Battle Royale Online

by Victor Deckard

  Suddenly, a player popped up above the steering wheel as if he had been hunching down in the driver seat, trying to avoid being seen. The headlights lit up, the engine roared to life, and the black pickup truck lurched forward out of the garage.

  The front passenger window was rolled down. The driver extended his right hand, in which he held what looked like a Micro Uzi, and opened fire on us through the window.

  “Watch out,” Jennifer yelled.

  We dashed in the opposite directions. Some of the bullets hit me. Yet thanks to the body armor I was wearing, they inflicted not too much damage on my character.

  I heard the blast of Jennifer’s shotgun followed by the unmistakable sound of the truck’s front passenger-side tire blowing out. The black car started to swerve back and forth as the driver fought to bring the car under control.

  He failed. The car veered off the paved driveway and plowed into the trunk of a tree, its engine compartment crushing under the impact like tinfoil. Dense smoke billowed from under the crumpled hood. The driver’s-side door swung open and the player leaped out of the car. Instead of running away, he turned around and darted back toward the house.

  “Let’s get him,” Jennifer directed.

  When we reached the entrance door, my girlfriend turned and jogged toward the corner of the house.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Get inside,” she said casting a glance at me. “I’m gonna get in through the back door so he can’t get away from us.”

  Then she disappeared around the corner. I crashed through the door, leaped to the side, and brought up the SMG, my finger slipping into the trigger guard and taking up the slack. Yet the player wasn’t in the room. I started slowly walking farther into the living area, my gun at eye level.

  Some muted sound reached my ears from above. A moment later, I heard the sound of a door crashing against a wall. Jennifer had just gained entrance to the house.

  “Jen, he’s upstairs,” I yelled.

  “Coming,” Jennifer replied from somewhere deep in the house.

  Deciding not to wait for my girlfriend to show up, I started up the stairs. Once on the landing, I dropped to a knee and whipped the SMG up. Yep nobody was aiming at me from the second floor. I got up and climbing up another flight of steps. I reached the second floor and scanned my surroundings. To my left was a door and to my right was a corridor. I first walked up to the door, kicked it open, and burst through it. It was a bedroom. I quickly checked the room but found nobody.

  I got out of the bedroom and started down the corridor, moving slowly, straining my ears. It was very quiet. There were several doors on either side of the hallway, spaced about three feet apart. I walked to the first door on my right, swung it open and dashed inside. The room was empty and there weren’t any places where the player could hide themselves.

  When I was about to turn toward the door to leave the room, there was a sound of a powerful weapon firing. A fist-sized hole blew open in the wall on my right. Pellets zipped past me and cratered the wall behind me. I dropped to the floor as the shotgun boomed again and another huge hole ripped open in the wall.

  The player in the adjacent room kept blasting away and more holes appeared in the wall. Plaster spat from it, white clouds of dust hanging in the air. I crawled across the floor on my stomach and took cover behind a bed. Several more pellets burst through the wall and zipped over my head. A few of them struck the bed and penetrated the big pillow, feathers flying every which way.

  I couldn’t return fire while buckshot whizzed overhead, so I kept my head down.

  Finally, the shotgun blasts ceased. I rose above the bed, brought my weapon up, depressed the trigger, and held it down. My bullets penetrated the wall with ease. White dust filled the air. Yet neither screams of pain nor notifications about getting experience points rewarded me. My gun finally clicked on an empty chamber. I dropped the spent mag, shoved home a fresh one, and worked the charging handle to chamber the first round.

  The shotgun blasted again. The impact of the buckshot on my body armor caused me to stumble backward. I dived to the floor and crawled behind the bed again. But it wasn’t much of cover. Had to think of something real quick.

  Several grenades festooned my tactical vest. I pulled one, jerked the pin, dropped the spoon, and tossed the grenade over the bed. It detonated on impact, blasting a huge hole in the wall. I then thrust my assault rifle over the edge of the bed and depressed the trigger, blindingly firing through the hole. Again, all my shots missed the player.

