Melee: Mexico: A LitRPG Adventure

by Wyatt Savage

“All signs point to yes.”

  “Maybe you do need that Xanax…”

  She swatted him in the shoulder. “See, this is the reason why I suggest we not talk about this.”

  “Right, ‘cause ignoring things always makes them go away…”

  “How about we focus on happy things,” he said.

  “Such as?”

  “Such as this, girlie,” he replied. Will held up his phone to show her a QR code. The same kind that you scan at airports to board flights.

  She beamed. “Holy mother of – you did it!”

  “Yes, ma’am, I did. Two flights to San Diego.”

  “How?”

  “I pulled a few strings.”

  “You don’t have any strings to pull.”

  “Okay, so maybe I don’t. But my old man does. Came through twenty minutes ago, right before the ‘net went down.”

  She clapped her hands and hugged Will tightly. It was the first good news they’d had in a very long time. “When?”

  “Good news, bad news. Which do you want first?”

  “I hate this game,” she sneered, as she slipped her arm around his. “Just give it to me like a plastered drunk who’s out of cash and doesn’t want to spend the three bucks for lube.”

  “You do realize how the things you say don’t exist in a vacuum and that people attach them to the person speaking?”

  She smiled, he didn’t. “The good news is we have a way out. The bad news is that the flight leaves in an hour and twenty minutes.”

  Jackie tripped as she took in the news. There wouldn’t be any tying up loose ends before leaving. Picturing the rush and crowded airport caused her heart to skip a beat. She wasn’t looking forward to this despite how much she was looking forward to getting somewhere familiar. Maybe she did need that Xanax after all.

  3

  Nick of Time

  Jackie and Will stashed what few belongings they had in the back of a beaten orange cab that took off, weaving through the middle of Mexico City. The pair held on for dear life, stealing glances at the driver, a young man with a mane of glossy black hair.

  “We’ve got time, Will,” Jackie said. “The airport’s only fifteen minutes away.”

  Will exhaled, a tense, unhappy breath. “Did I forget to mention that we’re not flying out of Mexico City.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because they haven’t rebuilt it after the explosions,” he said, referencing a rash of bombings several months before that were blamed on cartel activity. Will sighed. “Besides, getting back to the States via a commercial flight is exceedingly dicey.”

  “So how are we getting home?”

  “There’s a private airport on the outskirts of Toluca. It’s only thirty miles or so. We should be able to get there in time no problem.” Will looked up at the driver, who was listening to the conversation. “No problema?”

  The driver smiled. “No problem, guys. I’ll get you to Toluca early.”

  Jackie smiled. Her mind wandered. She closed her eyes and thought about good things—all the things she wanted to improve in her life and gain a little more happiness.

  Restore yourself, lady, she thought. Reinvent who you are if necessary, early bedtime, decaf tea, lots of water, exercise, vegetables, saying ‘no’ when it was the right decision, bubble baths, wine, being present, stay focused, and be your best self. All of her goals were reasonable and didn’t pose any harm to others. She was on the right track. She simply had to focus on what she could control and not pay attention to what was beyond her means.

  She also thought about the wonderful people she’d met in Mexico, other medical professionals she’d worked with, the lives she hopefully touched. She thought about Will, their future, about her family, and the man in a green tank top who was running out into the street and directly at the taxi.

  She’d noticed him a fraction too late. Even if she had warned the driver, there was no time to avoid him. The man shattered the right portion of the windshield with a mini-sledgehammer. Shards of windshield glass filled the air.

  Will screamed. The driver sawed the wheel hard left, juiced the gas, barely avoiding the bearded man in a green tank top who’d tossed the sledgehammer through the windshield. The taxi skidded, then grazed another car and came to a tire-squealing stop, wedged between a truck up front, and a tiny sedan in the back.

  “What the fuck?!” Will shrieked, covering Jackie, who was pulling glass pieces out of her hair.

  “Stay down!” the driver shouted, eyes darting everywhere.

  “What’s going on?!”

  “They don’t want anyone to leave.”

