Monster Age

by GR Griffin

  Fleck glanced behind themself. Nobody there.

  “You are the line, dearie,” he rectified. A crafty smile appeared as superior feelings of being so clever came to mind. “You’re holding yourself up.”

  Fleck ordered the cheese burger, fries, and a large soda off the menu. The clerk grabbed a burger, fries, and an empty cup waiting in line off the fast food side of the kitchen and stacked them on a waiting tray.

  “Would you like fries with that?” asked the clerk, sliding the tray to them. Fleck did not answer, but rather shot a look down at their food to state the obvious. “Oh, right. Old habits die hard. That’ll be twenty cloud coins, please.” Fleck pulled out their money purse, individually counted out twenty coins and dropped them on the counter. While he scooped up the coins, he said, “Table number eight. The soda machine is right over there.” He pointed at the dispenser across the floor. “You get unlimited refills. Feel free to help yourself. Enjoy your meal.”

  As Fleck took their tray, something about what the clerk said jangled their memory. You get unlimited refills. Feel free to help yourself. They felt like they had heard that before…

  It took Fleck a moment to find their booth and to get a cup of cola from the dispenser. With food and drink on the table, they wasted no time tucking in, opting to use their hands over the tableware. The burger, while satisfying, tasted remarkably similar to the meat substitutes back on Earth. The fries, on the other hand, had the taste and texture of cardboard. The cola had the horrible aftertaste of the diet stuff, although that did not stop the child from going back for a second refill.

  With their meal finished and their belly full, Fleck exited Sweet and Sour’s. The nightlife was in full swing, monsters out to have a good time on this Saturday night. Fleck walked down the street, moving closer toward the train station until they stumbled upon a tall building with a glowing sign with the word ‘hotel’ projecting from it. The sign was in need of a new lightbulb, the current one flashed to life sporadically.

  Fleck passed the revolving brass door and found themself in a spacious compact foyer, the interior much larger than what the outside suggested. A family, consisting of a mother, a father, and two fussy children occupied a couch on the far end, a metre away from two payphones and a computer. An empty counter stood straight ahead, across a marble floor so polished that it reflected everything upward. All of Fleck’s steps echoed as the heels hit the floor and squeaked as they rolled off their toes, no matter how lightly they tried to make their tracks. There was no one waiting, although Fleck had given away their position by approaching. The only thing on the counter was a lone silver bell. Fleck stretched as far as they could and managed to ring it with the tips of their fingers. Two seconds later, the secretary rushed in, or rather he slithered in. A monster with the bottom half a snake, the body of a human and the head of an aardvark.

  “Ah, hello there,” he greeted warmly, leaning over the counter. “Thank you for choosing our hotel over all fifteen of our competitors.” He looked down at his book. “You’re just in luck, we have one room available. It’s the economy room, only ten cloud to use it for twenty four hours.”

  Ten coins did not sound bad. Fleck dug into the bag and threw ten of the coins into his waiting hands. Already, they had spent half the money. At this rate, they would be reduced to living off the streets and burrowing through trash cans by tomorrow evening.

  As the secretary turned to the key storage, Fleck remembered another piece of their dream. Second floor, room number lucky thirteen. Enjoy your stay. They anticipated it with baited breath and twitching fingers. They were about to be handed a key for room number thirteen. Lucky thirteen. Lucky thirteen.

  The secretary span back to face Fleck, a single key dangled on a plastic tag. “Second floor, room number lucky thirteen.” He handed the key over. “It’s the last door on the left. Enjoy your stay.”

  Fleck did not respond, only take the key – the number thirteen written in white on the blue tag – and ascended the stairs right from the desk to the level above. A long hallway greeted the human on the upper floor. They passed a door labelled utility room on the landing and counted the odd numbers from one all the way to thirteen. Fleck took the key, pressed it into the lock and turned it. There was a click as the lock disengaged.

  Fleck pushed the door open to a capacious room. If this was the economy room, they would love to see the rooms higher up on the quality list. The brown and cream striped carpet melded seamlessly with the wood panel walls. The lights cast cones against the walls. The wall to the left held a wardrobe, a desk, and a mounted flat screen television. Opposite that was a double bed with white sheets, white pillows, and a brown throwover. Another door to Fleck’s immediate right led to a compact bathroom. Charcoal grey tiled floor and walls with a white toilet, sink, bathtub, and a silver showerhead – all showing the signs of recent scrubbing. It looked like what you would see displayed at a home furniture warehouse.

  A large window, covered with a set of white curtain, lay on the far wall. It allowed for a nice view of the train station just across town.

  Fleck fished the pouch of coins from their pocket and dropped in on the desk alongside their room key. A tray covered with cookies, clean cups and satchels of coffee, tea, and hot chocolate lay there beside an assortment of leaflets. They glanced at them and saw that they were about certain points of interest within Parfocorse. Places to eat. Activities and entertainment. Historical landmarks. Train schedules.

  None of that mattered at the moment. Fleck, grabbing the television remote, threw themself on the bed. The clock under the screen read half-past-ten, way past their bedtime. They turned on the telly expecting to see Outerworld broadcasts – with their own channels and series and shows, hosted with their own anchors, celebrities and prima donnas – but ended up on a soap opera starring humans. The human child flicked around and found nothing but channels and programs from the surface below.

