“This was Blacky’s house,” the woman said. “Our village blacksmith. He used to make the best arrows and armor, until they . . .”
Slowly she raised her hand, fingers spread wide, then clenched it into a fist high over her head. A tear trickled down her face as she squeezed her hand, an angry scowl etched on her face as her arm shook with strain. She then looked down and lowered her hand. When she raised her face again, Gameknight could see a cold, violent look in her eyes. It was as if she was going to make the entire universe pay for what had happened to her village.
“Come, let us sit down and introduce ourselves,” Crafter said, gesturing to the beds. “We should be safe here tonight.”
Crafter sat on one of the beds and motioned for the others to sit opposite him. Gameknight put away his sword and sat across from Crafter, making room for the woman to sit next to him. They could hear the sounds of night just outside the walls of Blacky’s home. Monsters were emerging from the nearby forest to prowl through the village. The moaning of zombies and the clattering sounds of skeleton bones filled the air. Gameknight saw the woman move to the window and look out into the night as if she longed to be out there with the monsters instead of safely hidden within this building . . . strange.
Backing away from the window, she took a step into the torchlight. Her hair surprised him. He faintly remembered something about it, but the battle with the creeper and zombies had driven it from his mind. Now he could see it clearly. Her hair was vibrant red, long and wiry, with tight curls on each strand like clusters of stretched-out springs. Her dark brown eyes glared straight into him as she stood there, looking at the duo. Her gaze was filled with a peculiar sadness that was both sorrowful and hateful at the same time.
Sighing, she put her bow back into her inventory. As soon as the bow disappeared, her arm linked across her chest, hands tucked up into sleeves. Casting a cautious glance at Gameknight, she moved to his side and sat.
“My name is Hunter, and this was my village.”
“It is good to meet you, Hunter, even though it’s under sad circumstances,” Crafter said. “You have already met Gameknight999 here. He is the User-that-is-not-a-user, the one mentioned in the Prophecy.”
Her unibrow rose with curiosity as she looked at Gameknight, her deep brown eyes boring straight into him.
“So he is the one who will save us all?” she asked Crafter. “Then I guess we’re in a whole lot of trouble.” She turned to face Gameknight. “Nice job with that creeper back there,” she said sarcastically.
He frowned.
“First things first,” Crafter said. “Gameknight, let’s free her hands.”
“What are you talking about?” Hunter asked.
“You’ll see,” Crafter replied.
Gameknight pulled a crafting bench from his inventory, then placed it on the ground. Pulling out his pickaxe, he stood in front of the block and glared at the newcomer.
“As quickly as you can, craft something,” Crafter said.
“Like what?” she asked.
“It doesn’t matter,” Gameknight999 replied. “Just craft anything . . . you’ll see.”
Hunter grunted, then stood and moved toward the crafting bench. As soon as she was in front of the brown striped block, her hands separated again as they started to move, making some kind of wooden tool. In an instant, Gameknight swung his pickaxe down onto the crafting bench, shattering it to pieces with three quick blows. In the shower of splintered wood, Hunter stared down at her hands in wonder, her eyes wide with amazement.
“How did you . . . ?”
“We’ll explain in a minute,” Crafter answered, a wry smile on his face. “First, tell us what happened here. What attacked to your village?
“You can’t tell? They destroyed my village—killed men, women, and children while they had everyone herded into the crafting chamber.” Her voice was filled with rage. “You saw the scorch marks outside. The blazes just launched fireball after fireball at the people, my friends, if they didn’t move fast enough.”
She paused to take a breath, the horror of those memories playing back within her mind, her body shaking ever so slightly. The moan of a zombie floated through the air, making her glance at the window with a venomous glare. Then she continued.
“At first they didn’t even say anything, just blasted away at us. Then the creepers came and started blowing open the walls to homes so that they could herd the people out into the center of town, near the tower. They used people as . . . as . . .”
