Respawn: The Last Crossing (Respawn LitRPG series Book 6)

by Arthur Stone

  “That’s what has you stressed? That’s what makes you think Rainbow isn’t free? Because you can’t waste ammo by shooting at the sun?” Clown asked.

  “No, not quite. Everything’s like that. On paper, everyone is equal here, but the reality is starkly different. There’s this committee of permanent residents. They’re also the guards, the militia, and so on. Well, they make all the decisions. Every sign and fencepost says that everyone here is equal, but that’s just not true. A few bigwigs on the committee have all the power. Without their permission, neither water nor beer flows to any resident or guest. If you’re trying to build something here, you get blocked. Someone has the rights already. Invariably someone from the committee. So you try negotiating for a vacant lot, which is of course impossibly overpriced, or you try to buy some unoccupied building. Every place here is an attempt at siphoning money from the residents and visitors. Siphon it straight into the pockets of you-know-who. Freedom? Equal opportunity? Empty platitudes. Just as empty as the ads you see for any other trashy stable. It’s a genius marketing ploy, of course. I even bought into it. For a while.”

  “So you don’t like it here,” March clarified.

  Fatso slowly swirled his beer and peered into it. “It’s... disappointing.”

  “Well, we’ve decided to revive the good old days and make another crossing.”

  “East?” Fatso grinned, taking another swallow.

  “Yeah. We’ve almost reached our—Cheater’s—destination.”

  “I know all about that.”

  “Everyone knows about that,” Clown snorted. “It’s a legend by this point.”

  Fatso nodded. “I know, I’ve heard it second-hand more than once. Well, I’m in, if you’d have me. I don’t like it here. Life was more fun with you guys. And more profitable.”

  March calmly returned the nod. “Alright. We should bring Button along, too. Do you know where she is? She’s not answering chat messages, either, but we know she’s in town.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Well—we can find out, at least,” March said. Clown was pretending not to hear. He wanted no part of this.

  Fatso declined to pry further. “I’ve talked to her a couple of times. Not a lot.”

  Clown raised an eyebrow. “Why not?”

  “Something’s not right with her.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She’s changed. Always in a panic.” Fatso gestured towards his temple. “She’s worried about her head. I don’t mean she’s worried she’s going crazy. I mean literally worried for her head. She says she remembers it being cut off—and being dragged through the desert by her hair and then tossed across the border.”

  “Bullshit,” Clown frowned. “There’s no way she can remember that.”

  “I’m not going to argue about it. I kept trying to convince her that she could not possibly remember that, but she insists. Maybe she read through the logs, but there was a lot to sift through. However, Tat did write a few lines about her head in the chat. Perhaps on purpose. After all, without that, I doubt she would even know the story. She started asking questions, and I foolishly answered. Now, she’s always having a panic attack. I guess I understand. It’s not a pretty picture, thinking of your head being dragged and tossed without your body.”

  “So, panic attacks,” March pondered.

  “Something like that. I’m no shrink, so I don’t know how all of that works. But definitely a heightened level of panic. She’s holed up in the cheapest inn in town and doesn’t come out. Maybe she’ll get over it, with time.”

  “Cheater’s hormones don’t have the patience for that,” March shook his head. “But priests aren’t easy to come by. We’ll figure out how to convince Button to come with us. Everyone in this world has some kind of mental disorder, after all. Once we get her out into the world again, she’ll feel better.”

  Fatso shrugged. “I don’t think so. If you bring her near the door, she starts shrieking. There’s no talking to her.”

  “Every situation has a way out. Well, come on, drink your headache away, and then go help Button with hers. She has to go with us, and you’re the one to get her.”

  “Why me?”

  “You brought her along the last time,” March reminded them. “You’ve known her longer than any of us, so you’ve got the best chance.”

  “She’s too scared to even open the door. How am I supposed to get through to her?”

