The town reminded him of the cheesy haunted houses his mom used to drag him to when he was just a kid, the kind they’d see in the distance as they drove through the countryside. His mom would squeal with delight, slamming on the brakes, pulling his hand across the gravel parking lot to buy their tickets with a fistful of cash. They’d parade through the gates like drunks on payday, their eyes full of hope. But Mitch always knew what to expect—a different style of the same song and dance. A rickety shell constructed in a field just outside of town, built haphazardly with bales of hay and plywood and the smell of paint still fresh in the air. A kid taking tickets at the mouth of the corn maze, half buzzed on moonshine, wondering what his next hustle would be once the season passed him by. Mitch had been a skeptic from day one, but he took joy in watching his mom soak in the spectacle—a new scare around every corner. Reaching through the darkness to feel slimy cow’s eyes or reach deep into a bowl of worms. She’d always found the wonder in the dark.
Crouching down—doing his best to hide from the flying beasts gliding overhead—Mitch scrounged through his game settings, searching for a ray of hope. He checked his inventory one more time, just in case, but of course, nothing had changed. That’s when he noticed the new interface. The familiar Skirmish logo burned into his brain over the years was replaced with a new word, doused in red, black, and white in an old western font. Like a sign hanging over a saloon, reading “DeadBlood.”
“I’m going to kill you, Mac.”
He tabbed over to his skills list, praying that at least his Skirmish levels had translated over to the new world. Even if the inventory doesn’t match, skills are skills. They don’t go away. There’s no way that ...
LEVEL: 0
STAMINA: 1 / 100
STEALTH: 1 / 100
STRENTH: 1 / 100
Mitch fought the surging rage crawling up his neck. He felt sweat began to bead on his forehead. He tried his best to calm himself, but as it turned out, today just wasn’t his day.
“Level ZERO? Are you KIDDING me?” He howled at the sky, screaming at the top of his lungs. “You couldn’t even give me a ONE?” His voice echoed back off the canyon walls, rolling and swirling with each carbon copy until the valley faded back into silence. A flying creature screeched back, sending Mitch running across the dirt, leaving a trail of dust in his path and finally finding refuge behind a small cluster of boulders.
Get your shit together. Call HQ, see what’s going on. They must have a plan for … whatever this is.
He brought up his video chat tab and activated the comm channel, pressing the button with more than a hint of aggression. The signal indicator pulsed as the status message “SEARCHING FOR SIGNAL” toggled on and off.
C’mon, c’mon.
After thirty seconds of searching, the indicator went dead, surrendering with a super-helpful “NO SIGNAL FOUND” message. Mitch flicked through a few more tabs. Grumbling under his breath, he switched over to his text-based communication tool. It was old school, but since text signals traveled with far less bandwidth, he knew it would give him a better chance at getting through to the Karma team. He typed away at his keyboard, hunting and pecking with single presses, working his way through a series of misfires. Pleased with his note, he hit ‘Send.’
MITCH: WHOSE ASS DO I GET TO KICK FOR THIS?
He knew that back in the day—before VR communication patterns and bandwidth had become mainstream—text-based signals could take minutes to travel through the network of server connections. With one eye on the sky and the other on his chat window, Mitch crouched down into the dirt and waited for a response—for anything. A few minutes later, by the grace of whatever God might reside over a world called DeadBlood, a response appeared.
HQ: GOOD TO HEAR FROM YOU, SIR. THIS IS CARL. CARL, FROM THE LAB. GLAD TO SEE YOU MADE IT OVER IN ONE PIECE.
MITCH: WHERE’S ALL MY SHIT, CARL?
HQ: YES, OF COURSE. FUNNY STORY. SEEMS WE HAD A BIT OF TROUBLE TRANSLATING YOUR INVENTORY TO THE NEW WORLD. TURNS OUT THERE’S NO EQUIVALENT FOR THE WEAPONS WE GAVE YOU, SO THE GAME JUST GAVE UP AND DUMPED EVERYTHING.
MITCH: YOU THINK THAT’S FUNNY?
HQ: I DIDN’T MEAN IT THAT WAY, SIR.
Mitch drew in a slow breath, one eye drifting back to the shadows of the ghost town. Typing slowly and methodically, he pressed ‘Send’ with a bit more authority this time.
MITCH: FIX IT, CARL.
HQ: UNDERSTOOD, SIR. PROBLEM IS, I DON’T HAVE ACCESS TO YOUR WORLD’S INVENTORY LOG. WITHOUT IDS, I CAN’T ASSIGN STORAGE. YOU’LL NEED TO SCAVENGE AND FIND NEW ITEMS, JUST IN CASE YOU NEED THEM.
Just in case I need them? Mitch stared off at the horizon, trying to piece his sense of sanity back together. Every game he’d played before was based on some form of reality. Never anything this foreign, nothing this dark. Even in the Skirmish WWII maps or Vietnam expansion packs, he’d quickly found his bearings. They’d always been grounded in the same game world—familiar patterns and known rules. No giant flying monsters hanging over his head, no sulfur biting at his tongue. And he didn’t even want to know what was lurking inside the ghost town.
