by Arthur Stone
Only the second vehicle was in a position to help, and that was likely the only reason why Cheater was still alive. The shooter had switched to a new target, trying to pin down the incoming creature. It looked like the ghoul was attempting to attack, though it might have just been trying to save its skin.
As he watched the rear truck reach the intersection and turn to give the bulky machine gun installation a better shot, Cheater realized something.
This was his chance.
Everything was happening too fast. Countless significant events crammed into a moment in time. Smile of Fortune was powerful, and still active. His brain was reflexively counting down the seconds remaining.
Twenty-three seconds was a hell of a long time under such circumstances, but it was still not forever. He had to do something before he was once again on his own against a multitude of enemies—and without his ability available to him.
The new situation was a favorable one. A lucky one.
Cheater leaped up and moved for the stopped truck at top speed. The gunner had her back turned to him and so could not see the “corpse” come back to life. She was busy aiming her heavy weapon at the nimble infected dodging the fire of the second truck. For some reason, the gunner was assisted by another person standing along the edge of the weapon’s rotating mount, as if on a carousel.
As he ran, Cheater drew his pistol, which he raised and fired four times. All four shots hit. The gunner’s body convulsed and slid off its chair, and her assistant went limp, collapsing onto the gears of the turntable.
Neither seemed to survive. Still, Cheater gave each another bullet as he drew closer. In cases like these, trying to save your ammunition could end up netting some bonus rounds for you—right in the back.
Now, everything was ready.
He did not attempt to enter the cab through its doors. Smart players took measures against such uninvited intrusions. In this world, where even in an apparently safe zone anything could leap out at you at any time, careless beings did not live for long.
He didn’t need to enter a cab door, anyway. The locks were mostly to prevent infecteds from entering. Humans could always find a way.
Cheater heaved his body up onto the weapon platform. He rushed the cab. It was defended from this side, too, but only by some bars between him and the rear window glass. The driver’s silhouette was clear.
His pistol sounded once more.
The man’s head was in bad enough shape after that that Cheater did not use another round.
He skidded to a halt and dashed the other way, away from the cab. Heaving the gunner’s body from her resting place, Cheater hurriedly took her place. The controls confused him. He had learned how to use an antiaircraft gun, but only in theory. He had never shot one. Everything looked different here. The emplacement—despite the smaller caliber of the guns—was much larger. Twice as large, at least.
All of it seemed wrong, including the seat. It was uncomfortable and unusual.
Experience came to his aid. After some seconds, he noticed a couple of similar trends to familiar weapons. And so his confidence grew as he aimed at the rear of the other truck, hoping that the people in its cab were staring towards the charging infected and not at the brash maverick taking aim at the backs of their necks.
His leg tensed as he pushed the pedal. All four barrels rumbled. Dozens of bullets poured out per second. This threw up such a flame into the air that Cheater became disoriented once again. His aim seemed to be off. Either the scope was misaligned, or he was misusing it.
He released the pedal for a moment—and grinned. The shots had still been effective. This was no autocannon, in fact, but the results were impressive. The truck’s cab had been reduced to shreds. Steam rushed out from under the hood of the vehicle.
He moved the sight a little higher and fired another burst, this time brimming with certitude. The turret, which had been hastily rotating to face this new threat, now stopped moving. It didn’t even look much like a turret anymore. Unless it was one made of sieves and Swiss cheese.
A man with a brutally bloodied face emerged from behind the armored personnel carrier. Cheater could see that he was an unfamiliar player.
Therefore, he was an enemy.
The enemy did not seem dangerous, and the distance between them was small. He could pull his pistol and finish the man off from here with a couple of shots. But Cheater knew that in rapidly changing environments he had to avoid being bogged down by unnecessary physical motions. Aiming at the new target, he pressed the trigger without hesitation. Less than a second. Just a tap with his foot.
The man managed to leap off the road. But he did so in pieces, and left part of his leg, sneaker and all, behind him.
The massive ghoul froze, seventy yards away, eyeing Cheater. He knew now that it was not one of the dumber ones. It had identified Cheater as the only remaining threat. One threat was much fewer than had existed moments before. Instinct would push it to attack, as the situation was no longer a hopeless one, and instinct demanded that players be attacked whenever possible. However, this one had another instinct. That of self-preservation.
Cheater raised and shook his fist at the creature, preparing to unleash hell.
Yet the ghoul seemed convinced by the fist. It rushed away from him, glancing over its shoulder in fear. Cheater watched it run away, unclenched his fist, and even waved.
He did not shoot. The infected was not his ally, of course, but some whisper hinted to him that, in this case, he could adjourn the eternal struggle between his kind and its. Without that ghoul, this battle could have ended in disaster for him and his team.