  “Get some flowers. Some chocolates. Comb your hair for once. And change out of those stained, smelly pants. And that shirt. You look like a slob. The sight and stink of you is part of Button’s hesitation, take it from me. So ask nicely, and she’ll open the door. If she doesn’t break it down. You’re no noob, Fatso; I believe in you.”

  The door slammed open, as if illustrating this course of action to Fatso. Cheater twitched and reached for his pistol—then relaxed.

  A monster strolled into the “office.” A familiar monster.

  An old friend, even.

  Janitor was also looking rough. His jacket was torn and burnt in some places, and stained all over too. Blood stains, that’s what they were. The blood could have come from his left hand, which was bandaged. Or from his head, which was stitched up. The quasi silently walked up to the table, grabbed a mug, and knocked it back as though it were a thimble. “Ugh. What was that?”

  “It was shit,” Clown added, predictably.

  “I should have known. March is drinking it.”

  He turned towards the waitress standing in wait. “Bring me a drink!”

  “What kind would you like?”

  “Not water. Something strong.”

  “Vodka? Whiskey? Gin?”

  “Whatever’s the strongest. And a bucket of it, before I die from thirst!”

  The girl vanished. The quasi stretched out on a creaking sofa. “I still haven’t gotten my due from the first crossing, March, and here you are signing me up for another one. Debts must be paid.”

  “They will be,” March replied, unperturbed. “So how did you get here?”

  “I crossed, dammit. And I hated it almost as much as the first crossing.”

  “What happened?”

  “I crossed a damned border, on my own. What part of that sounds likeable to you? Some idiots nearly took me out towards the end. Unlike the first crossing, they were not successful. Thankfully I wasn’t weighed down by idiots suggesting we ride a four-seat electric car towing a kid’s wagon. So, when do we leave?”

  March tossed another small bundle at the quasi. “We’re not rushing this one. First, we need to buy an antiaircraft gun. The best model we can get.”

  “Where do you expect to get that? This is a shithole. Toilet plungers decorated with rhinestones? Sure. Toilet paper made of cashmere? No problem. A decent weapon? Forget about it.”

  “Then we buy the best we can find, and do what we can with it.”

  “Alright,” the quasi replied as he rose.

  “You’re leaving already?” Clown blinked.

  “I’m not going far, and I’ll be right back. Don’t you dare drink my liquor, Clown.”

  “Tell them to let the next guy in,” March said.

  “Yeah, about that, I guess you’ve changed teams. Awful lot of guys out there.”

  “Nope, haven’t changed teams. We’re putting together a team. They’re all candidates for the position of demoman.”

  “A decent demoman? From Rainbow? As the name suggests, the only thing Rainbow men are likely to be able to demolish is your—”

  “We’ll take them, as long as they know their way around bombs and dynamite,” March hurried him along. “Come on, let the next one inside.”

  “Oh, he looks eager to be inside, alright,” the quasi muttered as he left.

  * * *

  “Why didn’t you like that one?” Cheater asked as the next reject slammed the door shut behind him.

  March took another gulp and closed his eyes in utter bliss. “This wh
ole journey was worth it. An amazing brew!”

  “I don’t mean the beer. I mean the last sapper.”

  “I saw a schoolboy with a cretinous smile,” March grimaced. “I’m not sure how you saw a sapper in him. Didn’t you hear how he answered our questions? It was like he was fresh out of kindergarten.”

  “I thought we were looking for expertise here, not form. He answered sensibly. Not that I’m a specialist in explosives.”