She had to stop speaking for a moment, but not because she was on the verge of tears. Rather, her rage was barely held in check. Gameknight could see her hands clenched into tight fists, ready to strike out at any monster within reach. He moved to the other bed and sat down next to Crafter.
She continued. “They used people as target practice, attacking them with fireballs if the others didn’t come out of their homes. I saw them blast away at some kids. The blazes and ghasts were just shooting fireball after fireball at them, for no reason at all. The zombie-pigmen kept the village surrounded so that nobody could escape. A few tried, but they didn’t get very far.
“I had been coming back from hunting when they fell on the village. A couple of zombie-pigmen saw me come out of the forest and came after me, but they didn’t realize I was a hunter. I ran back to the forest, then took ’em down with my bow. They didn’t die right away, though . . . I wouldn’t let ’em. The zombies followed me through the forest with my arrows sticking out of their bodies. Those rotting creatures didn’t have enough sense to go back to the village where it was safe; that’s what these monsters do, chase their prey until it’s over, one way or another. Well, I wouldn’t let it be over. I wanted those two zombies to suffer as long as possible.”
She stopped again to take a breath. Some locks of her fiery hair had fallen onto her face, and she pushed them back over an ear with an annoyed look, as if they did it on purpose. Glancing down at her newly freed hands, she continued.
“After I killed them, I went to the edge of the forest, but I could see that there were too many monsters in the village for me to return. Stitcher . . . my little sister . . . I knew I couldn’t help her, so I waited it out until they left with their prize: one lone survivor. I was too far away to tell who it was, but I could tell that they had what they’d come for. I’m pretty sure everyone else is dead.”
“Why do you say that?” Gameknight asked.
She gave him an angry glare, as if his question had been responsible for the whole tragedy.
“Because they left before sunrise,” she snapped. “If there had been anyone else alive, the monsters would have stayed and hunted for them.”
“What did you do after the monsters left?” Crafter asked, his young voice strained with emotion.
“I hunted in the forest for a time, looking for something to do, somewhere to be, then found a cave. It was filled with a handful of zombies and spiders. I focused my rage on them and made them pay for what their cousins did to my village. They didn’t die quickly—no, they were not worthy of a quick death, so I played with them and made them suffer.” She turned her head and looked up at the ceiling, her mind lost in the memories. Her voice lowered, almost to a whisper, and there was a hint of sadness to it. “I thought it would make me feel better somehow, making those creatures suffer, but it only made me thirst for more revenge.” Her gaze came back to Crafter and Gameknight, her voice louder again and filled with venom. “I thought I would live in that cave and just stay away from every living thing, but knew that I had to come back and see what happened to my village and my family.”
“And then you ran into us?” Crafter said.
“Right.”
“And you didn’t see the monsters take any villagers away?” the young boy asked.
She shook her head as the sounds of moaning filtered into the house, with the clicking of spiders adding percussion to the zombies’ vocal performance. Hunter turned and glanced longingly at the window
before addressing Crafter.
“When I came back from hunting, the monsters were already here . . . why?”
“In the last village we were in they took prisoners,” Crafter said.
“So what’s his deal?” she asked, gesturing to Gameknight. “Is he really the one from the Prophecy?”
“You see his name over his head?” Crafter asked.
She grunted and nodded.
“Only users have their names over their heads, but as you know all users are connected to the server with the server thread that we can see shooting straight up into the air. As you can see, he has no server thread connecting him to the CPUs.”
She grunted again.
“He is the one,” Crafter said confidently—a little too confidently for Gameknight’s taste. “He saved the last server, my server. I’m sure he’ll save this one as well, right Gameknight?”
This time it was Gameknight’s turn to grunt.
Hunter scowled, then stood and moved back to the window. The clattering sounds of skeleton bones now filled the air. Her bow suddenly materialized in her left hand, an arrow in her right. Gameknight wasn’t sure she’d known that she’d pulled them out. The sounds of monsters had drawn her to the window, and now it looked as if all she wanted to do was go out there, into the night, and kill. Recovering herself, she looked at Crafter and Gameknight. A scowl was etched on her face, her eyes filled with a cold, dead light, like a creature that no longer had any emotions . . . except for hatred and spite. Gameknight stood and got ready to draw his sword, unsure what her next move was going to be.
