Melee

by Wyatt Savage

  Two hours after Mom drifted off, I received a text message from my father, which was a damned strange thing since I didn’t know the man could text. He asked me to meet him down in the basement.

  The basement was unfinished and dumpy, bare cinderblock walls adorned with a few old movie posters, a Nerf basketball hoop, a TV, and a mounted deer head that Dad bought at a swap meet because he never had the desire to shoot one.

  Dad was in a wingback chair watching an episode of his favorite TV show, The Twilight Zone (the original one btw, not the crappy remakes). I recognized the episode, Walking Distance, which Dad said was his favorite because, he said, it was the most accurate depiction of the human condition ever shown on TV.

  He reacted to my footsteps and turned around.

  “Your mother asleep?” he asked.

  “Yep.”

  “That’s good.”

  I noticed that he was balancing a glass of amber liquid on his knee. I drew closer. His breath was notched with alcohol.

  “Didn’t know you drank.”

  “I don’t,” he replied. He set the glass down. “I want to show you something, Logan.”

  I followed him to the back of the basement, to an area beyond the boiler where Sean and I had feared to tread as youngsters. Here was a shadowy, algae-slicked section where large spiders and an occasional copperhead snake had been known to dwell.

  Dad held up his cellphone for light and dropped to his haunches.

  He handed me the phone and I held it up as he grabbed the edges of one of the cinderblocks and fussed with it for several seconds.

  The block pulled free to reveal a concealed space, a hidden niche.

  “Give me some light,” he said.

  I angled the phone and Dad reached into the niche and removed a metal tin the size of a shoe box.

  “What is that?” I asked.

  “A halfassed safety-deposit box,” he replied with a smirk.

  “How long’s it been in there?”

  “Since I retired.”

  Five years. Dad had retired early, some five years before. He was only fifty-nine at the time and a desk jockey, but twenty years in was enough to warrant him early retirement and a hearty pension, from what I’d been told.

  We moved back over to the chair and Dad sat and opened the metal tin. Inside were some papers, official-looking documents, a few baseball cards, coins, necklaces, and a laminated golden card that resembled an old bus transfer.

  Dad held the thing up and I saw that it was filigreed with all sorts of numbers and letters and symbols. There was a photo of Dad in his younger days on the card that was crisscrossed with raised strands of what looked like real gold.

  “Do you remember where I worked?”

  “The government, right?”

  He nodded. “An agency.”

  “What kind of agency, Dad?”

  “The three-lettered kind.”

  He said that like I was supposed to know what it meant.

  “I worked for something that most people don’t know about. FEMA’s, the Federal Emergency Management Agency, Program Coordination Division.”

  “They’re the ones that went in after hurricanes and stuff, right.”

  “Yes, but that’s not what I did. I worked on implementing secret plans that the government would use after a catastrophic event. They’re called COG, Continuity of Government; COOP, Continuity of Operations; and the most secret, ECG, or Enduring Constitutional Government.”

  “What’s in the plans?” I asked.

  “All sorts of things. Orders for the post office to collect dead bodies and become ‘emergency casualty carriers’ to hand out medicine and vaccines after a biological attack. Instructions for the National Park Service to run refugee camps, and the Department of Agriculture to distribute rationed food.”

  “I never heard of any of that.”

  “Hardly anyone has.”

  “We were always worried that someone, Russia, China, might hit us. The plans were always the same. They’d target our nuclear forces first, then air defenses near urban areas, government and military command and control facilities, and finally all of this would be followed by an all-out ‘spasm attack.’”

  “What’s that?”

  “DEFCON 1, which is an alert. The highest of all. It represents total global war.”

  “You think…the aliens?”

  A grim look etched his face. “I think this game, this Melee or whatever they call it, will be unprecedented.”

  “What do you think will happen?”

  “I think things are already happening. After the appearance of these walls, because now they’ve popped up all around the country.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I’ve been in contact with some old friends,” Dad said, gesturing to a ham radio he’d always messed around with. “The government will overreact because the people are afraid. I wouldn’t be surprised if they suspend the privilege of the writ of habeas corpus. Once they do that they’ll start rounding up ‘dangerous persons,’ both citizens and aliens alike.”

  “You heard what that FBI agent said.”

  Dad nodded. “You’re a person of interest now, son.”

  “But I didn’t do anything.”

  “I know that. But there may come a time when you need to run.”

  “Where will I go?”

  Dad pulled out the laminated card. “There are 252 pre-positioned vaults scattered across 14 states.”

  “What kind of vaults?”

  “The secret kind that contain secret things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Food, weapons, equipment.”

  Dad handed me the card and pointed to the numbers on it. “This is half of the GPS coordinates where three of the vaults nearest to us are located. There’s one outside Baltimore, another near the Pennsylvania line, and one more up past Davidsonville. Maybe you’ll be able to go to one of them.”

  “What do you mean half of the coordinates?”

  “Your brother has the other half.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I wanted to make sure that if something happened to one of you, all of the information wasn’t lost. You’re going to have to go to him if this Melee thing actually happens.”

  “Why doesn’t he come to me?”

  “Because he’s got children, Logan.”

