It wasn't easy. Her limbs were heavy. Uncooperative. He had to lift her. Adjust her. Pull the fabric over her shoulders and down her torso. His hands were clumsy. His fingers kept slipping. The blood on his palms left smears on the black fabric.
But he got it done.
When he finished, she looked almost normal.
Almost human.
Almost like she was just sleeping.
Bright stepped back and looked at her. His chest felt tight.
"I'll be back," he said quietly.
His voice sounded strange in the soundproofed room. Flat. Dead. He was about to leave until he spotted a large instrument peli case and an idea struck him. He opened it up and looked at Cherry.
"A perfect place for you to rest and stay safe my love." He smiled.
Once she was safely placed inside the foam cushioning and the lid closed snug, he left the studio and closed the door behind him.
The front door was at the end of the main hallway.
Solid wood. Reinforced hinges. A deadbolt and a chain lock. The kind of security that said I have things worth stealing.
Bright stood in front of it and waited.
That feeling again.
Danger Sense.
He focused on the door. On the space beyond it. The stairwell. The floors below. He tried to feel for that prickle. That tightness. That animal awareness of threat.
Nothing.
No prickle. No tightness. Just... quiet.
The door was safe.
Or at least, nothing was waiting on the other side.
Bright exhaled slowly and turned back toward the penthouse.
He needed weapons.
The kitchen was pristine. Marble countertops. Stainless steel appliances that gleamed like mirrors. A knife block sat next to the stove—Japanese, expensive, the kind of knives that came with certificates of authenticity.
Bright pulled out the largest blade.
Santoku. Hand-forged steel. Perfectly balanced. The edge caught the light and held it.
A notification appeared:
WEAPON ACQUIRED: Santoku Knife
Damage: 8-12
Quality: Superior
He tested the weight. Swung it once. The blade sliced through the air with a whisper.
It felt right.
He grabbed two more—slightly smaller, but just as sharp—and tucked them into his belt.
WEAPON ACQUIRED: Paring Knife
Damage: 5-8
Quality: Superior
WEAPON ACQUIRED: Chef's Knife
Damage: 7-11
Quality: Superior
Then he returned to the roof.
The city was dying.
Bright stood at the edge of the parapet, wind tearing at his blood-soaked clothes, and stared down at the streets below.
London was burning.
Not metaphorically. Not in some poetic sense.
Burning.
Fires everywhere. Buildings engulfed. Cars overturned and ablaze. Smoke rose in thick black columns that merged overhead into a pall blotting out the stars. The smell was indescribable—burning plastic, burning rubber, burning meat. It coated his throat and made his eyes water.
The creatures were leaving the building. Not all of them, but enough. The swarm that had chased him up the fire escape was thinning, drifting away, drawn toward something else.
Toward the chaos in the streets.
People were everywhere.
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Dozens of them. Hundreds, maybe. Running. Fighting. Looting. Dying.
Bright watched a man smash a jewellery store window with a crowbar. The man climbed inside, came out with handfuls of watches and necklaces. Things that glittered. Things that meant nothing now. A creature—small, fast, too many legs—dropped from the awning above and landed on his back. The man screamed and tried to run. The creature's mandibles found his neck. The screaming stopped. The man collapsed. The creature kept eating.
Bright watched two women drag a body out of a car. A man. Middle-aged. His throat torn open. They left him in the gutter and took the car, drove three blocks before hitting a barricade of overturned vehicles. They got out and kept running.
Bright watched as a group of teenagers—couldn't have been older than sixteen—beat a man to death with baseball bats. They took his backpack. Fought over the contents. One of them pulled out a gun and shot another in the chest. The others scattered. The shooter stood there, staring at the body, then dropped the gun and walked away.
Fires were spreading. Three blocks away. Five. Ten. The smoke was so thick it looked solid. Like a wall. Like the sky itself was collapsing.
Gunfire crackled somewhere to the east. Automatic. Sustained. Then it stopped abruptly.
A helicopter passed overhead. Low. Too low. Its engines were screaming—not the normal whine of rotors, but a high-pitched shriek that said something is wrong. Bright looked up and saw something clinging to the tail rotor. Black. Writhing. Too large. The helicopter spun. Tilted. The pilot was fighting it. Losing. The helicopter clipped a building and exploded. Burning debris rained down. People scattered. Some weren't fast enough.
Bright looked away.
His eyes scanned the street, looking for anything useful. Anything that could help.
There.
A hardware store. Big orange sign.
B&Q.
