Galactic Fist of Legend

by Scottie Futch

  They came for him in their thousands, the undead freak parade. There were cops and janitors, white collar workers, and rich men who's walking corpses were still flush with cash. Each of them sang their personal song of doom. Their semblance of life, naught but a cheap charade. They moaned for his sweet meats, and clawed the air as he ran by in a flash. A thought crossed his mind; he should have never left his room.

  The mall rose up before him. As he ran forward, he saw movement on the roof. A man kept thrusting his arms to the side. Scott ran toward the direction that he suggested. Once he rounded a corner, a rope ladder dropped from the roof.

  Scott took a second to put his gun away to free his hands for the climb, and then made his way up. He made it to the roof long before the few remaining jogging zombies caught up to him.

  "Thanks for that," said Scott. He took a few hard breaths then looked at the small group of people who had surrounded him. They had weapons drawn, but the look in their eyes was universal. They were ready to fight, but did not want to fire.

  "Who are you?" asked the man in the center. He wielded both a handgun and a magnificent mustache. Those were his two most notable features, however. Everything else about him seemed fairly ordinary.

  He started to say his name, but remembered how he was supposed to introduce himself. "I'm the answer to Father Harrison's prayers."

  The men gathered on the roof stared at Scott hard for a moment, and then slowly lowered their weapons and looked toward each other.

  A smug looking man in a sports jacket snorted at Scott then asked, "Little late aren't you?"

  "What do you mean?"

  Mustache guy shook his head. "Father Harrison was bit when one of the people he was caring for turned. He doesn't have long."

  Scott blinked. "Oh. I should probably cure him then. Can you take me to him?"

  That brought the other men up short. "Cure?" asked Mr. Mustache. "There isn't one. You get bit and you end up just like the rest of them."

  "Fine, whatever. If you want to let him die then go ahead. I can just save the few doses that I have for myself when we get on the road."

  "The road? What are you talking about?" Smug guy raised his rifle up once more, his previous smugness died away a little in the process. "Just who the hell are you?"

  Scott looked into the eyes of the frightened men around him, and then realized what he must sound like. He had run around like a jackass and shot up the place then claimed to be the answer to a dying man's prayers. "I'm someone who has been sent here to help. Take me to Father Harrison and I can prove that, if it's not too late for me to help him."

  A brief, silent, moment passed then Mr. Mustache said, "Fine. Let's see this cure you claim to have."

  Scott offered the gathered men a cheerful smile. Things were going well, and he didn't even lose a body part in the process.

  Chapter 8: Protection from Evil

  The Jamestown Mall was not a large structure by any means when compared to other malls. It was a building that encompassed only one floor, and offered a mere thirty shops.

  The typical barbell style layout was in effect in this place. There was a main entrance and a main exit near the center of the building. Upon entry a shopper would walk past the central food court, and a strange stage area with a Christmas theme. What looked to be electronic puppets, caroling bears, stood upright in the center. The happy little faux-furry bastards would normally be singing their hearts out, but a lack of electricity forced their silence.

  If the potential shopper chose to turn to the left, or to the right, they would be able work their way past a dozen or so shops and kiosks before they ended up at a major department store on either end of the building. There was nothing remarkable, or particularly noteworthy, about the mall. It was the sort of shopping-center that might spring up in any modestly sized town.

  "So, where's the good father?" asked Scott as Mr. Mustache led the way. A few of the other men followed behind him, not that he was overly worried about them. They were in for a rude awakening if they fired their weapons.

  "We're keeping him at the police sub-station," said the mustachioed man.

  Scott did not know if other countries did the same thing, but there were malls in America where the mall owner contacted the local police and paid them set up shop with off-duty officers instead of hiring normal security. Want to steal a pack of batteries from RadioShanty? Go ahead. The mall cops were actually the real thing. They carried working firearms to go along with their normal mace and stun gun routine.

  A thought crossed Scott's mind. "Did you use to work there?"

  "Yeah, before..." said the man without any semblance of a desire to further elaborate.

  Several people poked their heads out of various stores as they passed. Most remained silent, but a few quietly asked who the new guy was. A few others called out to ask about the recent gunfire.

  Scott glanced at all the noisome NPCs, as he thought of them, and then put them out of his mind. They were either real people, or digital renditions. Either way, they were survivors. While he would like to help them, he needed to speak with the good father before he became further involved with the group.

  The police sub-station was near the center of the mall, not too far from the roof access that the survivors used for watching the area. Inside, Scott was greeted by the sight of a few desks and several sad looking people. In the far left corner was the holding cell used by the mall cops to detain people until an on-duty officer would arrive to claim them.

  "How is he?" asked Mustache.

  An older man with thinning hair gave the depressing answer, a single shake of his head. A soft moan echoed from the small steel room. It was not the sensual moan of a beautiful woman, but the soft moan of a man in pain. Hi conditioned deteriorated to the point that he could barely speak anymore, Father Harrison was not long for this world.

  Scott pulled his backpack around to his front then began to fiddle around inside. "Here we go." The cleanser came in the form of three pills inside of a vial.

  "Is that supposed to be your miracle cure?" asked the smug guy from before. Scott glanced over to him then nodded.

