Doomsday Survival: A Million-Dollar Bunker to Start With

With only three days left until the apocalyptic fungal outbreak, my ordinarily strict father unexpectedly took out a million-dollar loan from a loan shark, transferred it to my account, and issued an absolute order: "Buy supplies, build a fortress, and even if you die, do not open that door!"

Staring at the seven-figure balance, I grabbed a liquor bottle, shattered the nose of the school bully who used to torment me, and instantly kicked off a frantic hoarding spree. I bought out a penthouse on the 50th floor, welded on a bank-vault-grade blast door, and stockpiled an endless supply of Tomahawk steaks and a massive arsenal of weapons.

When the disaster finally struck, the once-arrogant rich kids downstairs were reduced to bloody fodder for the monsters. The starving school bully knelt outside my door, tearing into his own companions just for a leftover bone. Meanwhile, separated by bulletproof glass, I sipped an ice-cold cola and coldly enjoyed the show.

Just as a massive horde of the infected surrounded the building, my parents unexpectedly arrived in a Unimog heavy armored vehicle armed to the teeth, crushing through the sea of corpses in a dominant rescue. With our family reunited and packing heavy firepower, we violently tore open our own path of rampage across this scorched wasteland!

——

"Lick it clean, Lucas. Or your sociology credits are going straight to zero today."

Sticky whiskey dripped from my hair onto the carpet. Chad’s custom alligator-leather shoes carelessly kicked at my knees.

Deafening EDM pulsed through the Ivy League frat house. A dozen rich kids, drinks in hand, formed a circle around me, staring down at my kneeling figure like I was a stray dog.

I gritted my teeth. Right as my hands touched the floor littered with broken glass, the phone in my pocket erupted in a piercing ring.

The Caller ID read "Dad"—a man who had spent half his life as a fringe researcher at the Federal CDC. He was notoriously rigid and calculating, the kind of guy who wouldn't even dare risk a parking ticket.

The jarring ringtone sliced through the surrounding mockery. Taking advantage of the distraction, I stood up and hit answer.

"Lucas, listen to me!" My father’s normally monotonous voice was rough as sandpaper. "July 5th, three days from now! The fungal variants are out of control. Society is done for."

My brain short-circuited for a second. "Dad? What kind of joke is this..."

"Shut up! Check your bank account!" My father was panting heavily. In the background, I could hear the deafening booms of something violently battering against a heavy metal door. "I took out a loan from the mob. Mortgaged the house. I transferred every penny to you."

Right on cue, a notification popped up at the top of my screen.

I opened my banking app. A long string of zeros practically blinded me. Exactly one million dollars.

My breath caught in my throat. A rule-abiding researcher would never touch mob money over a delusion, let alone throw his entire life away. Not unless everything he said was the absolute truth.

"The bulletproof glass is cracking..." The background noise over the receiver suddenly shifted. It was replaced by a gruesome, unnatural sound—the sickening crunch of bones popping and joints twisting backward, followed instantly by a piercing, inhuman screech.

"Buy supplies. Build a fortress." My father’s voice carried the desperate resolve of a man with nothing left to lose. The horrific screeching was practically right next to his mic. "And even if you die, don't open the door!"

Beep—

A bloodcurdling scream echoed through the speaker before the line went dead.

I stared fixedly at the seven-figure balance on my screen, a chilling dread shooting straight up my spine. In the face of raw, primal survival instinct, the pathetic, broke student who used to bend over backwards just to pay off a few grand in student loans instantly ceased to exist.

"Who gave you permission to stand up and take a call?"

Chad crunched over the broken glass, reeking of alcohol as he closed the distance. Without warning, he splashed half a glass of liquor directly into my face.

"Get back on your knees and keep cleaning."

I didn't even bother wiping the booze off my face. My gaze drifted past him, landing on an unopened bottle of Ace of Spades champagne resting on the table.

I no longer had the time to play house with these dead men walking.

No more words. I snatched the heavy champagne bottle by the neck, wound up my arm, and viciously smashed it right into Chad’s arrogant face.

SMASH!

The sickening crunch overpowered the blasting EDM. Glass exploded everywhere. Chad collapsed to the floor, clutching his mangled, caved-in nose, screaming in agony.

The room dropped into dead silence. Every single person froze, drinks suspended in mid-air, staring at the scene in absolute shock.

I ripped the cheap "Server" name tag off my chest and casually flicked it onto Chad’s blood-soaked face.

I shoved open the heavy doors of the frat house, stepping out as the freezing night rain battered my face.

With only 72 hours left until hell opened its gates on July 5th, and a million dollars sitting in my bank account...

My race for survival had officially begun.