  Half an hour ago, Fleck thought that they would never get any sleep tonight, considering the double heaps of worry lingering over their head. The constant threat of being on the Outerworld’s most wanted list, and they would no doubt have taken the number one spot, coupled with the fact that they had no idea how the others back home were feeling. Fleck did not want to imagine it; Toriel and Asgore would be heartbroken back at home, spending the night alone, childless once more.

  While in their deep thought, the weight in their eyelids grew. The sleep-inducing substances in the food must have been taking their toll.

  They switched off the screen, followed by the lights, plunging the room in darkness, and slipped under the thick duvet, clothes in all. As the human lay in bed, contemplating their crazy day, they wondered how they ended up there, starting the day in their sun filled bedroom and ending it in a hotel room in a different world.

  The walls dampened the outside noises. People hollering, feet clapping, and the faint rumble of a train pulling up to the station platform.

  Fleck remembered everything they had heard from their near-death dream…

  “Sorry for stepping on your nice, clean floor,” said the soldier of the Monster Military.

  “Good luck out there, kiddo,” said Sam.

  “You get unlimited refills. Feel free to help yourself,” said the crater-faced teen at Sweet and Sour’s.

  “Second floor, room number lucky thirteen. Enjoy your stay,” said the secretary downstairs.

  Fleck turned over and pulled the sheet up to their chin. Were they seeing glimpses of the future?

  They tried one more time to use their determination. Back with Sam an’ Rita, gazing out at the bright adventure that lay before them. Feeling alive and full of energy. There was no point in getting their hopes up. Just as quickly, the energy left their body, the light faded, and the warmness of the afternoon air was replaced by the bedcovers. They could not go back, but they must have seen glimpses of what lay forward. How?

  They had time for only one guess before the sleep dimension pul
led them in.

  Their determination…?

  Chapter 12: That Night

  With the moon fat and dull in the night sky, and the cricket monsters and owl monsters and racoon monsters within their element, the great empire of the Outerworld began to wind down into a restless slumber. The popular notion was that the Outerworld never slept, which was only half true; half of the islands slept at any given time, day in, day out, like clockwork.

  While this long and crazy Saturday draws to a close, let us embark on a summary of where everyone is, shall we?

  For a portion of the subjects under the banner of the Emperor himself, they would be getting no sleep tonight. Under the flickering, orange lambent of torches, candles, and anything that remotely burned, they scarred the brittle earth with metal greaves that had been worn for several hours too long. Cold sweat building up between their toes, under their hamstrings, under their armpits, on their chests, trickling down their necks and dripping from their brows. Skin and fur desperately trying to breathe under layers of plating whilst the parched mouths gasped for water.

  This entourage that stumbled its way across the Plain-plain in the dead of night was one of many. Others just like this one rumbled throughout the other islands, with the exception of Ice Island. That place was a dead zone; nobody went through there anymore, not even the Monster Military. Rolling amongst them was a cart being hauled by four monsters, two at the front and two at back. Their long faces, thick spines, broad shoulders and hooved feet made them best suited for the job. A little dumb muscle goes a long way. The cart was loaded with stacks of posters, piled rather excessively. There was enough of them to make a tree hugger cry. With every slight shift in the cart, another one or two fell out, leaving a breadcrumb trail behind them. Their orders were to distribute them around, and that was exactly what they were doing, one way or another.

  Each soldier carried their own stack of wanted posters. They would have every word, line, speck and blemish memorised before the night was over. One went up on every single surface they could find. Anything. Trees; boulders; bushes; fence posts; stone walls; cliff walls; individual stalks of produce. If it were vertical in any sense of the word, they would post it. There was an extra added bonus with a lone solder sitting front seat on the cart; every once in a while he was nab a page from the pile, pin it on the end of an arrow, and sent it flying onto a surface that had been missed.

  The noisy convoy left a trail of footprints, wheel tracks, upturned dirt, and posters in their wake. A roaring forest fire would have attracted less attention that they were. There was more than enough evidence for a bounty hunter to track. Speaking of which…

  High up within the shade of a large tree, Barb came to a swift halt on the thickest branch. Her landing was next to silent, impressive for someone in high-heels. She caught many a target with her light touch, unsuspecting monsters who always felt the safest right before she pounced. Being a bat had its benefits. One being that she had sharpened senses when the sun went down. The night was her element. She basked in it. Allowed it to mould her. Built her reputation around it. When the lights went out and the darkness consumed all, the target’s very own breath would be the last thing they hear before waking up two days later.

  From her vantage point, she scoped the roaming convoy. Their work, while unprofessional and sloppy, was thorough nonetheless. By tomorrow, there would not be a single monster in the Outerworld who won’t recognise the face of the human named Fleck.