  He was a nondescript man outside of his attitude. Brown hair, brown eyes, and a somewhat pasty complexion. Nothing about him seemed important. In fact, he did not even seem important enough to learn his name. Typical background character in a story, at this point, and perfect for a story mission.

  "Yes, if he's too far gone to swallow a pill we can dissolve it in a bottle of water and pour it in his mouth," said Scott.

  He eyed the pills for a moment. "If it's too late for that, it can be poured on a large open wound, but the pill form is best if possible. Takes effect faster if we can get it inside of him."

  "What? A cure?" asked the thin-haired man. "What's he talking about Jed?"

  "Don't know what his game is, but he claimed he could help," said Jed, formerly known as Mr. Mustache.

  "You're just going to let someone you don't know cram a pill down Father Harrison's throat?" asked the man. He stood up then pointed at Scott with a scowl on his face. "I'll be damned!"

  Scott glanced over to the unnamed balding man then cocked an eyebrow. "I only have to rescue a minimum of one person in this place to meet my objectives," he said.

  Before anyone could react he snorted and pointed at the man, "I can just as easily abandon the rest of you."

  With a snort, Scott continued, "It would make my life a lot easier if I did just haul ass with one or two people who don't want to sit here and starve to death while surrounded by cannibal corpses."

  OK. Calm negotiation and charismatic leadership weren't his thing. His actions certainly garnered the necessary attention either way. The small crowd of people began to babble excitedly.

  "What objective? Talk!" snapped smug guy before he raised his shotgun and pointed it toward Scott.

  Everyone in the room save for Scott became tense at the sudden movement. Scott, however, merely quirked his eyebrow. "Tell me,
sports fan, are you tired of living?"

  Smug guy stared at Scott, hard, for a moment. "You do see this shotgun pointed at your face right?"

  Despite being under the gun, so to speak, Scott laughed a little then nodded. "Yeah. It's kind of cute in a useless sort of way."

  The reaction of the man wielding the shotgun was priceless. The contortions that his face went through while trying to decide on a proper emotional response were quite comical. The laughter intensified briefly upon seeing such a ridiculous thing.

  Scott's laughter stopped suddenly and his eyes narrowed. "I don't have time for this shit. Pull the trigger and force me to kill everyone in this room, or put that shit away and possibly live long enough to be led to a place where the zombies will have a much harder time getting to you."

  The room grew deathly quiet for a moment as people tried to process those words. If Scott was better at speaking with people, he might have been able to discuss the situation more succinctly. However, he was not much for public speaking. Most of his life was spent working in a closed-off environment, or in gaming. He was not much on social graces when it came to dealing with crowds.

  "This mother fucker..." growled another of the roof top commandos. He raised his rifle and pointed it at Scott as well. "We saved your ass, and you—"

  "—Saved my ass?" interjected Scott. "What part of what you saw out there led you to believe that I needed saving? I came here specifically to help you people. I live in that shit out there on my own most of the time."

  Scott snorted then looked Mr. Mustache in the eye. "Either I can help you people, or I can't. I'd prefer to get as many of you to the safe-ish zone as possible, but for me to live to fight the good fight I only need to save one of you."

  "If you would just tell us something...." said Mustache, "Look, you're saying some really strange things, man."

  Scott sighed. "Can I at least cure the sick old fart in the cage before he tries to rise up and eat our sweet meats?"

  "You really have a cure?" asked Balding-Man, while ignoring the sick old fart comment. It would be the worst superhero name ever, but it was also quite appropriate.

  "Sure, but only three doses. I'm not made of experience points, you know," said Scott.

  "Experience points?" asked the Smug Guy. The tall lanky bastard eyed Scott even more critically after that. "The hell are you talking about."

  Scott sighed at him then ignored the pasty bastard. "Let me in the cage so I can introduce myself to Father Harrison."

  "Fine, but if you do anything..." said Mustache cryptically.

  The apocalypse grinding pseudo-hero nodded. "Sure, sure. I get the message. It'll be a bad day for someone."

  Who would be the recipient of that bad day? It was different in the minds of everyone in the room. Most of the people assumed it meant a bad day for Scott. However, the plucky pseudo-hero had a very different thought process in mind. One does not simply spend all of their time murdering zombies while barely escaping alive, all for the honor of being forced to do it over again and again, without developing a sense for the expediency of killing an opponent.

  Scott had only met one group of survivors before. There was the possibility of having run across the trail of a couple of others, but they stayed hidden or had recently left the area. So far, both groups were highly suspicious of him. Though he did understand that they had a good reason. Scott was certainly a suspicious looking asshole.

  Unfortunately for the would-be survivors, Scott did not have the luxury of coddling them. He also lacked the desire to be their special best friend. He had a job to do, save as many of them as he could in the time allotted. If he spent his time trying to win their hearts and minds it might work. He was not certain that he did have that sort of time, however.

  Mr. Mustache, or rather Jed. Scott decided that he should pay attention to the man's name since it was one of the few names given so far, pulled a set of keys out of a drawer then went over to inspect the occupant of the room. "He looks like he's still breathing, but we're going to have to lock you in there with him."