He slumped back onto the tortuously uncomfortable seat and watched the long victory message flood past his eyes as he raised his hand to his radio. “Alright, quit running away. We won.”
Chapter 15
Life Nine. The History of Ancient Rome
As he transmitted the message, Cheater realized that the victory had come at a high cost. His brain began to reactivate cognitive functions which were not useful during the heat of a fight. The first thing he noted was the party window. Eleven icons—one of them always inactive, since the person it represented was too far away.
In a different region, and beyond gray and black clusters. Only party logs and statuses (dead or alive) could cross such barriers.
Kitty was alive, and he was glad for that.
Nothing else about the party’s status could make him glad.
Three icons showed as dead. The party had lost March, Clown, and Gangrene. Two other icons were flashing threateningly: the Janitor and Goblin were critically wounded.
Vehicle status was not displayed in the party window, but he could see clearly with his own eyes that the front truck had been decimated. The large-caliber machine gun had eviscerated the cab—with March and Clown sitting inside. The truck’s front tires had been stripped to shreds by grenade shrapnel, and at least one of the rear wheels was entirely missing. The antiaircraft gun was in bad shape, although Cheater had no idea how bad, exactly. The Janitor was not in sight, but he could be heard swearing on the other side of the vehicle, and seen via Flash of Omniscience. Whether his swearing was in anger or pain, Cheater could not say.
He turned his head and saw Nut bouncing the pickup across the field. The druggie was driving like a maniac, but at least he was coming back instead of going away. The other truck had stopped in the distance. Either it had been disabled, or the driver had been incapacitated. Goblin’s icon was flashing urgently, after all.
That was not the sort of thing caused by a bit of shrapnel to the calf or a bullet grazing one’s earlobe. It was something serious.
While the rest of his companions collected themselves, Cheater gave himself a cursory examination. Under such stress, it was easy to miss a serious wound, such as arterial hemorrhage, which could be fatal in minutes. Besides, he had been stunned from the fall and by the grenades which had ensued. They had been weak explosives, yes. But it did not take muc
h to kill a player.
His clothes were torn in places, and blood poured from his thigh and his right side. The thigh wound did not matter. As long as no large blood vessels were involved, he could take care of it later. But the wound to his side was a concern.
Cheater hastily lifted his jacket, twisted around, and put his hand to the spot. He calmed down immediately. A piece of shrapnel had punched through the Kevlar of his light vest and hurt him—but it had not gone far into his body. His fingers encountered the characteristic bulge and the flash of pain upon touch.
It was something he could take care of without a surgeon. Hardly even a wound, in player terms. A few days from now, not even a trace would remain.
To reduce the chances of an imminent death and accelerate the healing process, Cheater activated Omniscience again. He saw mole rats, groundhogs, and other creatures in the earth, and Janitor’s hulk, but no one else of note. No enemies. His normal vision, too, betrayed no threat, although he could see the infected fleeing into the distance. That one wasn’t coming back.
Cheater jumped onto the asphalt, absorbing the shock and checking whether some unnoticed fracture or piece of shrapnel offered feedback. Only his thigh and his right side returned their answer. Those did not need urgent attention.
He replaced his pistol mag with a full one, and still holding the weapon at the ready, proceeded to the shot-up artillery truck, from where the Janitor continued to swear.
As he rounded the rear of the vehicle, he saw that the quasi had good reason to embrace such obscenities. Both of the Janitor’s legs looked like they had been held inside a blender for some minutes. His right arm was missing, clear up to the shoulder. Remnants of Kevlar and other shielding hung down in shreds.
The great fighter was down three limbs. Only his left arm seemed in order, and the monster slammed it continually into the pavement, with such force that Cheater imagined it would crack soon.
The Janitor saw him and screamed, “Where’s my arm?”
His left hand ceased its pounding on the pavement and pointed to his bereaved shoulder.
“What do you need it for?” Cheater asked stupidly.
“I found the latest Playboy in the truck and wanted to beat one off,” the quasi mocked. “Cheater, find my arm. Now! It’s somewhere up there, or on the other side of the vehicle. Bring it to me!”
Cheater didn’t know Janitor well, but he did know that the quasi needed his arm for something serious, besides self pleasure. He found the missing limb quickly. At that moment, the truck returned. Both doors flew open, and Goblin fell out of the passenger side, whereupon he set to groaning on the pavement. Fatso leaped out of the driver’s seat, apprehensively shifting his machine gun from one side to the other. “What happened here?” he barked.
“March and Clown are gone, and the Janitor is down a few limbs,” Cheater said, waving the quasi’s detached arm.
Nut had just arrived, as well. “His arm got torn off?”
