Alt Control Save

by Kody Boye

  “Why is that?”

  We do not know. We simply wished to warn you of the possibility.

  “Okay… great. That’s just great.”

  This archetype is not designed for combat. It was initially meant to deter players from entering areas through its mystique.

  “Is that why it was never placed in the game? Because it wouldn’t have worked in a first-person shooter?”

  The unknown is only unknown until someone discovers it.

  That fact, true as it happens to be, does not leave me settled. Rather, it makes me even more uneasy than before.

  With one last sigh, I say, “Let’s go,” and continue forward, all the while wondering what I’ll face come time we reach the top of the hill.

  It is Gloom’s opinion that I should stop and rest for the night as we near the edge of the forest.

  “Why?” I ask.

  Because, the archetype says, you do not know what you will face.

  This is true. Even though we are close to the tree line, there is no way to determine what lies in the distance. The hill is still sloping upward, and whatever is at the top of it still cannot be seen.

  A part of me wants to refuse the archetype and continue onward. I know, however, that would not be safe, especially given the revelation that occurred earlier.

  There is a chance the archetype may not operate in its designated manner once we draw closer to the Nest.

  Shivering, I shrug my pack down my shoulder and allow it to fall at my feet. I then, slowly, lower myself alongside it.

  You’re safer here, the archetype says.

  “Do you know something I don’t?”

  No, Sophia. We know nothing. Which is why we are asking you to stop and rest for the night.

  I’m not sure whether to be relieved or terrified.

  Still, I know it is not in my best interest to become paranoid or to let my guard down—which is why, as I begin to unpack for the night, I am careful to remove my holster from my side and keep it within arm’s reach.

  The unfortunate fact is Leon never taught me how to properly shoot a gun. The execution was simple enough, but actually being able to hit something with it?

  You couldn’t land a shot the last time you tried, my cruel conscience is quick to offer. How do you expect to go into the Nest, guns blazing, and save Leon?

  I’m not sure, but once again; I cannot think about it. Thinking about something I cannot control at this point will only serve to wear me down.

  With a sigh, I retrieve a sack of pretzels from my bag and begin to munch on them in earnest alongside a piece of jerky.

  Gloom, meanwhile, is intent on watching the hills to our east.

  “Do you see something?” I ask without much thought.

  No, the archetype says. I do not.

  I’m not sure whether that’s a good or a bad thing. Perhaps, for the time being, that means we are safe.

  Or, my cruel conscience offers, it means you are in even greater danger.

  I try not to allow this thought to get the best of me, but the more I think about it, the more I realize my inner voice might be right.

  The silence of our surroundings is too much. There are no animals above, nor below, no birds in the trees or deer in the distance. No foxes wander through the woods, and no squirrels scale the trees nearby.

  You’re scared, the archetype says.

  “How do you know?” I frown.

  Your vitals are rising. Please: remain as calm as you possibly can.

  “I’m not sure how I’m supposed to remain calm when I have no idea what’s going to happen in the next twenty-four hours.”

  Have faith in your abilities, Miss Garza.

  I sigh.

  Truth is…

  I’m not sure how much faith I have at this point, or if I’m even running on anything but sheer desperation.

  I realize, though, it does not matter what compels me forward.

  Faith, desperation, panic—all can, and will, lead me forward in my quest to save Leon.

  As I sink my teeth into yet another bite of jerky, I realize I can only use what I have at my disposal.

  With that in mind, I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and try not to listen to the sound of silence around me.

  Unfortunately, it is all-consuming.

  8

  This night is the slowest I have ever experienced; unarguably the darkest.

  Sitting here, in my sleeping bag, watching and waiting for the sun to rise, I try to rest with the knowledge that, come morning, I will make my way up the hill to rescue Leon, but to no avail.

  Each time I close my eyes, I see the possible futures laid out before me.

  The Nest, snarled—

  The Moth Men, waiting—

  Their eyes, glowing—

  Leon, trapped.

  Or, worse: dead.

  I shake my head and burrow deeper into the covers to stave off the thoughts, but it doesn’t work.

  The more I think about it, the more I dread what tomorrow will bring.

  The words I have thought time and time again enter my mind, tempting me to close my eyes and hold my breath.

  Will I succeed? I wonder. Or will I succumb?

  I know I have to do everything in my power to do what’s right. Returning home without Leon is not an option—and though everything in this world is set against me, I know I cannot afford to let any obstacle get in my way.

  To lose Leon here, now, after everything we’ve gone through together, after everything that’s changed, would be astronomical in its devastation: like stars falling from the sky to bombard the unfortunate Earth.

  Nearby, Gloom shifts, its feet padding through the underbrush so softly I can barely hear them.

  You are awake, the archetype says.

  “I’m trying to sleep,” I reply, “but can’t.”

  I understand that you are afraid, Sophia. However—you must have faith that you are doing everything within your power to help your friend.

  “I could be climbing up this hill now.”