  “Who doesn’t?” Will asked.

  “The collectives,” the driver replied.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Jackie asked.

  The driver pointed and Jackie looked outside. There were people of all ages running down the street. Some of them were armed with hammers, axes, and tools, and a few had guns. They were brawling with each other and the police. Jackie felt terrified to see that so many of them were wearing Halloween masks, including what looked like the heads of animals. One of them turned and it reminded her of the villainous Handsome Jack character in the Borderlands 2 game that Will loved so much.

  “We need to get out of here,” Will said, as if that weren’t obvious.

  The driver acknowledged his demand with a grunt. He put the car in reverse, but they were hemmed in by the car behind them. Jackie’s eyes ratcheted to her window. The bearded man in the green tank top, the one who’d smashed the windshield, stared dumbly at them, licking his lips.

  “Shit,” Jackie said. “He sees us.”

  “Who?”

  “The asshole who broke the windshield.”

  Still in reverse, their driver slammed his right foot down hard and pumped the gas. The taxi rocked back, grazing the sedan behind them. Then the driver shifted the gear into drive, speeding forward and trying to gain enough distance to veer around the truck.

  The brute in the green tank top whipped a concealed hammer out of a pocket. Jesus, how many hammers did he have? He pointed the business end of the hammer at Jackie. She nervously twisted the yellow rubber band she always kept around her wrist, an unnecessary adornment that had been a gift from her brother. It was supposed to help with anxiety, the thinking being, you twisted the band and then let go. When it unraveled, it took away your anxiety. It was a silly thing, Jackie knew that, but it gave her a tiny bit of comfort.

  “He’s coming,” she whispered.

  The brute waved the hammer and ran at them. He was close enough that Jackie could see the spittle at the edge of his mouth. His eyes were yellowish-white and there was no goodwill in them. He looked capable of almost anything.

  “HURRY!” Will shouted.

  The driver cursed in Spanish, wiping sweat from his brow. He then swerved the vehicle to avoid a crowd.

  Jackie rolled up her window in a feeble attempt to protect them from the forthcoming hammer strike. There wasn’t much else she could do. This wasn’t her forte. Her job was saving people, not fighting them off when they were attacking.

  Will reached over the seat as if he could help with the steering somehow, but the taxi driver shoved him back, peppering him with half-slurred obscenities. The driver toed the gas again and wrenched the wheel, squeezing the taxi free of its confines for a brief few seconds, until…

  The bearded man emerged out of the crowd and brought the hammer down against the side of the taxi, barely missing the window, striking something near the tire well. Jackie lost her breath as the taxi swung back into the middle of the road, finally breaking free.

  “Who were those people?” she asked, heart still in her throat.

  “Los jugadores. The players,” the driver answered, out of breath himself. “The people who will compete in the Melee. They want to keep everyone within the city.”

  “Why?”

  “More points,” the driver said, with a shrug. He then cocked a finger pistol and
mimed shooting at something. “How you say? Limpieza. A cleansing. Like shooting the fish in the barrel.”

  “Everyone’s lost their goddamned minds over this bullshit,” Will said.

  The driver rolled down his window and pointed left, prompting Jackie to look out and see something she couldn’t believe. An immense black structure out in the distance, shimmering like a mirage in the late-day sun. A structure whose peak could not be seen, that seemed to have sprouted from a downtown section of Mexico City, maybe two or three miles off. It looked like a long, twisted spear puncturing a smoky sky. She covered her hand with her mouth. She’d only seen such things on the internet, but this one, it didn’t look real. It looked like something out of a hazy dream.

  The driver made the sign of the cross. “El chapitel negro. The black spire. There are many of them all around the world.”

  Will gasped. “I didn’t see that before.”

  “That is because it was not there before,” the driver replied. “You may think the Melee is bullshit, but I can assure you that is no bullshit.”