  He started blasting his shotgun again, blowing chunks out of the wall. I reloaded my weapon, yanked another grenade from my vest, let it cook off in my hand for a couple of moments, and then tossed it through the wall. A second later, it detonated in the other room. The explosion was followed by a high-pitched scream of pain. Also, I got some experience points for wounding the player.

  The blasts of the shotgun ceased. The player must have been trying to heal himself. I leaped to my feet and dashed across the room. I knew I was taking a huge risk of getting shot but decided to take this chance anyway.

  A moment later, I was through the hole in the wall. Quickly scanning the room, I spotted the player crouching down behind an overturned table he used as cover. Next to him on the floor lay a spent auto-injector. He held another one in his hand, about to use it on himself to top off his Health. Across his lap lay the shotgun.

  We spotted each other simultaneously. The player dropped the auto-injector and went for his gun. I crossed the room in one leap and kicked the shotgun from his hands, sending it skidding across the floor.

  I shoved the muzzle of my assault rifle down into the player’s face and said, “You better not move.”

  Above the player’s head hovered a window with his character’s stats.

  > Name: Vic Morgan

  > Level: 11

  The player recognized me as well. “You?!”

  “I’m surprised you haven’t been croaked by other players yet,” I said.

  “Are you chasing me?” He snarled. “It’s the third time I’ve met you! Get away from me, stalker!”

  “You got a screw loose, dude.”

  “And how come you’ve managed to defeat me for a second time?” He asked totally ignoring my last remark. “You must be a cheater or something!”

  “Rather, I’m quite a good player. Or you just suck at video games. I think it’s both, though”

  “The next time I meet you, I’ll sure kill you, you damn smartass.”

  “Don’t think there will be the next time,” I said as my finger started putting pressure on the trigger.

  “Wait,” the player screamed in panic. “Don’t kill me, man!”

  “Why shouldn’t I?”

  “Don’t you remember what I told you about my uncle? Duh.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I seem to recall something about your playing the game and reviving in your rich uncle’s house after getting killed while all the other players die for good. Such a sad story you told me. So you mean you didn’t think up the whole thing?”

  “Of course, I didn’t! Or do you really think I could think of such an intricate story in such a short span of time while you held me at gunpoint?”

  “I don’t know anything about you. You may be a writer with a vivid imagination.”

  Vic Morgan started to say something, but I cut him off. “Anyway, I don’t really care. Unlike all the other players, you don’t kick the bucket in real life if killed in the game, so I don’t see any reason why I shouldn’t kill you.”

  “Listen to me, dumbass,” Vic Morgan snarled at me. “Listen very carefully. If you kill me now, I promise you I will put myself out to make sure you don’t win the game. You hear me? No matter how good you are at this shit, I’ll make sure you get killed, no matter what. I’ll see to it. I’ll make you suffer, you asshole. I’ll make––”

  All of a sudden, there was the blast of a shotgun from behind and th
e player’s head exploded in a shower of chunks of jagged bone and pulpy brain matter. The player slumped over, dead.

  I jumped to the side to get out of the line of fire, spun around, and–– saw my girlfriend standing in the doorway, the smoking shotgun held tightly in her slender hands.

  “Don’t know what all the fuss was about, but I got sick of listening to this moron already,” she said.

  “You scared the heck out of me, Jen,” I said. “Didn’t hear your footsteps.”

  “Sorry about that. I tried to be quiet.”

  “Well, you pulled it off.”

  “So what was he talking about?” Jennifer asked nodding toward the headless corpse.

  “How much did you hear?”

  “Only the part where he threatened to kill you if you killed him. What the heck did he mean? How exactly was he going to kill you after getting killed?”

  “I don’t have a freaking clue, Jen. You whacked the guy before I could ask him about that. You shoulda waited till I cleared this up before killing him.”

  “I know. I just can’t stand the sight of somebody treating you badly.”