  And stumbling upon the Nest in pure darkness? The Archetype pauses. We both know that would be unwise.

  True. Venturing forward at this hour of the night would only serve to further complicate things. Besides—if Leon is trapped in some manner, and I have no idea where he is, a stray bullet could hit him. And if he dies in the game—

  I shake my head.

  No. They said that if I got trapped that they would have to shut the simulation down. They never said anything about dying in the game.

  But dying, I’m loathe to think, could be a form of entrapment in this simulation… couldn’t it?

  I don’t know; and that, along with my fear of failure, is what leaves me in a state of unease.

  Not knowing what could happen—being unable to anticipate the potential threats ahead—is like shooting in the dark through the eye of a needle: completely and utterly impossible.

  Sighing, I tuck myself into the covers one last time and attempt to fall asleep.

  The realities I face haunt me the entire way.

  Daylight brings with it a fog that captures and causes an eerie light to paint the ground. Like snakes in a jungle it weaves along the ground, obscuring most, if not all, of my sight. I have to blink several times to locate Gloom, and it’s only when it shifts that I actually see it.

  You’re awake, the archetype says.

  “Yeah,” I reply. “I am.”

  Good. It is time to face the Moth Men.

  “Don’t remind me.” I push myself upright, consider the pack of stuff at my feet, and frown. “Do you think I really need to carry this with me?”

  Is there anything you feel might be useful?

  “Other than the flashlight and the knife? No. I don’t.”

  Then take what you need. We have programmed the victory conditions to extract both of you after Mister Leon Gray has been rescued.

  I want to ask if this is guaranteed, but I realize questioning the archet
ype might lead me to answers I would rather not have.

  With a nod to reassure myself rather than answer it, I begin to empty the pack of its essentials. I strap the gun to my hip, clip the Bowie knife in its sheath to my arm, take hold of the spear, and load the last pieces of jerky into my pocket before rising and facing the monumental hill before me.

  “All right,” I then say. “Let’s go.”

  The archetype waits a moment for me to step to its side. Then it lifts its head to consider the world around us and leads me to the edge of the forest.

  The moment we reach the tree line, I am struck with a fear unlike any I have ever felt before.

  If I fail here, now, at the brink of it all, there is a chance I could become trapped in the game alongside Leon. And if I’m trapped—

  It’s game over, my conscience says.

  I try not to allow this thought to govern my circumstance as we step out from the tree line and onto the grassy hill, but I find it doing so regardless.

  “How far do we have to go?” I ask.

  According to my sensors: approximately one-hundred meters.

  I can’t help but tremble.

  Three-hundred feet is all that separates me from not only the Moth’s Nest, but Leon’s virtual self.

  I have never felt so scared in my life—have never felt so burdened by another person. Even when caring for my mother and little brother I never felt the insurmountable responsibility of someone’s life being within my hands. Sure, my mother could have died under my care, but not as a result of my actions.

  No.

  If I make even the slightest mistake, there is a chance Leon will never make it out of this game.

  His mother, his father, his friends and family—all would look upon me with shame if I were to emerge without him.

  If I emerge without him.

  I close my eyes, take a deep breath, then open them to a grisly sight.

  Gloom is flickering in and out of existence.

  “Gloom? What’s going on?”

  I am losing connection to this part of the world, the archetype responds. It appears that this part of the map is not stable.

  “What’s going to happen? Is Leon—”

  Leon’s presence is still active on the map. My own is failing.

  “How much further can you go?”

  I do not—

  Gloom blinks out of focus.

  I inhale, startled.

  It then shifts back into view. There is a chance my activity could alert those within the Nest, it says. I am going to disconnect from the game.

  “You can’t!”

  I must, Miss Garza. Please—have faith in your abilities. We will see you soon.

  Then, just like that, Gloom is gone.

  Despite my resolve, I begin to panic.

  The whole atmosphere of the game has changed.

  The birds start chirping. Animals begin rustling in the underbrush.

  Somewhere in the distance, a twig snaps.

  Though every part of me wants to hesitate, I know I can’t.

  So, I do the next best thing:

  I climb.

  The cold wind lashes me as I rush into the east. Planting one foot down, then the other, I use the waist-high branch I’ve fashioned into a spear to stabilize myself as I not only make my way up the hill, but fight the elements.

  Thunder rumbles in the distance. It is not rain that arrives with it, however.

  No.

  It is snow.

  Cascading down from the misty sky above, the snowflakes kiss and then burn my skin with a chilling intensity that leads me to believe this world is beginning to fight back.

  I know, if I do not hurry, something terrible will happen.

  So I climb. And climb. And climb some more.

  When I near the peak, I see the distant outline of something rising in the upon the horizon.

  Is that— I start to think.

  But before I can finish, I reach the top of the hill.

  At first, it takes a moment for me to process what I am seeing.

  Then, slowly, it begins to make sense.

  Before me is a building—a wicked building, with large tinted and broken windows—and upon its face there is a name. A building’s name. Mount Mary’s Insane Asylum.