  I nodded.

  “Always remain aware of what’s going on around you,” Dad said. “You hear me? Pay attention and do what you need to do when the time comes.”

  I didn’t know precisely what that meant, so I nodded, gently folded up the card and slotted it in my pocket.

  “Don’t show that to anyone.” Off my nod he continued. “If and when the game begins, go and get Sean and no matter what happens, don’t go down without a fight,” Dad said. “The only unforgivable sin is giving up.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “These things, these bastards, aliens, whatever they are, have fucked with the wrong people, Logan. Pardon my French, but that’s the truth. Somebody will find a way to pay them back for what they’ve done.”

  “I know it.”

  He grabbed my hand. “No matter what happens I have always been proud of you, son. I may not have shown it as much as I would’ve liked, but I loved being your father every day of my life.”

  I reached in to hug him and that’s when the banging began upstairs.

  Someone or something was at the front door.

  15

  Dad and I dashed upstairs.

  We wheeled into the foyer and could see them massed outside. Faces, bodies, people. Our neighbors.

  The Bruciaks were visible in the little lozenge of pebbled glass wedged at the top of the wooden door.

  “What’s going on, Sue?” I asked via Mindspeak.

  “Your neighbors have arrived.”

  “Is it good or bad?”

  “Open the fucking door, Logan!” shouted June Hicks, a mild-mannered schoolteacher who lived on the other side
of the street in a tidy Colonial. Her face, frantic eyes and all, was pressed against the glass. That answered my question.

  Dad disappeared into the kitchen only to reappear with a butcher knife. I took the knife from him and a box in my SecondSight immediately placed the knife into a “chattel” category.

  “Go and get your mother,” he said.

  Dad shook his head. “I’m not leaving you here.”

  “We just want to talk,” Elise Bruciak said from the other side of the door. She was trying to sound calm, but her face was beet-red and she had the strangest, most forced smile I’d ever seen stitched on her face.

  “Talk about what?”

  “About what’s inside of you!” June Hicks said.

  “There’s nothing inside of me.”

  “Bullshit!” Steven Bruciak thundered, punching the door. “We saw the videos and the others saw you outside when the birds started dying.”

  “I didn’t have anything to do with that!”

  “Come outside and prove it!”

  A hammer shattered the lozenge of pebbled glass. Somebody screamed outside and a heavy object was brought down against the door.

  A box blinked on my internal HUD and I mind-tapped it. Several subwindows appeared, illuminating faces on the other side of the door. The people were placed into individual boxes and the weapons they were carrying were listed. All of my vitals began to spike, particularly when Mom appeared at the bottom of the stairs, shrieking.

  Dad fumbled with his cellphone, shouting that he was dialing 911.

  The door bulged and splintered near the hinges.

  I brought the knife back, ready to plunge it into the chest of the first person that tried to hurt my folks.

  June Hicks was the first one inside.

  She had a fire poker in hand and looked ready to do something nasty to me.

  The Bruciaks were behind her along with ten or twelve of my neighbors, including a few that I’d babysat for. Their faces continued to bob in my internal HUD’s boxes.

  June spotted the knife and drew back.

  “It’s almost time, Logan,” Steven Bruciak said. “It’s almost time for the game to begin so drop the fucking knife.”

  “Nobody knows exactly when it’s going to begin,” I replied.

  “Oh, bullshit! Bullshit! The twenty-seventh day is at hand!”

  I pointed at the sledgehammer in his hand, what I surmised had been used to knock the door in.

  “Drop your hammer and we can chat.”

  He didn’t.

  “I’ve got the police on the line!” Dad shouted, holding the phone up.

  “He’s got secrets!” someone shrieked. “He worked for the CIA!”

  “He’s part of the whole thing!” another person shouted.

  June swung at me with the poker and I reflexively slashed her arm. Blood splashed the floor and before I knew what was happening, the knife had been chopped out of my hand and I was being dragged outside.

  Everything was a blur, but I managed to punch someone in the jaw and punt another shadowy figure in the groin before someone grabbed my arm like they were intending to disjoint it, and a fist socked me in the back of my head. A spoke of pain shot through my head. I went down to one knee and then hands were on me. Rough hands. Lots of them. Grabbing and snatching at me. I heard my mom scream and looked up into the feverish eyes of Steven Bruciak, who looked capable of almost anything.

  “I’m gonna cut whatever is inside of you out,” he said through bared teeth, holding up my knife.

  The knife came down and a single gunshot echoed.

  Heart in my throat, I pushed myself up and saw a figure standing under the streetlamp near a massive oak tree.

  It was Ronimal and he was clutching his .45.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Ronimal asked, the smoke curling up from the barrel of his gun.

  “We’re righting some wrongs!” Steven Bruciak shouted back.

  Ronimal shook his head. “The hell you are. Look at yourself. Look at what you’re doing.”

  Steven Bruciak jabbed a finger at me. “He’s got it inside him, Ron. You’ve seen it.”

  “Seen what?”

  “He was able to kill that monster and then he was miraculously at the bridge when it vanished—”

  “He’s got special powers!” June Hicks bellowed, trying to staunch the flow of blood from her lacerated arm. “He’s one of them!”

