Apocalypse: Drop Your Corporate Attitude

The heavy iron grate slammed into the doorframe, kicking up a cloud of dust.

Covered in blood, I threw myself at the door. My hands gripped the rough iron bars in disbelief as I stared at Amanda on the other side. She was shoving a thick metal deadbolt heavily into its slot. My squad members stood right behind her.

"Open the door! Amanda, what the hell are you doing?!" Veins bulged on my forehead as I practically roared.

Just two minutes ago, to cover their escape, I’d held a half-broken steel pipe and bottlenecked the underground tunnel, brutally smashing in the skulls of over a dozen zombies.

I thought I was securing the rear for my team. Instead, I was welcomed by the sound of a locking door. They stood at the emergency stairwell on the other side, looking down at me.

No one thanked me.

From the corner at the end of the tunnel, more snarls were closing in. A massive horde of infected, driven into a frenzy by the scent of blood, surged around the bend.

Standing behind the iron gate in the dim light, Amanda’s lips curled into a cold sneer.

On the ground sat the batch of antibiotics I had risked my life to salvage—the whole reason we were down here.

Through the two-inch gaps between the bars, she spoke with a condescending tone: "Jack, after a unanimous performance review by the five of us executives, we've determined that you lack team leadership. Your authoritarian management of field operations has created severe workplace oppression for us."

Richard nudged the bag of antibiotics with the toe of his shoe, a greedy glint in his eyes. "Base logistics made it clear: whoever secures these meds gets to leave the scoping squads and transfer to a desk job in Internal Affairs. If you lead the team back, the credit will always be yours. Only if you don't make it back will the contribution points be credited to us."

My eyes widened in sheer fury. "Are you insane? Without me, you would have died in the ruins a hundred times over the past three months!"

Three months ago, a highly contagious virus swept through the city. In just seventy-two hours, ninety percent of the population turned into bloodthirsty monsters. The military emergency-requisitioned a large suburban stadium, establishing a survivor base that housed nearly five thousand people.

The base was under martial law, enforcing strict wartime rationing. You either worked, starved, or got thrown outside the quarantine walls.

Before the outbreak, Amanda and the rest of them all collected paychecks in the same multinational corporate tower downtown.

Amanda was the company’s Chief Human Resources Officer, and Richard was the CFO. As for me, Jack, I was just the maintenance supervisor fixing pipes in the underground server rooms.

When these "elites"—who used to pull seven-figure salaries—first entered the base, they tried holding some charts to pitch their "Camp Optimization Management Framework" to the military commander. The guards literally butt-stroked them out the door.

In this new world, their corporate jargon was worthless. With absolutely zero survival skills, their group was forcibly drafted into the field scavenging squads, which had an astronomical casualty rate.

Meanwhile, thanks to my ten years of service in the Special Forces, the military valued me highly upon arrival. They had originally planned to assign me directly to Internal Affairs.

It was an incredibly cushy gig where you didn't have to risk your life outside.

But I looked at their scavenging squad and knew these unskilled desk-jockeys wouldn't last three days in the infected ruins. So, driven by some pathetic sense of responsibility, I voluntarily gave up the better way out. I requested to be their squad leader.

For three months, I put my life on the line every day to protect these five people on the front lines.

I taught them how to drive rebar through a zombie's eye socket. I taught them how to filter stagnant water when they didn't have purification tablets.

I had no ulterior motives; I did it simply because we used to be coworkers.

But I severely underestimated their hypocrisy and malice.

In their eyes, taking daily orders from a "glorified AC repairman" and settling for the rations I allocated severely trampled on their pride.

Now, they had finally found their chance.

Richard looked with disgust at a few legless zombies crawling toward me outside the grate and pushed up his gold-rimmed glasses. "Jack, your sacrifice is for the overall benefit of the team. We will report to the base guards that you were KIA while covering our retreat."

"Richard! I saved you! If it weren't for me, you—" I slammed my shoulder against the iron door, making a massive clang, but the lock didn't budge.

"Saved us!? You think you saved us?!" Amanda shrieked through the bars, her fake smile contorting into a furious accusation. "If you hadn't taken it upon yourself to trick and drag us onto that stinking military armored vehicle, my husband’s private security detail would have landed a chopper on the building's roof! We should be sipping champagne on a private island in Hawaii right now, not digging through dead men's trash like beggars in this hellhole! Jack, you ruined our lives!"

"Did you get a kick out of bossing us around at the base?! This is your karma!"

Hoisting the antibiotics onto their backs, they walked up the emergency stairs without looking back.

Five seconds later, the first mouth full of rotting flesh clamped down hard on my calf, ripping off a massive chunk of meat. The blinding pain tore a scream from my throat.

Then a second one pounced on my shoulder. A third sank its teeth into my neck.

My vision was quickly obscured by my own blood.

If I hadn't carried these ungrateful bastards, I could have lived a damn good life!

Snap.

A sharp, crisp snap of fingers.

My eyes snapped open. I gasped for air, my hands instinctively flying up to clutch my neck.

No gaping, bloody holes. No agonizing, tearing pain.

I looked down at myself. I was wearing a navy blue, heavy-duty work uniform. There was no blood on my hands or clothes—just the smell of motor oil and dust.

"...Turn off the TV. These unverified violent incidents will severely impact our mental state."

An incredibly familiar voice came from across the long table right in front of me.

I raised my head. Amanda was frowning, tossing a remote back onto the solid wood conference table.

The wall-mounted monitor flickered and instantly went black.

A split second before it shut off, the screen had been showing an aerial news feed of massive crowds of deranged rioters overturning police cruisers on the interstate.

