Walmart Apocalypse

No one knows what year it is. The calendars have all been stuck on 2032 for as long as anyone can remember - probably a virus.

This much is certain; whenever a business fell, Wal-Mart was there to replace them. The Detroit auto industry was first, replaced with WalMotor. Then came Walton Electronics. Wal-Volt power. The Wal Apartments. Wal State University. Somewhere amid all that, the governments of earth began to fall - no one really noticed. The Wal was everywhere by then. The Wal was everything.

---

Walmart Apocalypse is a homebrew setting that got started when an Anon asked about a homebrew they had heard of called Walmart Apocalypse.

Not knowing anything about the setting except for an Anon's brief description, /tg/ decided to make its own version. Awesome ensued.

After the collapse of civilization only giant stores are left, now sometimes the size of small countries, who's spread heralded the fall and where the survivors scavenge even now, hiding from the heavily armed Stocker robots and the insane Cults of the Smiling Face.

---

400 feet in the air, the white girders of the ceiling gleam above. A flicker of movement catches your eye - one of the topdwellers. You've never understood what they see in living up there - oh, sure, there's less stockers, but it makes it hell to make supply runs. You've got your Rascal out, hot-wired, of course, with the half-back cart and the locater chip fried, and you're on the way to the electronics department. You just hope that none of the other departments have declared Sport on them this week - you don't think you could handle that. Oh, sure, you've got your own Sporting good at your side - a nice little sawed-off model. But you're low on ammo, and you just don't have the barter for more right now - not since the latest Nevergrow incursion.

That's when you hear the telltale beeping behind you. Gunning the engine, you tear off into the distance, as the monolith with the smiley face roars after you.

>SHOPLIFTER. ACQUIRE. RESTRAIN. ACQUIRE. RESTRAIN.

You run off a string of curses that would make Saint Sam keel over with rage, and dart down one of the aisles for housewares - rugs. Rugs everywhere. Figures that they'd restock THIS section today - winter is nowhere nearby, no one needs rugs! And worse, there's nothing you can use to get the stocker off your derrière. You're not going to end up a greeter... not today. Pulling a bootlegger turn, you skid back into the aisle, hoping that the move will shake the stocker off of your ass. It doesn't, but it might have slowed it a little bit.

With no other recourse, you load your Sporting good, aiming for a tire. It blows out - the thing has five more, but the front corner's dragging. You've got a chance. Snapping the overboost, you manage to get across the department line - the stocker comes to a shuddering halt. This isn't its section. It radios off for another one to find you - that'll take a good long while. They're not too organized around here, and the Elecs have taken apart most of them for spare bits. You manage a brief victory cheer... before your Rascal crawls to a halt. Shit... out of juice. One more thing to barter for...

It's cold here. Not frigid, but the AC is always too high. The Elecs like it that way. They say the colds good for the rigs. You have no idea if that's true or not, but you figure it's more pleasant to lug stuff around in the cool, rather than the unconditioned heat of the auto center.

As you draw closer to the Elec zone, you can't help but notice that there are entire swaths of shelf that are missing. It's only when you round the corner to the Elec Shrine of Commerce that you see why.

They've harvested the -shelves-. There's an enormous structure, stretching into the air, boxy and dense. Crackling and hissing noises escape it, and you can see a few Elecs running around, carrying bits. You can't believe the stockers are letting them get away with this - then again, they've probably harvested the stockers, too. No wonder the other departments have been declaring Sport on them... they're intimidated. As you stare, you feel a thump on your back.

"Auto?"

"Ya."

"Got the barter?" You unsling your pack, and dump the contents on the ground.

"Fuses, plugs, and 10W40."

"Good man!" The old timer crackles with laughter, his long blue vest-coat bending in entirely unnatural ways as he bends over to scoop up the gear. Must be the way it's stitched. "Come on in. We've got your stuff ready for you. Gonna need a jump for your ride?"

"Ya. How'd you know?"

"Security feed." You nod. A few of your guys have tried plugging into the camera feeds before - it works, just not too well, and always goes dead after a few days. As he ushers you into the building, your jaw drops. You're staring at something made from three stocker hulls, the Smiling faces ripped off, and extra junk Stik-Walded onto the side. The front is what really strikes you, though - it looks like it's carrying the biggest Sporting good you've ever seen. You've seen nevergrow arms that were smaller - and those just shoot big balls-

"You're not one of those guys from the Path of the Smiling One, are ya?"

