The door didn't break all at once.
It failed in pieces.
The first crack ran through the inner panel like a fault line, sharp and sudden, the steel skin splitting just enough to expose the structure beneath.
The second impact widened it, turning a fracture into a weakness, and the third drove something through it, a grey, blood-smeared hand forcing its way into the gap with a jerking, relentless pressure.
Leah swore under her breath.
Tom took two steps back.
Dale tried to stand and failed halfway up, his body refusing to cooperate with the urgency his mind was throwing at it.
Arty didn't move.
Not yet.
His hand remained raised, fingers slightly spread, his focus locked on the door as something new settled into him, not instinct, not quite control, but a strange, deliberate awareness of the metal itself.
It wasn't just a surface anymore, it was structure, density, stress, a network of force and resistance that he could almost map out the molecules in his head without trying.
The system hadn't lied.
It had just left out how it would feel.
The hand pushed further through the crack, followed by the distorted shape of a forearm, the bone bending at an angle that would have broken a living person.
The thing outside didn't care, it didn't stop. it simply forced more of itself into the gap, tearing flesh against steel as if pain had been removed from the equation entirely.
"Arty!" Leah snapped.
He exhaled slowly.
"Yeah."
Now.
He focused.
Not on the whole door.
That was too much.
Too broad.
Too heavy.
He narrowed it down.
The frame.
The hinge.
The weakest point.
The metal responded.
Not dramatically.
Not like a wave or a blast.
It tightened.
A subtle shift, a compression of structure that pulled the hinge back into alignment and forced the warped section of the frame inward just enough to reduce the gap.
The hand stopped advancing.
For a second.
Then pushed again.
Harder.
Arty felt it.
Not physically.
Not exactly.
Yet close enough that his jaw tightened as if resisting pressure directly through his own body.
"Again," he muttered.
He pushed.
The metal creaked.
The hinge groaned.
The crack shrank by another fraction.
The arm outside twisted violently, trapped now between closing steel and unyielding frame, and for the first time since it had appeared, something like resistance showed in its movement.
Leah didn't wait.
She stepped in and brought the tyre iron down on the exposed limb, once, twice, three times in rapid succession, the impacts snapping bone and crushing muscle until the arm went slack.
The pressure from outside didn't stop.
It increased.
More bodies.
More force.
"They're piling up!" Tom shouted.
Arty could feel that too.
The weight.
The cumulative push against the door.
His ability strained against it, not failing, but not holding easily either.
The connection to the metal wasn't effortless, it wasn't free, every adjustment, every shift in structure pulled something from him, a drain that built with each second he maintained it.
The system flickered.
A warning line appeared at the edge of his vision.
Energy Drain Active
No numbers.
No explanation.
Just a statement.
Of course.
Nothing was free.
"Arty," Leah said, lower now, controlled. "Talk to me."
"I can hold it," he said. "Not forever. though."
"How long?"
"I don't know."
That was the truth.
The timer from the stabilisation protocol hit zero.
00:00:00
The subtle reinforcement that had been holding the rest of the structure together faded like a breath released.
The next impact hit harder.
The door buckled.
Arty pushed back.
The metal groaned under competing forces, his control tightening the hinge while the external pressure tried to tear it free.
The connection in his mind sharpened, lines of stress and weakness lighting up in a way that made him understand exactly how close this was to failing.
Too close.
"We need another plan," Tom said.
"Working on it," Arty replied through clenched teeth.
He shifted his focus.
Not just the hinge.
The bar.
The internal locking mechanism.
The frame along the side.
He pulled.
The metal responded.
Slow.
Resistant, none the less it moved.
The internal bar bent slightly, reinforcing the lock, redistributing the force from the impacts across a wider section of the frame.
The next hit didn't push as far.
The one after that didn't either.
Leah saw it.
"It's working," she said.
"For now," Arty replied.
His vision dimmed at the edges.
