Doomsday Slayer: My Space Can Duplicate

The feeling of air leaking out of your throat as if it had been bitten through was so real that I gasped and rolled off the bed.

I lay on the shaggy carpet and gagged violently. I instinctively reached for my neck, but all I found was a hand covered in cold sweat.

There was no sticky black blood, no crunching sound of zombies chewing my shoulder blades.

The central air conditioning was quietly blowing out cool air, and outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the traffic on Fifth Avenue in Manhattan left long trails of red and white light. I stiffly turned my head, my gaze fixed on the Patek Philippe mechanical clock on the bedside table.

October 12, 2028, 8 PM.

There are still 72 hours until the meteor shower that turns half the earth into a live slaughterhouse.

I pushed myself up from the bed and walked to the bathroom mirror. The Latino youth in the mirror was deathly pale, but his neck was intact. I turned on the tap and slammed my face into the ice water, my mind filled with the last scene before I was torn apart—

Ten minutes ago, or rather, in the final moments of my "previous life," we were cornered by a horde of zombies. I saved the last bullet in my magazine for a zombie that lunged at Mark.

Mark, my childhood friend whom I've known for twenty years, who I've shared everything with, and who even paid for his mother's medical bills, unhesitatingly placed his hands on my back the instant the mutant charged at me.

He gave it a hard shove.

Those hands that I pulled him out of the mud countless times used me as a stepping stone for his escape.

"Sorry, Leo! Someone has to stay behind and cover for us!"

His shouts as he fled still echoed in my ears. And my girlfriend of three years, Elena, stood a few steps away on the roof of the SUV. She watched coldly as I was pounced on by a dozen zombies, without screaming or throwing the rope. There was even a hint of relief in her beautiful blue eyes, as if she had finally gotten rid of a burden.

"Buzz—"

The phone on the sink vibrated and the screen lit up.

[Elena: Honey, Mark asked if we want to go deep-sea fishing in Long Island this weekend?]

Looking at those two names, I thought I would fly into a rage, smash the mirror, and rush out to twist Mark's head off.

But I didn't.

My heart didn't even skip a beat. After being pushed into hell by my most trusted brother, my emotions, like my flesh and blood, were devoured clean in that moment.

I picked up my phone and tapped on Elena's profile picture. I blocked her and deleted her.

Next up is Mark. Blocked, deleted.

I casually deleted all my social media accounts. The whole process took less than ten seconds.

Before leaving the bathroom, I called my private financial advisor.

"Leo? Dude, are you drunk? It's 2 a.m. New York time ..."

"Sell all my Silicon Valley tech stocks, and that villa on Long Island." I said as I changed into my down jacket and headed for the underground garage. "List it at 80% of market value. I only want cash, and it has to be in my account within three hours."

"Are you crazy?! This will result in a loss of at least several hundred thousand—"

"Execute it immediately. Otherwise, I'll find a different agent who can understand human speech by tomorrow morning."

The call was disconnected. When I got into the driver's seat of the Land Rover Defender, three million US dollars were already quietly lying in my offshore account.

In peacetime, this money would be enough for me to live a life of luxury on the East Coast. But in the apocalypse, it wouldn't even buy a bag of moldy compressed biscuits.

With its engine roaring, the Land Rover, like a black beast, plunged headlong into the deepest darkness of Brooklyn's night.

The abandoned dock, warehouse number 49. The sea breeze was thick with the stench of engine oil and rust.

“Leo? What do Wall Street elites have time to sneak into my rat hole?” Scarface Victor was wiping a Remington with a rag when several Slavic burly men behind him instinctively reached for their lower backs.

Without a word, I tossed a black bag onto the greasy iron table. The zipper was half-open, revealing stacks of US dollars, still smelling of ink.

"Three million. I want the best stuff on the black market." I pulled up an iron chair and sat down. "One hundred thousand rounds of 5.56mm ammunition, two hundred fully equipped M4s, and fifty Glocks. The rest of the money can be used to buy military high-calorie rations, antibiotics, water purification tablets, and medical-grade sutures."

Victor's smile froze on his face. He looked at me like I was crazy: "Friend, are you going to South America to fight a guerrilla war? It'll take me at least half a month to gather this batch of goods..."

"Twenty-four hours."

I interrupted him coldly, pointing at the US dollars on the table: "By this time tomorrow night, I want this warehouse overflowing. If you can't do that, I'll go out and turn left to find the Mexicans."

Victor stared intently at the bag of money, swallowed hard, and took a deep drag on his cigar: "Deal."

Over the next 24 hours, the money flowed away like water.

When the last box of medical antibiotics was piled into a corner of the warehouse, it was already evening, two days before the end of the world.

I leaned against a pile of ammunition boxes and opened a can of ice-cold beer. The icy liquid rolled down my throat, suppressing the fatigue from working non-stop.

Suddenly, my spare phone, which I only used to contact the black market, rang.

It's a number without a note.

I pressed the answer button, but no sound came out.

"Leo?! Are you out of your mind?!" Elena's shrill voice immediately rang out from the other end of the phone, filled with exasperation. "Why can't I get through to you? Mark can't find you either! What are you two up to?"

I tilted my head back and took a sip of beer.

Unable to hear my reply, her voice began to spiral out of control: "Why did you change the password to the Long Island villa?! Do you know how embarrassing it was for me to bring my best friend there today?! Say something!"

Seeing that I remained silent, she finally tore away her elegant facade and erupted into a hysterical scream:

"Leo Garcia! Who do you think you are? You think you can act tough just because you have a little money? You dare block me? Let me tell you, if you don't kneel down and apologize to me today, you're never going to see me again..."

"Click".

I pressed the hang-up button and blocked the number. I removed the SIM card and tossed it into the drain next to my feet.

He didn't leave a single word.

I stood up and pushed open a ventilation window high up in the warehouse.

Even at sunset, New York City remains dazzlingly vibrant. White-collar workers in suits crowd the subway entrance, homeless people rummage through trash cans on street corners, and the faint sound of police sirens can be heard in the distance.

Everyone was living their lives in a routine manner, and no one noticed the faint smell of ozone that was beginning to permeate the air.

I pulled up the metal bar of the vent, pulled an M4 from the wooden box beside me, and shoved the magazine into the base with a "click".

48 hours remaining.