  “That doesn’t make any sense at all,” Ronimal said, lowering the gun. He held up his hands and shot looks at everyone and this seemed to still the mob. “Now what we’re going to do is let Logan up and then everyone is going to go home.”

  “And do what?” Elise Bruciak asked.

  “And do what you always do.”

  “But the game’s about to begin,” someone else said.

  Ronimal smiled. “The game’s not starting. In fact, I don’t think it’s ever going to start.”

  He took a step forward and then something long and shiny and wet reached down like an elephant’s trunk, wrapped around Ronimal’s neck, and pulled him screaming up into the branches of that giant oak tree.

  Ronimal’s gun clattered to the ground along with his severed head and a copious amount of gore. A box glowed on my HUD, hovering over Ronimal’s dropped .45.

  Several people vomited and then I saw two things: the octopus-like creature the size of a sedan that was clutching what was left of Ronimal’s corpse, and the bright-blue light that was issuing up from the woods at the other end of the street.

  “The light!” someone shrieked.

  The light indeed.

  It was coming from the silver sphere and there were more lights all around. I could see them coming from other neighborhoods, miles away, the light shining up into the heavens like some kind of signal. This was followed by a deep haunting boom and the loudest air-raid siren I’d ever heard, a sound that was loud enough to shatter glass and set off car alarms.

  I grabbed Ronimal’s gun and Sue’s voice immediately came to me: “Congratulations, you have acquired a forty-five caliber AMT Hardballer pistol manufactured by Aradia Machine and Tool in 2001. The weapon fires a solid 230 grain full metal jacketed bullet. You have eight rounds in the magazine.”

  “Screw the gun! What the hell’s going on?!” I mentally screamed.

  A status message appeared via my SecondSight HUD which stated:

  Congratulations, the Melee has begun. You have entered Level 1, the Onslaught!

  Objective: Reach Wall #1

  Reward: 2000 XP

  Time limit: 6:00:00

  Penalty for failing to reach the wall: you will reach your journey’s end

  I looked up into the tree and squeezed the trigger on the .45 as the octopus monster lowered itself down at me on a long, greasy tail that resembled something you might see on a possum.

  16

  I dove out of the way of the thing, which slammed to the ground. It rose up, bigger than a giraffe, and hissed at me. The brutality of Ronimal’s death and the appearance of the monster had shocked the other neighbors. The ones who hadn’t bolted, turned and shrieked, running for cover.

  My SecondSight whirred to life, my internal HUD blinking like the dashboard on a jet fighter to reflect a status update:

  Species:Homo Sapiens (James, Logan)

  Chattel:.45 AMT Hardballer

  Health:10/10

  Level 1:1

  Class:Fighter

  Kills:1

  Vitals:BP – 127/80; T – 97.04f; RR – 15bpm

  XP:0

  The octopus squared up on me, leaking green blood from the holes I’d punched in it with my bullets. I raised my pistol to see a battery of information concerning the monster:

  Species: Polypus Immanemque

  Level:1

  Class:Monster

  Health:6/10

  Attributes: A mantle of bundled muscle fibers makes its upper exterior impervious to small-arms fire; has the ability to utilize its siphon to fire project
iles; can move at speeds upward of eighteen miles per hour.

  Wanting to draw the monster away from my parents, I turned and ran, willing Sue to come to me via Mindspeak. “How do I get out of here!”

  “You have to fight your way out, Logan, and abide by the rules.”

  I saw two blobs of quickly approaching lights and waved my arms. “Rules?! The friggin’ alien said there weren’t any rules!”

  “That was a misstatement, for without rules there is chaos.”

  “How do I fight?”

  “Using common-sense skills and SecondSight. SecondSight keeps track of where you are and you can also use it to track participants and monsters.”

  “It says I’m a fighter.”

  “Most, but not all participants begin Level 1 as fighters. The Noctem did away with enhanced attributes for initial participants eons ago. All humans are equal upon entering the Melee.”

  The lights resolved themselves into headlights on the end of a car.

  An RV.

  Ronimal’s RV.

  Justin Best was behind the wheel and I signaled for him to stop. Whether he’d been gifted the RV or simply commandeered it I don’t know, but he drove right past, nearly running me down. He stopped long enough to power his window down and holler. “The poison! You’re gonna wish you’d used the poison!” And then he gunned the engine and drove off into the night.

  As had happened back near the incident at the Severn River bridge, boxes on my HUD marked “Reactions” including, among others, “Attack,” “Evade,” “Anticipate,” “Dash,” and “Brace,” began blinking.

  I mentally selected “Dash,” finding that I could toggle between reactions mentally, and instinctively ducked behind a minivan to catch my breath as Sue continued, “The first objective of the Melee is to stay alive, the second is to kill. By staying alive and killing adversaries you acquire experience points that can be redeemed for various items which may ultimately assist you in improving your station.”

  “What station?”

  “Your level.”

  I scoped my HUD. “It says I’m at Level 1.”

  “Correct.”

  “How many levels are there?”

  “There are currently six levels in this version of the Melee,” Sue answered.