  "Not happening," said Scott.

  "Look, he's infected. I'm not leaving this door open," said Jed, the Mustache loving leader of the survival group.

  "Then I'm not curing him." said Scott.

  Jed sighed then turned and pointed his shotgun at Scott. "We didn't think that you would. You're going in anyway."

  Scott glanced at him then grinned. "Guess you people really don't get the situation you're in right now."

  His grin unnerved several of the people in the room, but smug guy was not one of them. He shook his shotgun at Scott. "Shut up!"

  "This is why I hate NPCs. The last one I ran across tried to rush me and take my gun. His little girl friend threw a shoe at me after I ended up having to shoot him," said Scott before sighing softly. Was it really supposed to be this difficult to convince people of things? Why did anyone bother doing that shit in a crises? It was like herding mentally challenged cats.

  Scott eyed the smug guy. "Honestly, who throws a shoe?"

  "NPCs? Experience points?" asked Smug Guy. "You think this shit is some kind of game?!"

  "Yes. It is a game. Your entire existence is nothing more than a real-life survival horror game. I can't say for certain if the shit turds who turned your world into a living nightmare are the same ones who sent me in to answer that man's prayer but it's likely," said Scott, while he pointed at the cage.

  "Stop your shit! This is a game? A fucking game!" snapped smug guy.

  "Yes," said Scott in a matter-of-fact tone. "Everything you knew and loved was destroyed because someone decided to turn this world into a game."

  The people in the room stared at him with expressions that mixed wild-eyed incredulity and derision. No one spoke for a brief moment, but Scott could see the denial rising up within them. It was a visible, palpable force. Even with zombies pounding at their door, it was an impossible thing to believe. Their life was not a videogame.

  "Got a better explanation? Not that I need one since I actually know a little of the truth." Scott eyed the smug guy then looked at the shocked looking people in the room. "Don't believe me, still? OK, since when do dead corpses get up and run around screaming about how much they love you?"

  He continued his sarcastic explanation. "Don't tell me that you honestly think that some fucking virus can cause rotting flesh to get up and haul ass."

  Scott snorted and shook his head, "That shit's impossible without something supernatural seriously fucking around with the nature of how the world works."

  "That... come on man... That's just," said Jed, his eyes growing wide.

  Scott nodded to him. "Yeah, it's fucked up. The same sort of shit is happening to my world as far as I know. Bunch of alien jack asses showed up. Told us they were going to swallow our souls unless we beat their final boss or whatever. Now we've been conscripted to go to worlds like yours and do missions so that we can become strong enough to challenge their head asshole."

  "You're lying... That...." said smug guy.

  "That's exactly why I came here. That's why I have a mission objective," said Scott. He looked around at various people in the room then over to Jed. "That's why I have around seventy hours to escort your unbelieving asses to a safer location, or you'll all be overrun by the rotting fucks out there while they howl for your sweet meats."

  Scott rubbed his chin for a moment. He spied something in the corner then grinned. "Alright, how about this. Tell me what's in that foot locker over there?"

  "That? It's empty I guess," said Jed, hesitatingly.

  "If I open it, there is a good chance that it will be full of food and water." said Scott.

  Jed gestured to Balding-Man, and said. "I'll bite. Open it first, George."

  Balding-George nodded his head then walked over and opened the footlocker. "Only a few sheets of paper and a dead rat."

  "Close it and I'll show you something good," said Scott. George looked to Jed then closed the foot locker w
hen he saw the mustachioed man's nod.

  Scott blithely walked over with no fucks given for the guns trained on him. He was more concerned about them than he let on, but he knew that he had at least a chance to survive if a fire fight broke out due to his hit points. He reached the foot locker then placed his hands on the top. It flashed with a yellow light for a brief instant, a light no one else noticed, and then he opened it up. Scott pulled out several bottles of water. "So, who's thirsty?"

  "H-holy shit!" said George as he looked down into the foot locker. "Food and water just like he said."

  Several other people crowded around. Food had started to become scarce. What Scott had in the footlocker was not much, but it would help.

  He performed his little foot locker trick a few times by having someone open and close the box. He then opened it himself, and all manner of items were inside. When George tried to pull something out, his hand passed through it like it was made of mist. Only Scott could put something in, or take something out.

  It was not long afterward that Scott was allowed to visit with the half-conscious Father Harrison. He was too far gone to swallow a pill, but he could be coaxed into drinking a bottle of water that had been infused with the cleansing pill.

  A soft blue light radiated outward from the man for a moment. Soon after, his eyelids cracked open and he blinked slowly. "What?" croaked the elderly man, slowly.

  "Father Harrison..." whispered Balding-George. His eyes misted over as he saw the older man coming back from the brink of death.

  "Drink some more water," said Scott. The elderly man would need the entire bottle of water to kill the virus raging throughout his body.

  The good father dutifully drank, as he was quite thirsty. However, it did not take long to realize that he did not know the young man offering him the life-saving elixir. "Who, might you be son?"

  Scott smiled at the older man. "I'm the answer to your prayers."

  Father Harrison's eyes widened slightly then he looked up at the rest of the people who had gathered round. "I don't understand..."