  A breath escapes me, but it is soon drawn back into my lungs.

  This is it, I think. This is the Moth’s Nest.

  What cruel irony this is.

  I am to face this game’s greatest monster in a place meant to house the clinically insane.

  Will I become one of them, I wonder, once I enter?

  I cannot know.

  With that in mind, I step forward.

  9

  The snow, as it falls around me, reminds me of ash. Steadily accumulating at my feet, and scarring my lungs with its frigid intensity, it whips about my body as if it’s a wraith attempting to consume me, and causes me to draw my jacket even tighter about myself.

  “I’ll get you back,” I whisper, more to myself than anyone else. “Don’t worry, Leon. I’m coming.”

  I know nothing about this place, its concept, or even if it was meant to be a part of Dystopia in the first place. Cold, and remote, and resembling something monstrous, its foundation rises from dead and yellowed grass as if it is a cancer upon this world, leading me to believe it is as evil as it appears. That sight alone is enough to make me relinquish hold of my jacket, and I draw and remove the safety from the gun at my waist.

  The cold metal in my grasp should be comforting. Instead, it is a cruel reminder of what I’m meant to do.

  Remain calm, my mother would have said. Everything’s going to be fine.

  Fine. Fine?

  I can’t help but laugh.

  How is any of this fine? How will any of it be fine? I’m heading into a trap devised by the cruel and sinister artificial intelligence of a game gone awry, and I’m supposed to believe that everything will work out for the better?

  It has to, my conscience offers. Otherwise—

  I shake my head.

  I don’t want to think about the alternative. It’ll do nothing more than scare me off.

  With that in mind, I take my first few steps forward.

  Approaching the building is bad enough. With its cruel visage and even more haunting atmosphere, it reminds me of a place that was erected merely for the sake of torture, which I imagine is not entirely untrue. Already I can feel presences watching me, though when I look up, I see nothing but birds.

  Black birds.

  With red eyes.

  Their countenances are terrifying, their gazes judging.

  When did they arrive? And what is their purpose?

  Go, I think as I stare at the ones above the archway. Tell them I’m here.

  One laughs. Then several. Then many.

  Soon, all of them are cackling, creating a cacophony of sound that reminds me of a dead choir pulled straight from the depths of Hell.

  I shake my head, refusing to give in to their relentless taunts, and push forward.

  Approaching the door is bad enough.

  Wrapping my hand around the door handle is a completely different story.

  The moment my fingers touch the cold metal, I am assaulted by all my fears.

  Momma dying—

  Diego crying—

  Leon, trapped—

  His parents, furious—

  And I, in the middle of it all, as I somehow escape, as I somehow make it back to the world above, wherein there is a stretcher, and a young man atop it, and a series of monitors—first beeping, then droning, then, finally, flat-lining.

  I am overwhelmed by the all-consuming need to run.

  Somehow, though, I don’t. Be it through grit or merit, I am able to tighten my hand around the door until my fingers physically pop, then pull it open.

  A gust of air escapes.

  A stale odor assaults me

  It takes a moment for me to comprehend it, but when I finally do, it takes
hold of me.

  I’m not smelling death. I’m smelling feathers. Bird feathers.

  Movement sounds somewhere above.

  I jerk my head, and the gun, upright.

  Pigeons flock in the rafters above—cooing, first, like the gentle but stupid birds they are, then purring, like cats drawn from their roosts. They watch me calmly, though; and while it appears as though they bear no harm, it is one’s screech that jars my senses—that makes me feel as though I am being watched by something rather than just a stupid bird.

  Knowing I cannot go forward without light, I allow the spear to slip from my grasp, then reach down and pull the flashlight from my pocket.

  Gun in one hand, light in the other, the flashlight sparks to life, and I swing the beam about.

  The lobby is dark, its interior filled with dust and debris. Garbage, which appears to have been purposely brought here and which has accumulated from years of rot, decorates the place. What’s worse is that there are marks on the floor—arrows, it seems, that have been purposely drawn, and point to the hall to my right.

  Though it takes a moment for the scent to reach me, I soon realize what it is.

  Blood.

  Fresh blood.

  I sniffle, cursed by the dust in this place, and step forward.

  Glass crunches beneath my feet.

  The sound echoes throughout the space.

  With a grimace, I somehow manage to keep my composure as I continue to make my way into the space.

  My natural inclination is to avoid the arrows that have been purposely drawn onto the floor. This is because I know, based on prior experience, it’s leading me into a trap. However—I also know this place has risen as a result of my influence, and if I do not follow its rules, it is likely to end Leon’s life.

  Leon—

  Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath, then gaze down the nearby hall.

  A flicker of movement catches my eye.

  I jerk both my gun and the flashlight toward it.

  At first, I see nothing.

  Then, slowly, a dark figure slips into the depths of the building.

  Is that— I think.

  But I don’t give myself time to question it.

  Instead, I step forward—knowing, beyond all measure of a doubt, that this is most likely a trap.