Just slightly.
Enough to notice.
The system flickered again.
Energy Low
"That's new," he muttered.
"What is?" Leah asked.
"Nothing good."
Dale's voice came from behind them, strained but sharp. "You're burning something internally aren't you? how long can you keep that up."
"I sure am, and honestly I do not know how long I can hold it for." Arty said.
The problem was simple.
The solution wasn't.
He could hold the door.
For a time.
Then what?
Wait for them to leave?
They wouldn't.
Zombies didn't get bored.
They didn't get tired.
They didn't decide to try somewhere else.
They stayed until something changed.
Or something broke.
And right now—
That something was him.
The system flickered again.
A new line appeared.
Skill Proficiency Increased
He almost laughed.
"Now you tell me."
Leah caught the shift in his expression. "What?"
"I'm getting better at it."
"Great," Tom said. "Do that faster."
Arty adjusted his grip in the air, fingers tightening slightly as he focused harder, refining the control rather than just forcing it.
The strain didn't disappear, but it changed, becoming more efficient, less raw effort and more directed pressure, the door steadied, not permanently, not safely, just enough, enough to think and to choose.
He looked away from the door for half a second, scanning the warehouse interior again, this time not just as space, but as material.
Shelving.
Steel beams.
Pallet racking.
Forklift tracks.
Everything here was metal.
Everything here was potential.
A slow idea formed.
Dangerous.
Expensive.
Necessary.
"Tom," he said.
"Yeah?"
"Those racks," Arty nodded toward a section of pallet shelving near the door. "Can you clear them?"
Tom followed his gaze. "Clear them how?"
"Knock them down. Drag them here."
Tom blinked. "You want me to bring a shelving unit… to the door?"
"Yes."
"That's insane."
"Probably," Arty said. "Do it anyway."
Leah didn't question it.
"Go," she said.
Tom moved, as fast as he could.
Because at this point, insane plans were the only ones left.
Arty shifted his focus again, maintaining pressure on the door while reaching outward, extending that strange awareness into the nearest shelving unit.
It felt different at range, less precise, harder to control, like trying to move something with numb fingers.
The metal resisted, he pushed, it creaked.
Tom grabbed it at the same time and yanked, the combined force enough to break it free from its resting position and drag it across the concrete floor toward the door.
The grinding sound echoed through the warehouse.
Outside, the pounding intensified in response.
"Faster!" Leah snapped.
Tom hauled harder.
Arty pulled.
The shelving slid into place against the door just as another heavy impact landed.
The force transferred.
Distributed.
The door held.
Barely.
Arty didn't stop.
He reached for the structure of the shelving itself.
Focused.
Compressed.
Bent.
The metal twisted inward, locking against the frame, reinforcing the barrier in a crude but effective way that turned a failing door into something closer to a barricade.
The strain hit him immediately.
Harder this time.
His breath hitched.
His vision dimmed further.
The system flashed again.
Critical Energy Level
"Arty," Leah said, closer now, her hand on his shoulder. "Stop if you need to."
He shook his head.
"Not yet."
Because for the first time—
They had something that might actually hold.
Not forever.
Not safely.
But longer than five minutes, long enough to matter, the pounding continued, relentless and unyielding in the effort expended.
Less effective.
The door didn't crack further.
The frame didn't give.
The barricade held.
Arty lowered his hand slowly.
The connection to the metal faded.
The strain didn't.
He staggered half a step.
Leah caught him again.
"Easy," she said.
"I'm good," he replied automatically.
He wasn't.
But he was alive, and for now they all were.
Behind the barricade, the world kept trying to get in.
Inside, for the first time since this began—
They had bought more than seconds.
Arty looked at the system.
At the empty crystal count.
At the debt.
At the warnings.
Then back at the door.
And a quiet realisation settled in.
Power wasn't the advantage.
Time was.
And he had just spent everything he had—
To buy a little more of it.