"Amanda is right." Richard chugged half a bottle of mineral water and slammed a file onto the table. "We need to stay focused. This is the third day of the building's exterior lockdown. The ground-floor security has fled, and the power grid company hasn't responded at all. Once communications are restored, I'm absolutely having the legal department file a lawsuit against City Hall."

I narrowed my eyes and took in my surroundings. The solid wood table. Ergonomic chairs. Panoramic floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a city skyline where several plumes of black smoke were already rising.

This was the executive boardroom on the 36th floor of the company.

I glanced down at my wristwatch.

It was day three of the outbreak. The building's backup generators were still running.

In my past life, today was the exact day the military extraction task force arrived at this building to conduct a rescue sweep.

At the time, Amanda had refused to leave, and the rest couldn't make up their minds. I was the one who decided the chances of Amanda’s husband sending a rescue team were too slim, so I convinced them to leave with the military.

They survived, but they blamed me for everything.

Bang!

The solid wood double doors of the boardroom were kicked open.

Richard shot up from his chair in a panic, instinctively shrinking back. "What the hell!?"

Three heavily armed soldiers walked in. Leading them was a Sergeant with an old scar on his neck. His tactical vest was smeared with dark crimson tissue, and there was a distinct, bloody handprint on the edge of his helmet's goggles. He completely ignored Richard's shouting.

"I'm Sergeant Miller, National Guard. The rolling gates in the lobby are about to shatter from whatever's pressing against them outside. Two of my men are holding the stairwell on the second floor to buy us time." Miller spoke rapidly. "We have an MRAP outside. Follow me downstairs, right now."

Even as he issued orders, Miller single-handedly checked his remaining ammo with practiced efficiency.

The boardroom went dead silent for two seconds. These corporate executives, used to poring over spreadsheets in air-conditioned comfort, flashed looks of panic as they stared at the blood-soaked soldiers and the very real firearms.

But Amanda was the first to straighten her posture. She eyed the filthy Sergeant Miller with an immensely critical gaze.

"Sergeant, first of all, I need to correct your communication attitude." Amanda's voice wasn't loud, but it was dripping with bossy entitlement. "Your destruction of corporate property, along with your current commanding tone, is highly aggressive. Put that broken gun down, and then you can speak to us."

Miller’s hand, holding the magazine, froze mid-air. He stared dead at Amanda, a vein throbbing in his forehead, as if he had just heard an alien language.

"Lady, the blocks outside have been overrun by flesh-eating psychos. Tens of thousands of them." Suppressing his rage, Miller jerked his thumb toward the door. "This is not a drill. I'm extracting my team from here in three minutes. Whether you come or not."

Richard frowned. "An MRAP? That’s the extraction vehicle you've arranged?"

David, the Marketing Director, tapped his finger on the table. "The people in this room pay enough taxes to buy ten of those vehicles a year. You expect us to just squeeze into a truck? Without even independent seating?"

"I don't even understand how such a crude extraction plan passed evaluation," Amanda added with a cold look. "I’ve seen the interior layout of those military vehicles. The ventilation is atrocious, and there is zero privacy. I demand you get on your radio, contact your superiors immediately, and dispatch two helicopters to pick us up directly from the roof."

Sergeant Miller took a deep breath.

As a former Spec Ops veteran, I understood Miller's boiling rage all too well. He had just watched his brothers get their throats torn out downstairs, only to come up here and deal with a bunch of idiots demanding private helicopters. Explaining anything to them was a waste of oxygen.

"Listen up. I don't have time for this bullshit. Final countdown, two minutes. If you're not in that truck, you die in this building."

Hearing such a blunt ultimatum from the military, the executives didn’t move out of fear; instead, they collectively lost their minds.

"Are you threatening us?" Richard pointed at Miller, his face livid. "Do you know which Senator I play golf with every weekend? The second communications are back up, one phone call from me will have you court-martialed! This is severe dereliction of duty!"

"A complete lack of basic professionalism." Amanda rolled her eyes, not bothering to look at Miller anymore. She turned her head, her gaze drifting across the long table to me sitting in the corner, with the exact same look she used when delegating a janitor.

"Jack."

Hearing her voice, I slowly raised my head.

In my last life, this was the exact moment I stepped up.

I stood between Miller and them, earnestly testifying to just how terrifying the hordes outside were, and talking until my mouth went dry to assure them the armored car was their safest way out.

This time, I stared dead into Amanda's eyes, utterly expressionless.

"Jack, go to the vending machine in the hall and grab some water so the Sergeant can cool his temper." Amanda gestured flippantly toward the door. "Until a helicopter flight is secured, we are not taking a single step out of this office. You will also firmly stand by this position on behalf of the company."

Every eye in the room fell on me.

They were waiting for me to clean up their mess, just like I always did.

Sergeant Miller followed their gazes and looked at me as well.

I looked at the expression on Amanda's face. It was the exact same expression she wore in my last life when she locked me outside the grate.

I slowly stood up from my chair, picked up my backpack from the floor, and did a quick inventory of its contents.

"Jack? What are you doing?" Amanda raised her voice. "This is not the time to be packing your things! Handle this dispute immediately! Consider it your KPI!"

I slung the backpack over my shoulders, turned around, and strode toward the door.

As I passed Richard, he shot his arm out, trying to grab my collar.

"Are you deaf, you pipe-wrench monkey? The director is talking to—"

I didn't break my stride. I didn't even turn my head.

I stopped in front of Sergeant Miller, looked down at him slightly, and spoke with absolute clarity:

"Sergeant, I don't know what a 'synergistic management framework' is, and I don't care much for private helicopters. But I'm former Spec Ops. I know tactics, and I've got the muscle for it. Long story short, is there an empty seat in that MRAP? I'm going with you."