"Huh? No." You return your attention to the old fellow.

"Good. I know they'd throw a fit. Here you go. Six stock guns - with the chargers. Just point at the shelf, click, and hit your number. You've got about two months before the system realizes that it's not a stocker command. More if you use `em sparingly."

"Awesome."

"And... a jump cell. Good luck." You nod, about to head out, and then turn back to him.

"Hey. Why did you let me see that thing? Isn't this-"

"Kid, Auto's the one department we haven't had any problems with. I figure this will keep it that way. Now shoo." You do so, silently glad for the logic by which these guys operate. If you'd been in produce... you shudder.

---

I've lived my entire life without having to go into a Restroom. I've met people who have: usually have acid burns on them, often smelling of some unidentifiable substance. We would avoid them entirely, but the sinks are a reliable source of water, given that the water fountains are too open to be of use (except to those roving merc bands) and we like to have the soap for some semblance of hygiene.

They tell of labyrinthine halls lined with stalls, patrolled by Cleaners. They fight an endless battle against filth, but they don't realize that they'll never win: the toilets all backed up long ago, and the combined cleaning agents and years of human waste have formed the most horrific slurry imaginable. The guys who go in their always wear masks boots, both of which they change every time.

You'd never catch me anywhere near one of those hell-mazes.

---

Greg let out a small sigh and adjusted his terry cloth bathrobe, searching the pockets for his method of payment. Just a small payment for his supplies in the form of a trinket. Watches and a flashlight that one could wind up to charge.

"No no.. Sir. Take them. You've done so much for us already. If it weren't for your warning, we'd all have died. No one wants to help our department."

Greg looked up at the much younger man before him and smiled. He wasn't shocked. Who had use for writing materials anymore? He was their most frequent customer. Cataloging the activities of the associates took a lot of paper and a lot of ink. His long association with them had left him feeling he had the duty to warn them of the yearly 'Back to School Sale'. They evacuated their homes just in time to avoid being crushed under the feet of redecoration and stocking.

"Here.." He handed over the watches, "I don't need more than one. Knowing what time it is will keep your people safer than anything else. Just stay out from under the feet of the Stockers." He coughed a bit and leaned heavily on his hockey stick. Not even he was old enough to remember what the hell hockey was, but it was useful for those times he felt unsteady.

The boy looked at him in worry. Greg smiled back and waved him off, "I'm fine.. just old."

"If only this were pharmacy instead! I'd be glad to give you something for that cough."

Greg let out a laugh and patted the boy on the shoulder, "You're a good boy. Thank you. I wish your people could have a more vibrate department, but we all have to deal with the lots we get in life." Another pat before he stuffed the collection of wide ruled notebooks and pens under his arm and headed off. He had so much to do still. So much to still figure out about their world. He'd wasted his youth just getting a grasp on the basic workings of this place. He wasn't about to stop now.

The task was daunting though. He was one of few to know how truly massive The Wal was. He'd walked up and down it in his lifetime. So little time left though.. it made his old body feel all the heavier.

He stopped suddenly.. and peered over his shoulder. A hand stroked his beard in thought. "BOY!" He called. The teenager startled and came over to him, "Forget something, sir? You can have your pick. Nobody else wants all this stuff."

He shook his head and turned around, "No no. How would you like to come with me?" He took the boy's hesitation to answer as a sign he was receptive to the idea even without hearing the details. So Greg continued, "I could teach you. Teach you how to read The Wal. I could teach you that which I spent a lifetime gaining. The eb and flow here. It's hard work.. and dangerous. You can't be seen by the Stockers but must still be so near them. You'll never want for anything though. Not ever again. Many will trade a kings ransom for what I know.. and what you could know."

The boy looked at him dumbfounded.. "Well..." The old man smiled and added, "Maybe even share your wealth with your home. It would be good trade. You'd live good lives.."

"...I.. Uh... J.. Just let me get a few things first!"

The boy ran off in a hurry. An apprenticeship with the great Sage Greggory! How could he refuse?

---

No one goes to Health & Beauty unless they have to...

Sure, it sounds like a bonanza. Bandages, medicine, tampons, everything you need to keep you going just a little bit longer in this fluorescent purgatory. And soap... goddamn, most of us would kill for the chance to wash our dark places once in awhile.