  Well, at least I knew the reason for her being so furious with Samantha now.

  While we searched the house, I gave Jennifer a quick rundown on how I had met Vic Morgan and what he had told me.

  Sure enough, the house had already been looted. Not by Vic Morgan, though. We went through his pockets but didn’t find anything interesting save for some ammo and auto-injectors.

  We got back to our car and drove off, Jennifer behind the wheel, me in the passenger seat.

  We drove in silence for some time. Then I seemed to hear something above the purring of the SUV’s engine.

  “Do you hear it?” I asked Jennifer.

  “No. What’s that?”

  I rolled down the window and stuck my head out, straining my ears. The wind carried the sound from behind. I twisted in the seat to look back just in time to see a helicopter swing above the thicket of trees we had passed a few minutes before. The chopper was flying just above the treetops, gaining on us. The thudding of the rotor blades was easily discernible now.

  “Dang it,” Jennifer muttered, looking in the rearview mirror.

  My girlfriend slammed her foot on the accelerator, pushing the SUV to its limits. I stuck my head out the window to check on the helicopter every now and then. It was coming hell-bent for leather. It wouldn’t be long before the chopper made it to our car.

  Jennifer guided the SUV along the gravel road as the helicopter kept following us. My girlfriend swung the car square to the middle of the road to give herself more maneuverability.

  When the helicopter got within firing range of my level 10 assault rifle, I half crawled out the open window to bring my weapon into play. When I was about to fire, we reached the sharp bend in the road. Jennifer took the corner too tight for boxy vehicle’s suspension. I could felt the tires on my side of the car lift off the ground and for a sickening moment, it seemed like the SUV was going to roll over. Then the tires came down onto the road again. My finger jerked the trigger involuntarily, but all my shots went wide.

  The helicopter was right behind us by this point. It dropped to keep our racing car in a tight overwatch position. As the helicopter banked slightly, I saw that a sliding door on one side was open. Perched in the doorway was a player manning a huge machine gun.

  I recognized both the gunman and the pilot at once. It was the two Russian players I had encountered earlier in the day. I also remembered those two assholes exchanging dirty jokes at the expense of my girlfriend.

  I got furious. I leaned out of the window and put the chopper in my sights. Yet before I could stroke the trigger, the gunman beat me to it. Machine-gun fire raked the SUV. I got back in the car as the heavy-caliber rounds burned through the frame and ripped the leather covers off the backseat, exploding stuffing in the air. One slug clipped me above the left elbow.

  “You okay?” Jennifer asked, a worried tone in her voice.

  “Just a scratch.”

  “We gotta get rid of them somehow before they riddled us.”

  “Yeah.”

  I thrust the top half of my body out the passenger window, aimed at the bobbing chopper, and triggered a long burst. At this exact moment, Jennifer rounded another bend in what seemed an endless succession of bends in the road and all my bullets missed the target.

  More rounds struck the SUV and clawed through the steel bodywork of the car as the gunman returned fire, racking the right side of the vehicle just above the wheel wells. The SUV was jostled by the impact, but Jennifer kept the car steady. Still, the SUV didn’t seem to be as fragile as I thought it would be because not all slugs were able to penetrate the vehicle.

  “The car’s tougher than it looks,” I said.

  “Yeah,” Jennifer replied. “Probably because I’ve recently learned Vehicle expert.”

  I remembered that this skill made the vehicle you currently drove more resistant to bullet damage.

  “Still, it ain’t much,” she added. “It won’t stand against such an attack for long, so you better deal with this chopper ASAP.”

  As the gunman started firing again, Jennifer commenced spinning the wheel back and forth, causing the SUV to zigzag. The helicopter rushed forward and flew over us. The gunman kept firing, but he made no attempt to control his bursts. The rounds fell all around the swerving SUV. Most of the bullets completely missed our vehicle. Two stray bullets punched through the hood. Another one struck the radiator and plumes of steam began to spill out.