“No, it just had a quarrel with the man and decided to take a break. Dammit, Nut! Why the hell did you—”
“Relax,” Cheater stepped in. “We can sort that out later. First, we need to bring March and Clown back. And fast. How’s Button doing?”
“I’ll check,” Fatso replied as he turned back to the truck.
Nipple fell out at that moment and doubled over—more like tripled over—accompanied by sounds of vomiting. She was in bad shape.
In between the heaves, she raised her head and stared at Cheater, telling him wearily, “We need to raise Gangrene too.”
“We can make do without that piece of shit!” Fatso muttered as he pushed past her.
“We can,” the healer agreed, her voice losing emotion, “but if he respawns, so will I. So you’ll either bring him back, or say your goodbyes to me.”
“The hell is it with you two? Damned, hopeless lovebirds!” Fatso yelled, already from inside the truck.
Cheater stepped down to the ground and offered Janitor the hand. Along with the arm it was attached to. “Here, I found it.”
“Thank you,” the quasi muttered as he began to re-attach it to what was left of his shoulder.
There was clearly something about quasis that Cheater did not yet understand.
Screeching noises emerged from the truck. Cheater turned to see Fatso dragging Button out. She was squealing in displeasure at this relocation.
But every second they lost now increased the risk of setting them back for many days. He didn’t care about Gangrene, but if they lost March and Clown, they would have to wait until the two of them respawned and could be picked up. That was not a quick process, and the region was still on fire.
There were enough dangers ahead of them that he did not wish to add back in the dangers behind.
Players’ dead bodies did not lie at rest for long. Soon, they would turn to black sand.
That would trigger the worst-case scenario for their crossing: abort.
This flashed through his head in an instant. In addition, Cheater realized that Fatso’s behavior was unacceptable. He was performing his task poorly. The man had benefitted from several days to get this girl on her feet. He had tried to do so amicably. That hadn’t worked.
And it wouldn’t work now. He was trying to drag her along gently, with just a two-finger hold, and his face showed mild confusion and frustration, as if he had just had three diarrhea-stricken newborns thrust into his arms.
These thoughts departed from Cheater’s mind, leaving a void of perturbed ire. Mental problems were no excuse for wasting time. Button’s ability still worked. Psychiatry be damned. She would do her job, even if she shed a gallon of tears doing so.
Cheater approached and took a swing. It was a mighty slap that nearly drove the girl unconscious. Then, he repeated the slap, backhand.
Let both sides of her face suffer equally.
“The hell are you doing!” Fatso shouted.
Cheater ignored him and handed the gun to the girl, whose crying had immediately ceased. “Here, kill me. Press this here, and I’ll die. Go ahead. I just slapped you. Don’t I deserve it? Come on! Shoot me right here. Why won’t you pull the trigger? I’m not going anywhere. So either you shoot me, or you go bring Clown and March back from the dead. Right now. This instant. Or I’ll hit you again, more than twice. And I’ll keep doing that until you bring them back from the dead or until you shoot me. Look, I don’t like this. I hate it more than you do. Button? Come on! Wake up! Do this now, and then you can cry all you want. We need you. We can’t do this without you!”
It was a risky move, and an asshole move. Cheater was disgusted by himself. What had come over him? Somehow, he had realized that this was the only tactic that had a chance of working. It was not guaranteed, but if it didn’t work, nothing would. He had tried the quickest method he could see of putting a hysterical person back into working order.
Button stared at Cheater as if he were a ghost and twitched hesitantly, indicating that Fatso should let go of her. She did not touch the gun, but whimpered, “Where are they?”
“Show her,” Cheater replied wearily as he sat down on the pavement.
His leg was giving way. The thigh wound must have been worse than he had thought.
For a moment or two, he slipped out of the situation, paying attention to his leg. The shard had gone through muscle. It hadn’t apparently done too much damage, but he was experiencing an unnatural level of cramping around it. Perhaps that was simply in response to the severe impact—as though someone had taken a hammer to his thigh. He had not noticed it before, in the heat of the battle. Now, he did.
Nipple had been hunched behind him, but now she moved in front of him and muttered, “Let me.”
“Let you what?”
“I’ll take care of this.”
The girl swept her hair from her face with her left hand and pressed her right to the wound. When she placed it on his thigh, he felt an unpleasant tingling, as though a weak electric current were being applied to t
he muscle. Or as though blood were first flowing back into a limb which had been asleep.
Nipple removed her hand and followed up with her characteristic apathy, “Did they get you anywhere else? You’re covered in blood, all over.”
“All over? I think they just got my side, a little. The blood isn’t mine—it’s from that machine gunner. When she died, she slumped in the chair, and I sat in it moments later.”
“I don’t care whose blood it is. Show me your side so I can handle it.”