  “You’re not a specialist in anything, Cheater. Don’t worry, we love you anyway. Do you really think the questions are the test? Can you imagine that preppy pants-ironer crafting our own Sodom and Gomorrah for our foes out of a bag of chicken droppings, a liter of used oil from a deep fryer, and a homemade detonator made from a flashlight bulb? No. I bet you he’ll scream like a girl if he so much as gets soot on his pants. Plus, after nine and a half months here, he’s only at level 33. That’s the bottom level of the ship, Cheater. And a leaky ship, at that. No ambition, no self-confidence. He’s timid and dependent, and we’ll have to spend half our time holding him by the hand. Plus, he lacks enthusiasm for the mission. He doesn’t care whether we take him on the crossing or not. If you want a guy who just lets it be, get Paul McCartney. Hell, he’s even used to dying and coming back. This guy, no way. He didn’t even try to convince us somehow, and just took his rejection in stride. The boy’s as good a sapper as a house plant. And a ficus at that. A fake one. For this mission, we need a real, one-track-mind sadist who likes blowing people up. A focused psycho, not a phony ficus. A pyromaniac with his pockets full of TNT and a thirst to use it. We need a dangerous criminal. We need the school bomber type. The man who plans to smile and light a cigarette as he walks away from the burning orphanage, just to give the witnesses a little extra chill in their spines. Somebody who would put a suicide belt on his own mother, kiss her on the cheek, and then push the button. Someone who has no qualms about tossing a bunch of grenades into a puppy store. We need a man with only one joy and one god in the whole world: explosions. A man who lives and breathes blasts. Give him unbridled access to a naked beauty queen, and his first thought is plotting how to blow her up. That’s who we need.”

  “You’re nuts,” Cheater sighed. “A decent sapper is no problem to find. How does an unhinged psycho help the composition of our team?”

  “A hinged person has only hinged thoughts. Also, quit arguing with me. I decide who we need. Without a psycho sapper, our whole plan is blown to pieces.”

  “Why? We’re not busy right now, so you have time to explain.”

  “What’s there to say? We need to cross the border in a location where no one has done so before. Everyone who has attempted has died.”

  “Why not choose a way where people have crossed, then? We just need to get to the other side of the border, not the other side of hell.”

  “Don’t get me wrong. I’m not looking for extra adventure here. It’s looking for us. Going around would waste a colossal amount of time, which is something you don’t have. Plus, that will add other difficulties to our journey. The balance of power here is shifting. When such things happen, the traders usually stay in safe locations, without risking caravans. Things don’t sound great on the other side, either. As far as I understand, Kitty is now in neutral territory. But the groups to either side of that territory will have many questions for us. Even here, where we’ve gained a good deal of respect, we’re taking risks by working so openly. I’m not even talking about our enemies. Everyone has enemies. No, many people are interested in us only because they believe we must have money. Some are even willing to shoot us just so they have something interesting to brag to pretty girls about. But back to the other side. We haven’t been there, and we don’t know the situation. If things are complicated here, where we have a grasp on the regional politics and have also found a place of refuge from them, imagine how much worse they’ll be over there. The best option is to punch straight forward. Through an area where no one has made a crossing before. Yes, it’s impossibly unpopular, but it’s the fastest way. And it emerges into neutral territory. I am the brains of this operation, and the safety of our crossing is my primary concern. Several options for how to accomplish this have crossed my mind. One of those options requires a sapper. It’s a good option, I think. But the sapper must be a very unusual player. The work will not be straightforward. I’m not even sure any sapper will be able to pull it off, but we need at least one we can place our hopes on. We can’t place our hopes on a houseplant. We might as well go straight to our backup plan, and it’s our backup plan for a reason. Backup plans are always worse than main plans.”

  The door opened softly, and a waitress poked her head in, slyly looking at each of them in turn. “Charm asked me to tell you there’s someone else here.”

  “Is he a priest?” March asked.

  “No. A sapper.”

  “Well, send him in.”

  A man with a punk hairstyle stepped in. His hair looked like an explosion of green dye, decorated with cleverly placed highlights. It was a kind of spotted camouflage.

  Cheater immediately realized who the new arrival was. He pointed. “You’re Nut.”

  The whistling visitor nodded and smiled.

  “You’re the one who tried to sell us boys at the gate,” Clown muttered gloomily. “The quasi was right.”

  “Hey, no, I don’t sell boys! I don’t sell anything! You think I’m a huckster? Nah. I get work as a walking billboard. Pay’s not so good, but that’s what I could find here. It’s not easy to make money here with the way things are. So I’m working to get out.”

