Apocalyptic: My Killing System Is Too Overpowered!

Elias gripped the steering wheel tightly. His knuckles were white, his eyes fixed on the endless road stretching before him. Behind him, the city was gone, swallowed by smoke and that haunting hum that still echoed in his chest. But the fear stayed with him. Those shadowy figures let him go too easily. That scared him more than if they had chased him.

The radio's last words replayed in his mind: "Because you're not supposed to be awake." Then, only static. Now, it was just him, his thoughts, and the wind howling through the shattered world around him. Everything felt empty—dead. The land was a graveyard of rusted cars and broken buildings. Nature was creeping back, with vines wrapping around concrete and grass growing through cracks in the road. It should have looked peaceful, but it felt wrong, like a stage where the actors had vanished in the middle of the play.

Then he saw the sign.

It stood crooked on the roadside, paint faded but still readable: OUTPOST 17 - 50 MILES AHEAD.

His heart raced. An outpost meant people. Or, at the very least, answers.

Elias looked at the fuel gauge—it was nearly empty. He cursed under his breath. He needed gas, fast. Then he saw an old gas station up ahead. He pulled over and got out of the truck, his movements slow and cautious. The air was heavy with silence.

The pump was rusted, its handle hanging loosely. He opened the truck's tank and grabbed a dusty canister, shaking it. There was still some fuel inside. As he poured, he felt it again—that creeping feeling of being watched.

His eyes moved slowly across the highway.

There, far off in the distance, a figure stood.

It wasn't like the shadowy shapes from the city. This one looked human. It had a head, arms, legs—but its posture was all wrong, stiff and unnatural, like it didn't know how to stand. Elias could feel its eyes on him, even from that far away.

His chest tightened. He backed toward the truck, the canister still in his hand. The tank wasn't full yet, but he didn't care. He had to get out of there.

The figure took a step forward.

Elias dropped the canister, his heart pounding as he jumped into the truck. He turned the key, and the engine coughed before roaring to life.

The figure started running.

Elias floored the gas pedal, tires screeching as the truck sped forward. He glanced in the rearview mirror. The figure was fast—too fast. Its limbs moved wrong, jerking like a puppet on tangled strings. But then, just as quickly as it started, it stopped. It stood still, watching him drive away.

He didn't breathe until the figure was out of sight. His mind raced with questions. Was it human? Was it one of those things? Why did it just watch him?

The radio crackled.

"Elias. Keep driving."

His blood ran cold. "Who are you?" he asked, his voice shaking.

Silence.

Then: "They're waiting for you at the outpost."

Elias's grip tightened on the wheel. He wasn't sure if that was a warning or a trap.

Fifty miles to go.

But was he driving toward safety… or straight into danger?

The road stretched endlessly. Outside the truck, nothing moved. No birds, no wind, only shadows flickering at the edge of his vision. Shapes he couldn't clearly see.

His stomach growled, and he realized he hadn't eaten in hours. He grabbed a protein bar from the glove compartment, chewing without tasting. His eyes stayed glued to the road.

Another sign appeared: OUTPOST 17 - 30 MILES AHEAD.

His chest tightened. Was this outpost a place of safety? Or was it a trap waiting to spring?

Up ahead, something blocked the road.

A wrecked car. Its hood was crushed, smoke still curling from the engine. It was fresh. Someone—or something—had been here not long ago.

Elias slowed the truck, eyes scanning the area. A cold shiver ran down his spine. The road had been empty for miles. Why now? Why here?

The wind picked up, carrying a faint whisper. His fingers moved closer to the knife on the passenger seat.

Then he heard it.

"Help me."

His breath caught. He turned to the wreck.

A woman stood beside it, barely visible in the fading light. Her clothes were torn, her face smeared with dirt and blood. Her eyes were wide with fear.

Elias hesitated. He hadn't seen another person in what felt like forever. Was she real? Or was this another trick?

The woman stumbled forward. "Please… I don't know what's happening… I—" Her knees buckled, and she collapsed onto the pavement.

Elias's instincts screamed at him to get back in the truck and leave, but he didn't. He couldn't. Swearing under his breath, he parked the truck and stepped out, knife in hand.

He knelt beside her, checking her pulse. It was weak, but she was alive. Her breathing was rough, uneven.

"Who are you?" he asked.

Her eyes opened, filled with terror. "They… they took them. Everyone."

A chill ran down his spine. "Who took them?"

Her fingers gripped his wrist, trembling. "You have to run. They're coming."

Then he heard it—a deep, low hum growing louder.

Elias's head snapped up.

Shapes moved in the darkness, gliding forward without sound. Their movements were smooth, too smooth. Wrong.

The woman's grip tightened. "Run."

Elias lifted her, rushing to the truck. He threw her into the passenger seat and slammed the door just as the figures began to move faster.

He hit the gas. The truck roared down the road. In the mirror, the shadows melted back, but he knew they were still there. Watching. Waiting.

Outpost 17 was his only hope.

But hope was just another word for fear of the unknown.