  Will hugged Jackie, who buried her head in his shoulder. When she looked back up, she spotted a man outside on a street corner in a black cloak, his face painted to resemble a skull. He held a massive crucifix, marching down the sidewalk, flicking a hand as if he were offering some kind of twisted blessing. A pack of kids in raggedy clothing padded along behind him. Gunshots rang out and the kids scattered. Jackie closed her eyes, fighting to will away all the bad thoughts and panic-inducing images when an explosion echoed outside, followed by the taxi shuddering off to the shoulder.

  “Tire,” Will said. “Goddammit, the man back there—he must’ve hit our tire.”

  The taxi rumbled to a stop on the edge of the sidewalk, rubber and metal making ungodly sounds. People milled about outside, not attacking and not running away. Jackie didn’t know what to make of them just yet. Nobody appeared threatening, and no one was pointing weapons in their direction. It would be foolish to underestimate them, though. More importantly, for the moment, they weren’t going anywhere without a flat tire.

  The driver exited the taxi without a word. He immediately rushed to the trunk and pulled out a jack and tire rod.

  “He’s going to need help,” Will said.

  “Should we pay somebody in the crowd?”

  “I meant me, babe,” Will explained, slipping out of the vehicle. “I need to help him.”

  After some hesitation, Jackie followed him out. It was December, but the air was warm and gritty. She coughed and covered her mouth and what looked like cinders floated down on her fingers. Something, somewhere, was on fire. Jackie moved toward the sidewalk and a cluster of stands made of wood and tarps, manned by female food hawkers. Groups of people were swirling past, but the fighting and the screams were a block or two away, at least for now.

  The driver and Will worked feverishly to change the flat tire. Will crouched, loosening the lug nuts, while the driver dragged a spare tire from the trunk. Shouts filled the air. Jackie watched a young woman frantically waving from behind one of the food stands. Something was wrong. Something about a child in distress.

  She never thought of herself as fearless, but when it came to saving lives, particularly the life of a child, Jackie found that instinct often won out against her better judgment. She shouted at Will, but he couldn’t hear her over the din of the street. The young woman fixated on Jackie and before she knew what was happening, the woman was holding Jackie’s hand, tugging her backward.

  Jackie pointed to the taxi, noting that she was leaving the country, but the woman pleaded with her. “He…dying,” the woman said in broken English. “Por favor. My boy dies.”

  She couldn’t help it. Jackie followed the woman across a market to the alley where people, maybe eight or nine, were surrounding a young boy, who lay on his back. His hands were at his throat and his color was bad. Jesus, he’s choking, she thought.

  “Debes dar marcha atras!” Jackie shouted. Her Spanish wasn’t perfect, but the crowd understood that they needed to back up. Jackie swung into action, dropping to the ground at the side of the young boy, her knees hitting the pavement. She noticed the uneaten sausage next to him. Her best guess was that he’d been stuffing it into his mouth too quickly and a portion had likely lodged in his throat.

  Jackie moved behind the boy and pulled his upper body up, slotting him between her knees. He didn’t struggle at all and Jackie watched his eyes pinball. Time seemed to slow to a crawl, the sounds of the crowd stretching out, becoming a wall of background noise. Something was happening.

  The boy flopped at her fingers and Jackie watched him. She felt a surge of adrenaline, realizing she had the power to push the boy off into the blackness, or pull him back toward the light. She was like a god. She’d never had thoughts like that before. This was no time to figure out what that meant on a personal level, but it did disturb her.

  A voice, dozens of voices whispered in her ear, humming and buzzing like a swarm of bees. What were they saying? Let him die, let the child die. It’s better this way. She’d heard the voice before, ever since that day, ever since the arrival.

  “No!” she cried out, fighting off the voices, not caring what anyone watching thought of her outburst.

  Reflexively, she placed an arm across the boy’s chest for support, then bent the child over at the waist so that his upper body was parallel to the ground. She delivered a series of back blows between his shoulder blades with the heel of her hand. Several people in the crowd reacted, shouting.

  One woman tried attacking Jackie, but was held back by the others. The boy was moaning, the obstruction still in his throat. Time was running out so Jackie performed five abdominal thrusts, implementing the Heimlich maneuver, then alternated between thrusts and blows. The boy finally upchucked the meaty and smelly obstruction—a piece of sausage—in a great, viscous ball of saliva.

