by Arthur Stone
The pistol was out. Cheater carried a pair of poisoned, sharpened rods strapped to his forearms. An old habit. They were good steel, lightweight enough. Enough to instantly take down any runner.
But this was no runner. At this level, the creatures’ skin turned into light plate mail of a sort. In some places, it would even keep certain types of bullets out. Melee weapons had an even harder time. An ax, a pick, or a strong sword was required.
Not a sharpened piece of rebar.
His bow was the best solution. It was ready for battle, its string recently tightened. He just had to draw the arrow, and...
The infected declined to wait for Cheater to weight all of his options. Without even thinking of uttering the usual grumble, it charged across the street with lightning speed and soared into the air.
In a moment, it would sink every blade on its body into Roach. The man was bent over the pickup bed’s sides, examining the goods left by the car’s former owner. Apparently, his eye was well accustomed to such things—the solid cases in between him and the weapons did nothing to interfere with his evaluation.
Cheater had no choice but to grab his pistol and heave it up in front of him, pulling the trigger without aiming, just as the creature’s clawed paw was about to take his comrade’s head off.
The pistol cracked, Roach cried out, and two bodies rolled along the pavement: the ghoul and the man. The man looked like hell. The beast had managed to command its paws to destroy its target before the bullet had pierced its left eye. Roach took the hit in the head, chest, and belly. His bones cracked, and twisted ribs poked out from under his torn clothes. Blood did not splatter out; it geysered out. Even Cheater’s minimal knowledge was sufficient to know he could not survive. The continual screaming didn’t mean anything. It would stop soon.
“Fatso, Roach is done for!” Cheater cried out, turning his head every which way.
“Done for?” their leader shouted back. “I can still hear him. Shut him up!”
“I’m alive. Alive!” Roach yelled. “Help! Guys, help me! Get me some first aid before my blood runs dry!”
Cheater marveled. He looked to be in such bad shape that most cemeteries would turn him away, but his speech was coherent. Knowing that he was rapidly losing blood, he was trying to solve his situation.
But band-aids and antiseptic could do nothing for a wound like his.
Thanks to his vigilant observation of the surroundings, Cheater saw another figure like the first emerge from the same gate. They had been hunting as a pair, apparently, and this one was a bit late to the party.
One shot straight to the right eye hit exactly where planned.
“I can’t get to Roach! Cover me!” Cheater implored.
“Wait!” Fatso shouted back. “One more minute, then I’ll drag him into the truck and we’ll be off!”
“One minute left? You said one minute was all you needed! Or two, at most. What the hell have you been doing?”
“Shut up! You’re distracting me. I can’t help you right now, Cheater. Hang in there! This truck is the most important right now. Unless it starts, we all die here!”
Cheater turned and took down two runners with two bullets, then calmly considered his ammo consumption.
The bullets could not be recovered, but arrows could be. He would just collect them after the fight.
If he was still around, of course.
But that was doubtful. So bullets it was.
He needed to be frugal with them, all the same.
Turning around, he sent another bullet into the eye of a new raffler emerging over the fence. Calculations took over.
How many bullets did he have for this pistol? Barely any left now.
It was time to borrow Roach’s machine gun.
He would visit his fallen comrade now.
Chapter 13
Life Eight. Field Medicine
Cheater grabbed the side just in time. Fatso made an abrupt turn—dangerously abrupt. He was not a bad driver. The maneuver worked, just as it had the time before. Yet Cheater had to keep his wits to avoid flying out of the back like a rock from a trebuchet. Sometimes, Fatso took the heavy pickup up on two wheels.
Soon he might flip it. A pickup was no race car, after all.
He glanced over his shoulder in the direction they were heading. A nice, straight section of road stretched out before them for a few hundred yards. No deep potholes, no open manholes. At last Fatso could give it some real gas, without risking that Cheater would be thrown out.
Going their current speed, any fall would cause Cheater some serious injuries. He would not need to suffer through them for long, though. The crowd of infecteds chasing the vehicle would end his torment in seconds, if that.
He raised the automatic rifle and sent a short burst into the head of the trampler grabbing at and barely missing the back of the truck. The creature was quick, but not armored enough. Its carcass bounced down the pavement, limbs flopping absurdly in the air. As if its bones had all been removed.
It must have been especially hungry.
The next monster looked more serious. At least level 35, though not much higher. Its gait was now free of jumps and leaps. The second was not too well armored. Its protection was fine against a pistol bullet, but against a machine gun it wasn’t as reliable—especially if it was equipped with special ammunition.
Especially in the hands of a shooter with supernatural Accuracy.
He pushed the trigger.
There was silence.
Cheater hastily hit the breech block and tried to shoot again. Same result.
Nothing.
He was out of ammunition. Cheater had only managed to pull a few magazines from Roach’s body, plus the one already in the gun. How had he used it all up already?
It was quite strange that he had not noticed his numbers approaching zero. And quite inconvenient. The car was still rushing along past streets and buildings, with more and more infecteds piling up behind them. Some fell behind almost immediately—but others performed miracles of speed and agility.