“So what now?” she asked.
“We’re gathering NPCs to fight the monsters,” Gameknight said. “We’re going to stop them on this server and not let them get to the Source.”
“The Source . . .” she said in a dreamlike voice.
The Source was where all the Minecraft computer code came from, where updates, bug fixes, and processing power flowed from to keep all the Minecraft worlds functioning. If the Source was destroyed, then all of Minecraft would be destroyed.
“Are you going to stop the mobs like you did with that creeper?” she asked in an accusatory tone.
“That creeper surprised me, that’s all!” Gameknight snapped.
“Sure it did.”
He grunted, then moved to the opposite side of the room to look out another window. The village was lit with pale moonlight, a silvery illumination that made things look ethereal and dreamlike . . . except for the monsters. They looked like nightmares. He could see the occasional zombie or skeleton walking through the streets, looking for something to kill. A few creepers lurked on the outskirts of the village, but not very many. It was as if the monsters knew that this village was used up, and most had already gone off somewhere else.
“Why did you return, Hunter, if you thought everyone had been killed?” Crafter asked.
“I had to see if any of my family had survived,” she said in a quiet, dejected voice. “My mother and father had been working down in the crafting chamber. And my sister, Stitcher, had been . . . had been . . .”
She stood there silently, a pained look on her face.
“I’m sure she’s alright,” Gameknight said. Crafter nodded his blond head.
“What do you two know about it?” she snapped. “She might be dead.”
“Or she might not,” Crafter replied. “The monsters came here for your crafter, not your sister. They didn’t care about the villagers—only your crafter.”
“How do you know this?”
“Because we’ve seen it in many other villages,” Gameknight replied. “We aren’t sure why they’re doing it, but the ghast king in the Nether, Malacoda, is responsible for all this destruction.”
“Yes, Gameknight’s right,” Crafter added. “Malacoda is methodically collecting all the crafters he can get his hands on, for some scheme as well as taking a few prisoners back to the Nether”
“Malacoda,” she grumbled, looking down at the ground for a moment. She eyed Crafter again. “You mean Stitcher could be alive . . . they could all be alive?”
Crafter stood and put a small, reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Yes, and we’ll help you to find them if you come with us.”
She stood there for a moment and considered the offer, then turned and looked outside at the random collection of monsters on the street below, her fingers stroking the feathers of an arrow almost lovingly. Then she addressed Crafter.
“Fine. I’ll go with you, but in the morning, not now.”
“That’s fine,” Crafter interjected. “We need to rest as well. In the morning, then.”
“I’ll stand the first watch,” she said.
She then turned and headed down the stairs. Gameknight heard the stairs creak under her weight, then listened as the front door swung open and closed abruptly. Stepping to the window, he could see her move with the grace of a predatory cat, flitting from shadow to shadow, an arrow notched in her bow, ready, waiting.
“A sad story,” Crafter said, shaking his head.
“A strange girl.”
“Sorrow can change anyone, but come, let’s get some rest.”
Gameknight moved to the other bed and lay down, his body suddenly feeling very weary, and in the next instant sleep overtook him.
CHAPTER 9
DREAMS
T
he haze from his restless dreams lifted slowly from Gameknight’s mind. His arm was slightly numb, with pins and needles prickling his nerves as blood flow gradually returned to it. Sitting up, he stretched his aching back, sore from being hunched over for so long. His cheek felt hot and a little numb, like how it usually felt after he had fallen asleep at his desk in history class. Reaching out, he stretched his arms wide, then rubbed his cheek, the feeling slowly flowing back to the side of his face.