  I walked my bullets along the chopper’s side and across its belly, perforating a line of bullet holes in the fuselage. The chopper seemed to be bullet spongy, soaking up the damage.

  The helicopter turned in the air, passed overhead, and was behind the SUV again. The gunman kept sending a stream of bullets at the vehicle. Some of them penetrated the roof and buried themselves in the dashboard, showering Jennifer with shards of glass and plastic.

  The helicopter swung in a wide semicircle and rushed after our car again like a metallic bird of prey. We were now racing through what looked like a small forest. With trees on either side of the road, we were now trapped within the confines of the road.

  The gunman was remorseless. He kept pouring lead into the SUV, the slugs blowing fist-sized chunks out of the road. Some of the bullets shattered the rear window, ripped through the seats, and struck against my body armor. I had to use a couple of auto-injectors to quickly restore my Health.

  Jennifer was snarling an unending stream of curses as she jerked the steering wheel from side to side. She was doing her best to prevent the car from being hit. I noticed that one of the bullets had caught Jennifer in the right hip. Blood had already soaked the fabric of her shorts and was pouring from the wound.

  She saw me watching her and said, “I’m okay, Jason. Just take those assholes out already.”

  “Are you sure you’re okay? You’re bleeding.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” she replied grimly.

  Yet she didn’t look good, so I quickly took an auto-injector from my bag, pressed the needle to Jennifer’s leg, and pushed the plunger. The bleeding stopped instantly.

  “Thanks,” she said. “Now get that chopper.”

  The helicopter roared by overhead and rushed forward. It then turned sideways and hovered just above the treetops. The gunman brought the machine gun to bear on the approaching SUV. He seemed to be eager to finally deal with us. So was I. Leaning out of the passenger window, I put the almost motionless chopper in my iron sights and slid my finger into the trigger guard.

  The gunman started pouring a long stream of gunfire into the SUV, walking his rounds up the engine hood, ripping through it. They the bullets clawed their way up and shattered the windshield, glass blowing into the cab, forcing Jennifer to throw up her left arm to shield her face.

  I was firing my assault rifle in short controlle
d bursts, yet most of my shots missed the chopper due to the rough ride.

  The .50-caliber bullets whipped through the air all around me. They plucked at my clothes and caused small geysers of dirt as they hit the gravel road. One of them clipped my right cheek, tearing a deep furrow across my flesh. My Health got reduced by about twenty-five percent. I had survived only because the bullet slightly grazed me instead of embedding itself in my head.

  The slugs struck the body of the car and drilled through its roof. Thanks to Jennifer’s recently unlocked skill, the bodywork of the car was kind of reinforced, which caused some of the rounds to bounce off the vehicle instead of penetrating it.

  As Jennifer hit another pothole, another shot of mine went wide. I kept blasting away until my weapon ran dry. I got back into the cab, reloaded the rifle, and said, “Stop the car, Jen.”

  “What?” She cried out as she continued driving along the road, hitting one pothole after another.

  “Stop,” I yelled. “Just stop! I can’t aim properly while you’re driving like crazy!”

  Jennifer didn’t argue. He slammed on the brake pedal with her right foot, sending the SUV into a skid.

  The car turned sideways and stopped with its right side facing the chopper.

  “Bail out,” I yelled.

  Jennifer pushed the driver’s-side door open and climbed out. I dropped across the front seats, clambered out of the car, and dropped to the ground next to my girlfriend.

  The .50-caliber bullets kept falling all around the SUV, shattering the windows and spraying us with shards of glass.

  “Jason, get the chopper,” Jennifer yelled over the roar of the machine gun.

  She was crouching behind the front tire of the SUV. Since she was armed with the short-range shotgun, it was up to me to deal with the helicopter.

  I rose to my feet, propped my assault rifle on the roof, and sighted down the sights, aiming for the tail rotor. I squinted as the dirt from the impacts of the .50-caliber rounds on the road stung my face. The heavy-caliber bullets kept thudding into the bodywork of the SUV and zipping past me.