Two blocks away. Windows smashed. People moving in and out with armfuls of tools and supplies. Fighting over generators. Over batteries. Over things that might keep them alive one more day.
But it was there.
And if anywhere in this dying city might have what he needed, it was there.
Bright turned and went back inside.
The spare keys were hanging by the front door.
A dozen of them on a wooden rack. Each labeled with a room number or a name.
Bright grabbed the one labeled "Main Entrance" and unlocked the deadbolt.
The stairwell beyond was dark.
Silent.
He checked the time 10:40 PM stepped through and closed the door behind him.
The streets smelled like the end of the world.
Burning plastic. Burning rubber. Burning flesh. Electrical fires—that sharp, acrid stench of melting insulation. Gasoline. Sewage. Blood. Rot. All of it mixed together into a miasma so thick Bright could taste it on his tongue.
He moved quickly, the knives heavy in his belt, his eyes scanning every shadow.
Bodies everywhere.
Everywhere.
Some were torn apart. Limbs scattered across the pavement like discarded toys. Organs spilled out, steaming in the cool night air. Intestines draped over car hoods. Skulls cracked open, brains exposed, flies already gathering.
Others were burned. Blackened. Skin cracked and peeling. Mouths frozen in silent screams. Still smoking. The smell was worse than anything Bright had ever experienced—sweet and greasy, clinging to his clothes, his hair, his skin.
Some just lay there. Eyes open. Mouths slack. No visible wounds. Just... dead. Like someone had flipped a switch.
Fresh blood pooled in the gutters and ran down the drains. The smell was thick—copper and iron and something worse, something organic and wrong. The blood was still warm, still flowing. Some of it was arterial spray, bright red, splattered across walls and windows in patterns that looked almost artistic.
A woman ran past him, clutching a bag of jewelry. Her face was streaked with blood—not hers, from the look of it. Her eyes were wild. Feral. She didn't look at him. Didn't slow down. Just kept running. Bright heard her scream three blocks away. Then nothing.
A man was fighting something in the middle of the road. A creature with too many limbs. Its body was segmented, chitinous, slick with something that wasn't blood. The man had a tire iron. He was swinging it. Connecting. The creature's carapace cracked with each hit. But it wasn't enough. The creature lunged. Its mandibles closed around the man's arm. Bright heard the bone snap. Heard the man scream. The creature pulled. The arm came off. The man collapsed. The creature kept eating.
Bright kept walking.
He passed an electronics store with shattered windows. People were inside, grabbing laptops, phones, tablets, shoving them into bags. Fighting over chargers. Over power banks. Over things that wouldn't matter in a week. One man had a television—a fifty-inch flatscreen. He was dragging it down the street when a creature dropped from a rooftop and landed on him. The television shattered. The man didn't get up.
He passed a body slumped against a lamppost. A teenager. Hoodie soaked through with blood. Eyes open, staring at nothing. His phone was still in his hand, screen cracked but lit. A text message half-typed: mom im scared please
Someone was screaming three streets over. High-pitched. Desperate. It stretched on and on.
Then it stopped.
Bright didn't stop.
Cherry's battery was at twenty-four hours.
That was all that mattered.
The B&Q was a temple to the end times.
The front windows were gone—just jagged teeth of glass clinging to the frames. The doors hung off their hinges. One lay flat on the ground, FUCK THE SYSTEM spray-painted across it in red. The paint was still wet.
People were everywhere. Dozens of them, maybe more. Grabbing tools. Dragging generators. Fighting over bags of screws and nails and batteries. Over things that might keep them alive. Over things that might kill someone else.
Bright stepped inside.
The aisles were chaos. Shelves knocked over, products scattered across the floor. Someone was screaming near the back—high-pitched, desperate, the kind of scream that said I'm dying. Someone else was laughing. The laughter was worse.
Blood on the floor. Fresh. Leading toward the garden section.
A body near the checkout. A woman, throat cut, eyes still open. Someone had taken her shoes.
Bright moved through it, hand on one of his knives, eyes scanning. His Danger Sense was quiet. No immediate threats. Just chaos. Human chaos. The kind that didn't need monsters.
Generators.
He found them in the garden section. Big ones. Small ones. All too heavy to carry with Cherry. People were fighting over them—two men, one with a wrench, the other with a hammer, screaming at each other. The one with the hammer swung. Connected. The other man went down. Didn't get up. The winner grabbed the generator and dragged it away without looking back.
Bright kept looking.
Then he saw it.
A camping battery pack. Portable. Rechargeable. The kind you'd use for a weekend trip. Solar panel attachment. USB ports. LED display showing charge level.
