Escaping Miller's Hardware was less of a tactical retreat and more of a chaotic grocery run through the depths of a nightmare. The rift in Aisle 2 had widened considerably, spilling forth a fresh batch of goblins that looked as though they had been drawn by a child with a shaky hand and a grudge against anatomy. They slipped on the spilt paint, shrieking with a sound like wet styrofoam rubbing together, while Mr Miller vanished into the safety of his basement with the speed of a frightened badger.
The flatbed trolley, laden with four bags of quick-dry cement and a lifetime supply of nails, had developed a squeaky wheel that seemed determined to announce our presence to every monster in a three-block radius. The back exit proved difficult. The electronic shutter was dead, a victim of the power outage, requiring the manual chain hoist to be yanked with considerable force.
Muscles burned, and the chain rattled protestingly, but the door eventually groaned upward just enough to shove the supplies through. The alleyway outside was a tableau of urban panic. A car alarm blared its rhythmic warning into the purple sky, and distant screams echoed off the brickwork.
It felt ridiculous to be pushing a cart full of construction materials while the world ended. Heroes were supposed to be finding magical swords or saving orphans. But the System did not care for heroism. It cared for numbers, and right now, the most important number was the weight of that cement.