  Then he whimpered and cried, but that was a good thing. He was breathing. He ran over to the woman who nearly attacked Jackie and hugged her. Jackie leaned back, winded, allowing herself a faint smile. One person in the crowd began clapping, then another, then everyone.

  Jackie stood and watched the crowd part as a tall, somber-looking man proceeded down the alley. He wore pressed jeans, cowboy boots, and a fedora with a black bird feather pinned to the top. She noticed a tiny tattoo just above his left eyebrow, what looked like a black horn.

  The other people in the crowd gave the man a wide berth and one woman bowed as if he were a holy man. The man’s steely gray eyes swung to Jackie first, then rotated back to the boy.

  The boy ran toward the man and hugged him tightly. It was then that Jackie spotted the other figures who’d accompanied the man with a fedora down the alley. There were three of them and each wore all black, their faces partially covered by scarves. They stood at a distance, like Secret Service agents keeping an eye on the President, and when one of them turned, Jackie spotted a gun of some kind strapped inside the man’s jacket. The boy whispered to the man and pointed back at Jackie.

  Her nerves went into overdrive. Was the boy thanking her for saving his life or was he completely unaware of what had happened and pointing out an easy target to distract from his embarrassment of having choked on his lunch? It wasn’t as if Jackie could do anything about it. She was powerless to their mercy or, if it went south, unjustified vengeance.

  “Gracias,” the man with the horn tattoo said to Jackie, causing her to blink in relief. “Gracias.”

  And then they left, the man and the boy, moving hand-in-hand back down the alley, flanked by the three bodyguards. They brushed past a frantic Will, who threw up his hands upon seeing Jackie.

  “Jesus, Jackie,” he said, meeting her halfway through the alley. “We were looking all over for you. What the hell happened?”

  “I…I got…just…got a little disoriented,” she replied, not wanting to talk about the boy or the voice or the man with the horn tattoo. “Can we just please go now, Will
?”

  The taxi arrived on the outskirts of Toluca with fifteen minutes to spare. The airport, little more than a strip of blacktop plopped down in a vast industrial yard, was flanked on either end by industrial buildings where small jets were manufactured, alongside a defunct Mercedes-Benz factory. There was a fifteen-foot-high concrete block wall around the entire thing. Heavily armed guards in body armor prowled in front of a huge, rusted metal gate.

  The driver looked back. “Did I forget to mention about the money?”

  “What money?” Will asked.

  The driver bobbed his head at the guards. “Those fine, upstanding young men will likely require dinero.”

  “How much?”

  “All that you have.”

  Will grumbled, but told Jackie that they needed to turn over as much as they could spare. Jackie had several hundred dollars on her and handed over half of it. Will did the same, placing a small pile of pesos and American dollars in the hands of the driver. The driver rolled down his window, shot the breeze with the guards, whose faces were concealed, and then handed over the cash in a nonchalant manner as if he were simply giving them a toll pass.

  A walkie-talkie squawked and one of the guards reacted, frantically pointing, barking something that Jackie couldn’t make out. The other guards tensed.

  “What? What is it?” she asked.

  “Go,” the driver said. “The plane is—we need to go now. Buckle up!”

  The guard pocketed the money and waved them past. The driver floored the engine, the tires spitting gravel, the taxi speeding through the gate. Inside the walls were rusted plane and machine parts, spools of wire, and a pitted tarmac that bisected a large, weed-strewn lot.

  A plane was visible on the tarmac, a small jet, probably capable of holding ten or fifteen people. It was powering up, moving down the asphalt.

  “No,” Will shouted. “No!”

  The taxi driver stomped on the gas. The taxi rocketed down a verge aside the runway, a ghost road made of compressed dirt. The driver honked the horn and flashed his lights and Jackie held onto the seat rest, rolling her window down, shouting with Will, trying by sheer force of will to force the plane to stop.