It was dark and cold. He felt as if he were underground somewhere, and an icy, damp feeling chilled him to the bone. Stretching out his right hand without thinking, he reached forward, not sure why. His hand bumped into something hard, its sharp edges scratching his fingertips. Grabbing for the switch that he’d flipped a thousand times, he turned on the desk lamp, spilling light into the room. Looking at the lamp, he could see that it was made out of old jet engine parts, all of them welded together in a complicated spiral pattern that looked like a mechanical tornado; it was a creation his father had called the CFM56-lamp—he still had no idea what that meant.
The desk lamp . . . his father’s desk lamp . . . he was back at home!!!
He had made it out of Minecraft . . . somehow.
Looking down at his hands, Gameknight could see his fingers—round fingers, not square ones. Extending his arms, he saw the subtle curved shape to his wrists and forearms. He wasn’t a blocky Minecraft character anymore; he was human!
Glancing about the basement, he saw the licorice 3D-printer and the ketchup bottle opener and the glasses-iPod thing and the machine-gun marshmallow launcher . . . and . . . the digitizer, which was pointing directly at him. He was back in his basement again. He was home! Sound trickled down the stairway from above. It was a bouncy song from some kid’s show . . . his sister.
Gameknight smiled.
He was back. Grinning, he thought about his adventure in Minecraft, thought about the terrors and the nightmares, and shook ever so slightly. The thoughts of zombie claws reaching out at him and creepers hissing nearby . . . and Erebus . . . were all still fresh in his memory. He shook again, this time a little harder . . . Erebus—the nightmare of nightmares. Looking around the basement, he could see strange shadows cast upon the concrete walls; they were long, jagged shadows formed by the many tall contraptions that populated the room. Some of the shadows looked like monstrous hands reaching out from the darkness to ensnare some poor unfortunate soul. Peering into these shadows, places where the weak lighting couldn’t quite reach, he felt like he was momentarily back in Minecraft, looking for zombies in the shadowy crevasses and dark corners of an underground cave
rn.
“This is ridiculous,” he said aloud, to no one.
Pushing away these lurking fears, Gameknight turned back around and faced his computer monitor. An image from Minecraft was displayed on the screen, but nothing was moving. It showed the original location where he had spawned. There was a tall waterfall raining down from a high overhang, the water cascading down into an underground cavern. He could see torches around the opening to his hidey-hole and a tall tower of dirt atop the outcropping, torches decorating its peak. And at the center of this image stood his character, his Minecraft moniker, Gameknight999, floating above the iron-clad character in tall white letters. Reaching out, he placed his hand gently on the mouse and gave it the smallest of nudges.
Suddenly, a buzzing noise started to fill the air behind him, like the sound of many angry hornets approaching from afar. The buzzing became louder and louder in the time it took him to turn in his chair to see what it was. The digitizer, it was glowing yellow. At first, it was just a faint glow, but then it grew in intensity as the buzzing sound became angrier and angrier. It was turning on and getting ready to reach out with its burning hand of light to draw him back in again.
“I don’t want to go back,” he moaned to the empty basement.
The buzzing grew louder, and the yellow glow was now like the sun.
“No . . . NO!”
Just as a white beam of light shot out of the end of the digitizer, he launched himself out of his chair and away from the desk, rolling across the dusty concrete floor. Crawling away from the buzzing, fiery sphere of illumination, he glanced over his shoulder. He expected to see the blazing shaft of light lancing into the desk, either cutting it apart like a high-powered laser or enveloping it in its luminous grasp and drawing it into Minecraft. But instead, the beam of light had formed a glowing circular patch of light that just floated in the air. The center of the circle then shifted in color, from a glaring white to a brilliant yellow and then to dark blue, the shading oscillating from one to the next in seconds. Gradually, the color settled to a consistent, deep lavender, something he recognized, though he couldn’t recall where from. Dark purple particles started to decorate the edges of the circle, flying out of the patch of light, dancing about for an instant, and then falling back in as if drawn by some invisible current.
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