It wasn't perfect.
But it would work.
Bright reached for it.
Someone else was already there.
A man. Thirties. Beard. Tactical vest covered in pockets—the kind survivalists wore. He had a crowbar in one hand and a backpack slung over his shoulder. His knuckles were bloody. His eyes were hard.
The man looked at Bright.
Looked at the battery pack.
His hand tightened on the crowbar.
Bright didn't move.
The man's eyes flicked to the knives on Bright's belt. Back to his face. Calculating. Weighing. Deciding if it was worth it.
Tension stretched between them. Tight. Fragile.
Then Bright raised his hand slowly. Pointed.
Another battery pack. Same model. Still on the shelf. Two feet away.
The man looked.
Paused.
His grip on the crowbar loosened.
He nodded once. Slow. Deliberate.
"Train tracks," the man said quietly. His voice was rough. Like he'd been screaming. "King's Cross. Run south. Clearer than the roads."
Then he grabbed the second battery pack and walked away.
Bright exhaled.
He picked up the first pack and turned to leave.
That's when he saw it.
An electric trike.
Parked near the entrance. Half-hidden behind a display of lawnmowers. Three wheels. A cargo platform in the back. And a child buggy canopy—sheltered, enclosed, big enough for Cherry.
Someone had tried to take it. The lock was broken. The seat was torn. But it was still there.
Bright stared at it.
It wasn't fast.
It wasn't strong.
But it would work.
He grabbed the trike and wheeled it toward the exit.
The first creature came out of nowhere.
Bright was two blocks from the apartment. The battery pack strapped to the trike's cargo platform. His hands on the handlebars. His eyes scanning the street.
And then—
Danger.
Not a thought. Not a word. Not even a feeling.
Just a scream in the back of his skull. Primal. Immediate. Absolute.
Bright moved.
He didn't think. Didn't choose. Didn't process.
Just moved.
To the left.
The creature's claws scraped past his ribs. Missing by inches. He felt the air displacement. Felt the heat of its body.
He pulled the Santoku knife.
The creature spun toward him. Chittering. Its body low. Coiled. Ready to spring. Its eyes were black and multifaceted, reflecting the firelight from the burning buildings behind him.
It lunged again.
Bright's mind went quiet.
The Danger Sense screamed.
He twisted.
The creature's momentum carried it forward—past him, into empty air.
Bright brought the knife up.
The blade went into its throat.
The steel punched through chitin and muscle and whatever passed for a windpipe. The creature convulsed. Its claws scraped against his chest, tore through his shirt, drew blood.
-5 HP
HP: 82/105
The pain was sharp. Immediate. Three parallel scratches across his sternum. Not deep, but enough to hurt. Enough to bleed.
The blade was already through. Already severing. Already killing.
It collapsed.
The second one hit him from behind.
No warning.
Just—
Danger.
Bright threw himself sideways.
Too slow.
The creature's claws raked across his side. Deep. Burning. Four parallel lines of fire that went all the way to the ribs.
Pain exploded through him. White-hot. Blinding.
-9 HP
HP:77/105
But he was still moving.
Still alive.
He spun. The knife came around.
The creature was already lunging, mandibles spread, eyes locked on his throat.
Bright didn't think.
The Danger Sense pulled his attention. Showed him where it was going to be—not where it was, but where it would be.
He moved.
The knife went in.
Into its head. Between the eyes. Through the skull. Into whatever passed for a brain.
The creature stopped.
Just... stopped.
Mid-lunge. Mid-strike. Like someone had cut its strings.
It collapsed at his feet.
Bright stood there, breathing hard. Blood soaked through his shirt, ran down his side, dripped onto the pavement.
Two bodies at his feet.
Notifications appeared:
ENEMY DEFEATED: Mana-Starved Prowler x2
+115 XP
+115 XP
LEVEL UP!
You are now Level 3
+15 Max Mana
+15 Max HP
+1 To all Stat Points
HP RESTORED
NEW SKILL UNLOCKED: Combat Reflexes (Passive)
Your body responds to threats before your mind registers them.
The wounds closed. Not completely. Not like they'd never been there. But the bleeding stopped. The pain dulled to a manageable throb. The torn flesh knitted itself back together—not healed, but functional.
Bright dismissed the notifications.
His side still ached. His chest still burned. But he could move. He could breathe.
He checked the battery pack.
Still secure.
He dropped it into the canopy and kept moving.
The apartment building's basement entrance was quiet when he arrived.