As they were still in town, among houses and abandoned vehicles of all types, the pickup could not make a break for it. But the infecteds were hardly bothered by the obstacles. Cheater had to keep shooting if he wanted them to keep driving.
No priest was around to resurrect them.
The truck shook, and Fatso screamed his name. “Cheeeeat!”
Whirling, Cheater drew his pistol.
He was in time. The mature raffler had jumped to avoid a crippling hit from the bumper and was on the hood, raising its massive claws into the air. One moment later, it would smash through the vulnerable windshield.
After nailing the beast in the eye with a bullet, Cheater crouched down immediately, nearly cracking a toenail in his haste, and pulled a reasonably large rifle from its case. It had a simple bolt action, but its caliber was sufficient, and five rounds were affixed to its butt. In addition, it had a heavy magazine attached.
He checked and smiled. Full. Five rounds each. Nine millimeters, at least. Sadly, it was likely civilian ammo. Armor-piercing bullets usually only belonged to the military. Civilians only had softer options. Still, they could deal some damage. The power of the blow alone should make a standing infected fall backwards.
He chambered the first round. Checking behind him to ensure that nothing would stop them for a second or two, he fired at last into the ugly face of the closest beast.
The ghoul predictably fell onto the pavement and began to roll. After clicking another round into place, Cheater watched the monster for a moment, deciding that it was no longer a threat.
Unless they ran out of gas right now or suffered some other mechanical misfortune.
The pickup shuddered and creaked. Metal was being crushed.
Whirling, Cheater crouched just in time, under a huge paw with four-inch claws. The beast had leaped over. Now, it clutched the side. A moment later, it threw itself over and inside, intending to attack the tasty little
humans.
Cheater shot into the monstrosity’s grinning mouth. The bullet struck with such force that drops of blood flew up to its face, mixed with scraps of gum and teeth. Howling, it released the car and rolled along the street, but a few seconds later it leaped up and began closing again.
Cheater had spent his last bullet from the magazine. The shot had momentarily stopped the monster, but not injured it. It was too big. A young manmincer, most likely. They were supposedly only vulnerable to large-caliber sniper rifles and machine gun—with armor-piercing ammo. Unless you hit the vulnerable points where three or more armor plates came together.
Of course, the creatures really didn’t like presenting those points to you. This one raced towards them like an angry bull, head lowered. Cheater wished March had sent the truck along with them; its cannon would have been just the thing in this situation.
He began shooting, again and again. The third bullet finally did the trick. The undead hulk rolled again, and rose again—but now it was limping, and only slightly faster than the rest of the crowd.
Cheater placed the rifle on the floor of the truck bed and began fumbling with other bags and cases, all the while keeping an eye out for any other attackers.
At the same time, he urged the driver on. “Fatso, it’s time to get out of here. Now!”
Of course the man knew that. This town had sent all of its forces at them now, a flock of hungry creatures right on their heels. Still, Cheater felt the need to remind him. If only there was a tactical nuke back here, Cheater dreamed. It would be the only way to deal with the crowd in one swoop.
And this had looked like such a small town. The crowd swelled as even more joined, and sometimes beasts appeared in front of them. Some were agile enough to dodge the bumper, and others tried to jump over.
At times they succeeded.
Cheater had precious little to fight back with, now—just a pistol with a meager supply of bullets. Worst of all, it was impossible to watch all sides at once and still have the presence of mind to grab the truck when a turn required. Sooner or later, something serious would happen to the car. Something much worse than the ugly dents on the roof and side left by the beasts. The only way to salvation was to get out of the city, and Fatso couldn’t find the way. He kept weaving through intricate pretzel-shaped turns, sometimes ending up on roads they had already driven.
As if he was making sure they didn’t miss any of the infecteds.
Soon, those from neighboring clusters would come running, too.
No more rounds for the rifle could be found. The NPC that had loaded this truck was quite the hoarder. An army helmet, Kevlar body armor, a night vision device, four sets of binoculars, a gas mask, and a folding gas stove. Useful items, to be sure.
But not what Cheater was looking for.
Wait. Twelve-gauge rounds.
He pulled the pump-action shotgun from its case and hastily loaded it up. It was a mediocre weapon, not even very effective against rafflers, but at least it was something.
He started shooting. The rafflers’ legs were weak. Shotguns could damage their knees and cripple them.
The engine roared, and their speed rose sharply. At last they saw a “Thanks for Visiting!” sign marking the edge of town. Fatso roared in triumph, while Cheater shot at the beasts growing smaller into the distance and crouched down to hastily reload.
Just because they were out didn’t mean it was time to relax. Infecteds could follow their prey for hours, even days, until they lost the trail. A manmincer or another creature might be ready to charge. He would be ready. Even though the shotgun was weak against such targets, a weapon was a weapon.
Seconds passed, and Cheater kept his finger on the trigger. They took a smooth turn, and the horde of running infecteds disappeared around it. The truck roared on, no beasts leaping on it.
Cheater waited, giving himself the luxury of wiping sweat from his brow. Was the end of town not the end of this battle? He hadn’t even caught the town’s name.
Note: Personal victory...