  Her feelings for this job were complicated. Mixed would be the better word. Fifty years of bounty hunting for both money and sport. This was the first time she was doing it under blackmail. Barb, just like every monster in the Outerworld, had been thoroughly educated on the humans – except most of her knowledge was passed down from Zeus. Nothing but negativity escaped his lips; the humans were warmongers and butchers, capable of unspeakable evils both to others and themselves. Many monsters have lost loved ones to them, and Zeus was no exception, having lost his mother and grandparents in the war that followed. Barb listened, acknowledging what she had been told, but had no experience to go on. She had never met a human in her life. However, if a human’s strength was true, then this bounty hunter had a challenge awaiting her. If catching this child ensured the safety of her family, then the choice was easy.

  When hunting something or someone as dangerous as a human, it never hurts to be prepared. She had procured a few of her weapons from her hideout – gadgets that will make capturing the target a whole lot easier. Two small, wrist mounted guns, one on each forearm, were in safety mode. They appeared as two rectangles carved from a metal the same shade as Barb’s fur, with two openings at the front and another on the sides. The weapon on her left was an automatic tranquiliser gun, built to fire plastic darts that contained an anaesthetic powerful enough to induce sleep in seconds and last for hours. The gun on her right was a semi-automatic electroshock launcher armed with tiny metallic pellets, which were small but packed a mean zap. One of these babies could reduce an elephant into a twitching, drooling heap.

  There was a pipe-shaped rifle strapped to her back, between her wings. That weapon, her secret weapon, was responsible for capturing the slipperiest of targets. Barb was not one for naming her equipment, but she had toyed with the idea of giving her rifle either a hard-core name to symbolise its merciless nature, or a small name to make it cute but dangerous, similar to naming a werewolf ‘fluffy’.

  The Plain-plain. She knew it like the back of her hand. A few clicks behind her lay the river, formed from the Highkeep Enclave waterfall. The human was last seen drifting down the moat. Her mind raced at a thousand minutes a second, calculating odds and predictions. Taking into account every variable and random chance. How far could an injured human travel? Were they alone or did they have help? Did they travel north, or could they have gone southeast toward the Oasis? What landmarks lie within a five to ten mile radius of the river?

  She took into account that humans have needs, just like monsters. They need sustenance, food and water, in order to survive. Warmth. Shelter from the elements. Sleep, recuperation. The target cannot travel forever. Sooner or later, they will need to stop. The body and mind demand it.

  She recollected a list of several locations; settlements and landmarks nearby. The biggest town nearby was Parfocorse, the central train hub for the entire island. She kept her big ears to the ground, however, and hear nothing unusual recently. An injured child most surely attract attention, especially if they did not have any money.

  Another variable entered Barb’s equation: motive. If they were heading north, for instance, why in that specific direction? There is no way off these lands. What escape could they possibly find? Perhaps the human was acting out of desperation?

  The facts connected dots. Fleck had not been found within the river, nor have they been located around the river. They were on the move, that much she was certain. But one question remained as she took flight… Were they running away or were they going somewhere?

  * * *

  Several jangles rang out within the mansion of Master D. Mind. The marble walls amplified the sound, vibrating them to every corner of every room.

  Master D. Mind himself lifted his scaly head upwards, drawn to the sound with his cyclops eye. Basking in the comfort of his favourite chair within the living room – opposite his wife in her own favourite chair – they were both enjoying a quite night of light reading before bed. “I’ll get it,” Master Mind announced as he marked his place within his thrilling novel and got up.

  The missus, Mistress R.E. Mind shifted her gaze slightly, glancing one eye at her husband while keeping the other two on her book about bitter robots locked in an endless confrontation against relentless dandelions. “Who could be calling at this hour?”

  As he made his way to the door, D. Mind tightened the knot in his bathrobe. “No idea.” He pushed the door open. One of the hinges creaked. “I’ll see who it is, and fix that later.”

  Unlike most lord
s and masters, these two did not employ servants to do their jobs. Master D. Mind and Mistress R.E. Mind of Mineyor Manors believed that movement is life. Their days were filled with work of any and all kinds, from farming to chores. Their sleep long and deep, basking in the fact that they had deserved their rest after a hard day’s work.

  His front door – the biggest, solidest thing anyone has and shall ever see – came complete with the essential mail slot, peephole, and door flap. Pressing his flat nose against the smooth surface, the master of the mansion peered through the glass as coolly and calculated as a sniper measuring the wind speed and drop distance. On the other side was a face distorted by the curve, one whom the master was most familiar with.

  Master D. Mind did not know whether to smile or frown. Lord Grill of Bjornliege Manor was a humble and dear acquaintance of his, but at the same time, what was he doing making house calls at eleven o’clock at night? The grizzly had his own manor, his own servants to run, his own wives to chase up, and his own problems in which he will bury under a mountain of food. The master studied the lord’s bear features more carefully, noticing a serious lack of what made Lord Grill Lord Grill.

  Regardless, Master D. Mind was not going to leave him out to dry. “Lord Grill,” said he, unlocking the door and pulling it open. “What brings you here at this hour?” Without the peephole, meeting the bear face to face showed more detail than he wanted to know, including the large gathering of his servants and soldiers behind him. Grill’s face was pockmarked with bruises that showed through his thick fur, and a black eye. The lord’s high-end attire had been ravaged, harbouring a series of rips and burn marks. “What happened to you?”