  Clown continued glaring at the man. “You were wearing different clothes then. Dressed like a cheap jester. And with trinkets everywhere. Gold sequins or something. Your hair was different, too—colored like a whore’s panties.”

  Nut winked. “I guess you liked that, but I’m getting ready for a crossing, so I whipped up some camo. Along with this green outfit. Stealth, you know.”

  “So you’re not just an expert in boys and in swindling but also in explosives?” March finally asked.

  “I told you already, I don’t sell anything. Just forget about that incident. If you need to blow anything up, though, I’ll make it happen.”

  “Tell me about C-4,” March asked.

  “The hell kind of question is that? Give me a scenario.”

  “Fine,” March nodded. “There are five of us in here. Imagine that we’re a terrorist group, plotting to destroy Rainbow. You’re in command. We have no money, and no serious weapons. But we have no choice. We have to pull it off. What do we do?”

  “Five might not be enough,” Nut replied.

  “How many do you need, then?” March replied.

  “Six, at least.”

  “Six? Interesting. Alright, say we have six. What then?”

  “It’s pretty obvious.”

  “Then tell us. We need details. What do we all do? Pack a truck full of C-4? Set off a fuel-air bomb?”

  “Fuck no! You just said we have no money, and no weapons to speak of. How are we going to get a truck of C-4? Do you know how much that costs? But there’s an old fuel tank farm nearby. Every time the cluster resets, a fleet of heavy tanker trucks comes in, next to those big cylindrical oil tanks. Usually, no one claims the oil, so we can covertly grab the six best trucks and fill them up, right on the spot. We paint over all the labels, making it look like we’re hauling water. Deliveries of water aren’t that uncommon here. The local morons haven’t devised any better way to supply the town with the liquid it needs. So we shouldn’t have trouble getting the oil through.”

  “What about the guards at the gate?” March asked.

  Nut laughed. “Haven’t you seen the guards? They won’t check us out, nor our cargo. This is Rainbow. There is a person that works at the water pumping station, but it’s easy and boring work, so they post the dumbest people there. We drain the water from the receiving tank. It can hold five hundred cubic meters, but it’s never full
, and we can drain it off into the nearby ditch. No one bothers with the place. We wouldn’t be seen. Even if we were seen, no one would care. The city’s water system, besides the tank of course, will still have water in it, so no one will notice anything for a time. Soon enough they will, of course, so we won’t have all day. Next, we close off the city tank and drain all six trucks into it. Not entirely, though. We leave three or four cubic meters in each. We end up with a little over a hundred cubic meters of gas in the city tank. Just over one-fifth capacity. One of the team remains in the guard booth, just in case. Our Guy Fawkes. Except he’s not caught red-handed. He fields the calls that come in asking what has happened to the water. The other five move quickly to the center of town. Seven junction valves have to be closed in order to cut off the water mains in the center of town from those on the outskirts. Then three more are opened to drain the water. The diameter of those pipes is small, so they don’t hold much water, and they’ll drain quickly under internal pressure. Now, as the pressure drops, those valves will need to be closed. Not completely, though. They should be open just ever so slightly. The water will only trickle out of the system—but once we open the valve on the tank, it will jet out. Forced out by the gas in the system. They don’t like to mix, after all. We’ll pump it in at the highest possible pressure. Such pressure is only used when all of the water mains are disconnected. They do this to clean the system out every few months. But we’re not going to disconnect the water mains. Gasoline will flow to the city outskirts, along all three outer lines. Some of the pipes might not hold up, even though they’re steel. The house pipes are all plastic—they’ll definitely burst, with a fury. There will be gas spraying all over. Not all one hundred cubic meters, of course, but a few dozen. Maybe even more. Rainbow isn’t that big, after all, and we’ll only be flooding the outskirts, which no one really cares about. While this is happening, the tanker trucks are positioned in specific locations. We left a few cubic meters in each for a reason, after all. They’ll finish the job.”