The long log message scrolled before his eyes, and he relaxed. When the System considered the battle complete, you could take a breather. Sometimes it was mistaken, it seemed, or even messing with you, but usually when the log appeared, you were the victor.
Suddenly, the car slammed its brakes. Cheater flew forward, hitting his head hard and cursing the new lump on his skull.
Shaking the stars from his eyes, he stood and whirled in all directions, seeking threats.
Nothing. Just a deserted strip of road between thickening trees on either side as they approached the forest. Several abandoned cars and piles of gnawed bones were scattered around them. Not the most pleasant scene, but there were no threats visible.
The front door swung open. Fatso jumped out and walked towards the back. “Cover me.”
“What are you doing?”
“Taking a look at this truck. Russian KAMAZ, and it’s a beauty.”
Cheater noticed then one of the abandoned vehicles. It had a green canvas covering its trailer. Military, for sure. And a vehicle like that was a durable ride. If it worked, their transportation problems were solved. A large off-road pickup and couple of trucks were plenty for the remaining party members. They could leave the van, which had only been a desperate move when they had no other choice.
Now, they had options.
Cheater wanted desperately to go through the other bags. Surely there had to be some good rifle rounds in one. But Fatso had said to cover him, so he had to keep watch, doing his best to watch every corner of the world.
And the sky. You never knew where threats might come from.
Fatso started the truck’s engine, then shut it off and jumped out. “Tank’s near empty. I’ll take a look in the back.”
Cheater doubted that any full fuel cans sat in the back, but empty ones would be helpful, too. After all, there were four more cars in the immediate area. Apparently drivers who were minutes away from a monstrous turn in life had difficulties with a minor turn in the road. Fuel usually remained in the tanks, and they could siphon it out. Indeed, Fatso jumped out with an empty canister. “Keep watch, Cheater. I’m going to fuel her up. This truck is a treasure store! Crates of canned food, tons of body armor, an automatic grenade launcher, and ammo, fourteen-point-five. A shitload of it. Jackpot!”
That put Cheater on edge. The System often compensated for rich finds with rude interruptions. 14.5mm was one of the most popular rounds on the Continent. Players would pay a good amount for them. They were also what was needed by machine gun they had taken from their pickup slain by the black cluster.
A pleasant coincidence, to be sure. But Cheater became twice as attentive.
“Why have we stopped?” Roach moaned from the cab.
“Good truck on the side of the road. We need to bring it along,” Cheater explained.
“The hell did we stop for a truck? I’m dying here!”
“You’re fine, it’s not so bad,” Cheater lied.
“Are you mocking me? I can’t even feel my legs. I have to get back to camp right away!”
Cheater didn’t know what to say to that. They had no healers or doctors back at camp. What did he expect? Perhaps his mind was slipping, along with his chances at surviving.
The infected had already been dead when it had dealt its blow to Roach. Yet it had inflicted serious abdominal injuries, especially to the intestines. Thankfully Roach had not immediately died from shock, but that didn’t mean he was out of the woods yet.
It would be a slow, painful death. Players could recover from many kinds of injuries, but not all. Where could they find a surgeon?
There was one option, of course. One Roach had no idea even existed as a possibility. Healing could be administered right now.
A golden egg, taken from the sporesac of an elite. Some swore that, by taking it, a severed head could regrow its body. That was unlikely, but it could most likely heal Roach.
Of course, that egg m
ight still come in handy later, and Roach was far from the most valuable member of the party. In fact, Cheater saw nothing worthwhile in the man. It was unlikely he would make it back to camp alive. He would bleed out first. Or he would die in agony, or high on morphine, and then accept Button’s resurrection.
The priest was indeed a blessing.
A branch moved near the car Fatso was siphoning gasoline from. Cheater took aim, hoping it would be a young runner, or at most an immature raffler.
It was a trampler. But it emerged from the other side of the brush, further away. No ambush was waiting for it there. Hitting it from fifty yards with a shotgun would be like tossing a handful of sand on a turtle.
Cheater dropped the shotgun so it would fall onto the cushion of some bags and grabbed his bow, shooting—again without taking time to aim—one second before the creature intended to leap the car and land right on Fatso’s back.
He hit it in the groin. If the beast were a man, that would have caused it extreme pain, but infecteds did not suffer such weakness. However, the shot was at a critical moment, just as the creature was tensing up its legs to jump. So rather than sail over the car, the trampler crashed into it and even fell over.
Fatso was unable to see this, but he heard the noise and made the right conclusions. Shutting off the flow of gas, he dropped to the road and shot under the car. Thankfully there was plenty of clearance, and only the wheel offered some meager protection to the creature. The trampler’s armor was not, on the whole, effective against a rifle-caliber bullet, especially at close range.
Instantly relaxing its torso and arms, the creature’s legs began to twitch in agony.
“Hurry it up!” Cheater yelled, turning back towards the suspicious bush.
The branch made another noise, and a small bird took flight.
Cheater silently wished the distracting creature a quick and painful death at the claws of a sadistic cat. He looked up and down the road. The bushes were much too close along this turn. If a ghoul was quick enough, it could reach Fatso in one second, maybe two.