The parking garage stretched out before him. Two levels. Maybe a hundred spaces. Most of them full—people hadn't even had time to flee in their cars. The ones who lived here at least.
Bright moved slowly, scanning for the right spot.
He found it near the back corner. A maintenance alcove tucked behind a concrete support pillar. The kind of space janitors used to store equipment. A rolling dumpster sat against the wall. Some cardboard boxes. A few traffic cones.
Perfect.
Bright wheeled the trike into the alcove and positioned it behind the dumpster. He pulled the cardboard boxes in front, arranging them to look natural. Random. Like they'd always been there.
The display on the trike's frame showed it still had juice. Enough for maybe another hour of motor assist. Enough to get out of the city. Perfect.
He grabbed the battery pack and tucked it under his arm, and ascended up the stairs, to Cherry.
He arrived at the penthouse without incident and the Peli case was exactly where he'd left it. The case was heavy—Cherry's body, the foam padding, the case itself. Maybe 40 KG in total. Bright unclipped it and checked she was safe. She was.
But he could lift 100kg at the gym. He wasn't weak. He could manage. He had enough strength to man handle her when lust required a quickie in the shower.
He checked the time.
11:55 PM.
He'd been gone one hour and fifteen minutes.
He noticed he was covered in filth, so he moved to the bathroom and peeled off his bloodstained shirt. The fabric stuck to the wounds on his shoulder and side—the claw marks from the creatures. The level-up had closed them, but they still ached. Still needed a bit of attention and he wasn't sure what kind of infection he could get but he didn't want to find out.
He cleaned them with antiseptic that burned like fire. Wrapped gauze around his ribs. Taped it down. Did the same for his shoulder.
He returned to the kitchen and found some protein bars. Ate two. Drank a bottle of water. His body needed fuel. Needed something to keep going.
Then he went back to Cherry, lifted her out and put her down on the sofa.
The battery pack sat on the floor beside it. He picked it up and knelt beside her.
He reached for her shoulder and turned her gently onto her side. The dress shifted, exposing her back.
The charging port was there.
He'd seen it a thousand times. A small circular interface embedded between her shoulder blades. Flush with her skin. Seamless. The kind of engineering that cost a pretty penny.
It was closed now. Sealed. A smooth metal that looked almost organic.
Bright pressed his thumb against it.
The port opened.
A soft click. The metal petals slid aside, revealing the charging interface beneath—a series of contact points. Gold. Gleaming. Untouched by the apocalypse.
Bright grabbed the battery pack.
His hands were still shaking.
The pack had a universal adapter cable. He'd checked it at the store. Made sure it would fit. Made sure it would work.
He plugged it in.
The connection was solid. Firm. The cable locked into place with a satisfying snap.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then—
A notification appeared:
CHARGING INITIATED
Current Battery Level: 55.44%
External Power Source: 10%
Bright exhaled.
The notifications felt weird but they certainly were convenient. Plus, the charging was working.
He sat back and waited a few minutes to ensure she stayed charging. She looked peaceful. Beautiful. Like she always did.
Bright leaned down and pressed his lips to her forehead.
"We're going home," he whispered. "Cornwall. Just like we always talked about. I'm getting you there. I promise."
He pulled back and looked at her face. The delicate curve of her jaw. The way her lashes rested against her cheeks.
God, he loved her.
He yawned, feeling sleepy despite the nightmares occurring outside in the world. The leather couch was wide enough for both of them
Bright lay down beside her and pulled her close. Her head rested against his chest. Her body fit perfectly against his, like they were made for each other.
He wrapped his arm around her and held her tight.
"Just a few hours," he murmured into her hair. "Then we move. Cornwall. The cottage. The cliffs. Everything we planned."
His eyes were already closing.
The exhaustion pressed down on him like a physical weight. Crushing. Irresistible.
"But first I'll just rest my eyes a minute."
He let it take him.
Time: 11:55 PM
Level: 3 | XP: 5/600
HP: 120/120 | MP: 70/70
Stats: STR 14 | AGI 16 | CON 12 | INT 17 | WIS 10 | CHA 19
Skills: Danger Sense (Passive), Combat Reflexes (Passive)
Equipment:
Kitchen Knife (3–5, Poor)
Santoku Knife (8–12, Superior)
Paring Knife (5–8, Superior)
Chef’s Knife (7–11, Superior)
Inventory:
Mana Crystal (Inferior) x5
Rucksack (Charger, tools, phone, blanket; water: none)
Status: Dormant (Nascent)
Core Stability: 12.3%
Battery Remaining: 55.44% Charging.
Capabilities: Awareness only