But H&B's, they're... unpredictable sometimes. Half of 'em are strung out on aspirin, mouthwash, diet pills, and certain more palatable brands of shampoo. They rummage in the makeup aisles, painting and sculpting themselves in the image of the advertising placards they adore. Sometimes you can trade with them, but you never know when mascara-streaked eyes might fall upon you in judgment, and decide you need a...

"Makeover."

---

Shit! This is bad. You check your Sporting Good for the third time, still out of ammo. Your Rascal lies in a heap not two aisles away mixed with the remains of a stocker - why'd you have to run into one in Foods of all places?!?

The cold humming of the fridges accompany you down the aisle masking any sounds near you. Another stocker could be anywhere around here and you need cover now. Suddenly as you pass an Intersection a huge shadow blocks the lights above. You mutter quick prayer to The Great Sam and close your eyes as a huge metal hand reaches down toward you...

>TRY THIS WAL-MART BRAND CHICKEN AND DUMPLINGS SIR OR MADAM! REMEMBER - ITS WAL-LICKING GOOD!

You open your eyes in shock! A legendary sample boy! The huge stocker is clothed in a gigantic apron and plastic hat, is seems insistent on you taking a plate stacked high with meat and potatoes. Quickly you grab the plate and scarf down the filling meal trying to smile and keep the stocker in your sight the whole time. >WAS IT GOOD? "Yes," You tell the metal monster, putting the plastic plate in your pack. Do you think... I could have... one more?" Suddenly the stocker stands up strait is red eyes flashing, >ONLY ONE SAMPLE PER PERSON! The things huge spatula slams down right next to you as you start to make a run for it...

---

Word around WalBurger is that the Smilers finally did it.

No, not that damned smiling monolith of theirs. No one cares about their freakish shrines. No, I'll tell you what does matter - Eye Dee.

Yeah, that shut you up, eh? There's a rumor goin' around that one of their head priests may have finally located one of the damn things. That's news, big news. Could you imagine what those madmen would do? This may be our last days before we end up packed into a giant Smiling Face! Somebody better stop them before they learn to use it, or we're doomed.

---

Past the doors were a massive open space, I could hardly believe it. The lights were an odd shade of blue, and there was dirt, DIRT, just spread over thick everywhere, up too a couple feet in some places.

I had heard of this place, but only in rumors: Landscaping and Gardening.

Only a few feet past the door, the floors, the walls, all covered in thick greenery. Everything from grass, to bushes, to every color of flower I had seen in magazines, and then some, even a few short trees. Produce had been looking for this place since as long as I could remember, if I could barter the location, I could very well be a rich man for simply having been there.

I heard rustling in the bushes then. Of course, along with the rumors of Landscaping and Gardening, there were just as many rumors of The Gardeners themselves, who'd take people away for fertilizer. I used to discard the stories as fabrication, but I didn't risk staying there another second.

---

COMMON TERMS Cult/Temple/Path of the Smiling Face/One - cults that worship Wal-Mart, and Management. The smiley is seen as their holy icon; messing with stockers/greeters/etc is a grave sin to their faiths. They're effectively all the same, but claim dogmatic differences that divide them.

Sport - War. The original word has been forgotten, and since "sporting goods" are designed to kill things...

Sporting good - Gun. Occasionally used to refer to blades or armor, but rarely.

Department - Loosely refers to the actual departments; for practical purposes refers to the group of people that live in said department.

Unstocked - A "blind spot" for stockers. These are few and far between, and used for housing.

Shrine of Commerce - One of the old registers in the Auto, Pharmacy, Elec, and Garden zones. Useless (since no one has any money), but kept by the CoSF/SO/whatever.

Stockers - 15-foot tall giant machines of death and restocking.

Greeters - Lobotomized cyborgs that do menial work for the stockers. Ostensibly they greet customers.

Customers - No one. No one has money, so there are no customers. The Stockers/etc do not realize this, and never will.

Nevergrow - Munchkins who run the toy department. Vicious, but playful... in the same way that Jigsaw is playful.

Topdwellers - Ninja-monkey folk who live in the rafters. Some have made working gliders for transit. Most stick to grappling hook travel.

The Stockroom - Where the stuff comes from. It's known that the stockroom is supplied by mechanized trains that carry goods from distant farms and factories, but any attempt at boarding them has been disastrous. The Stockroom is truly Employees Only.

The Lounge - Home to Greeters when they aren't "on duty" (read: sleeping). A cramped, disease-infested barracks.

/TG/ thread here.

The moderately less awesome wizards thread that inspired the original request.