I didn’t sign up for this shit. Bringing his inventory back up, he brought out a code package—the one Mac had called “the parachute.” The one that would just bring him right back home, no levels needed, no questions asked. He felt its weight in his hand, turning it over, inspecting the grooves down each side. He thought about how easy it would be to just head back. One flick of the switch, and he’d rematerialize back at Karma HQ.
But he knew he wasn’t the only one stuck here. And the clock was ticking.
HQ: SIR, MR. MCDOUGALL IS ASKING A QUESTION: HE’D LIKE TO KNOW WHAT IT’S LIKE THERE. WHAT ARE YOU SEEING?
Mitch laughed, falling into a quick fit of hysteria, choking from a fresh gust of ash as it hit the back of his throat. He surveyed the landscape, the blood red sun falling behind the mountains, as the night fell cold.
MITCH: A VALLEY. SCORCHED EARTH. BLACK AND RED EVERYWHERE. A GHOST TOWN IN FRONT OF ME, LOOKS LIKE TROUBLE. NO NEFARIOUS TEAM MEMBERS ANYWHERE.
HQ: WOW, SIR, THAT ACTUALLY SOUNDS PRETTY COOL. NEVER SEEN A GHOST TOWN BEFORE.
MITCH:
GET.
ME.
THE.
FUCK.
OUT.
OF.
HERE.
CARL.
HQ: WORKING ON IT SIR. FOR NOW, I’D HEAD INTO THE TOWN. BEST CHANCE OF FINDING SOMEONE THERE. THAT’S WHERE I WOULD GO.
Mitch rose to his feet, shaking the dirt from his legs, and checked the sky for predators. The winged beasts had moved on, turning into small flying Vs, heading for the darkening peaks in the distance. He stared into the depths of the city, searching for answers, as a few scattered lights of fire sparked to life.
That’s where I’d go, too.
TEN
Welcome to DeadBlood
WHEN IT CAME to Skirmish strategy, Mitch’s approach was pretty simple: always push forward, never pull back. Every tour group and any random player unlucky enough to ask had heard his ten-minute speech on the power of momentum. The concept had even commanded not just one, but two full chapters in The Skirmish Manual: A Team-Based Approach. And it was all for one good reason: players needed to hear it.
For most of the freshmen walking into Skirmish, a timid approach was their default. Waiting out the clock, studying their surroundings to collect as much information as possible. It was a natural first reaction—without any pressure, why would anyone move? Why would they hunt? Why would they do … anything? And so Mitch’s lessons had to fight against that urge, leading players not only through game levels, but out of their comfort zones. Why? Because staying in the same place always led to a loss, one way or another. Momentum came from confidence. Confidence in weapons, strategy, and game knowledge made any Skirmish player into a better player. Mitch didn’t know much, but he knew that.
The irony of all this was not lost on him as he crouched, still as a st
one, watching the town as the sun signaled a final spark behind the meeting of two mountains. Only after the valley fell to black did Mitch muster up enough courage to scurry to the nearest bluff, pinning his back against the pockmarked volcanic rock, his eyes showing all the confidence of a panicked, motherless kitten. He curved his neck around the edge of the rock pile, just far enough to see the weathered gates of the town snarling back at him, now just a rock’s throw away. A distant hum told him there was activity behind the walls, but he couldn’t piece together anything beyond that.
“I bet the whole team is just behind that wall,” Mitch convinced himself. “Right around the corner, all sitting around waiting for me with their thumbs up their virtual asses. In a few minutes you’ll be home, Mitch. In and out. Everyone will thank you, and then you’ll get the hell out of here.”
He scurried forward, feeling the transition from thick soil to the matted, slick dirt of the town’s main road. As he walked under the gate’s threshold, a flash of color by his feet caught the corner of his eye. Since he’d arrived, he hadn’t even considered looking down to see what he was wearing, but now, bathed in torchlight, he could see that he wasn’t dressed in his Skirmish battle fatigues. Not even close.
He brought his third-party camera view up, spinning a circle around his avatar. What he was used to seeing—for, oh, the past twenty-seven years or so—was different shades of military garb. His Skirmish avatar hadn’t changed much since he could remember, maybe small tweaks every few years as new modifications came available, or new loot was discovered. Boots, flak jacket, armored vest, dark gray camouflage pants. All flat black and gray, all functional in its nature.
But today, apparently, the circus was in town.
The first thing he noticed was the boots. Dark, weathered brown leather mashed with dirt and God-knows-what, a color that settled somewhere between a smear of red and brown and black. Pointed toes, big leather straps, steampunk-style metal buckles complete with sharp spurs. A long trench coat reached down to his ankles, flowing with muted, dirty tones of brown. Belts reached across each side of his chest to form an X at his heart. And on top—a black, heavily creased leather cowboy hat, topped off with a dull metal skull emblem somehow both pushed and burned deep into the crown.
“The next time I get a message from Mac, I’m not opening it. I swear to God.” As he stepped forward, a status update washed across his view.
NEW MISSION: WELCOME TO DEADBLOOD
A new game element sparked to life on his compass—a small, yellow diamond at the top of his view, inviting him straight down the dirt road. Quest marker. Probably my best bet. Let’s see what this thriving metropolis has to offer.
If there was anyone alive and well in DeadBlood, they weren’t giving up the secret quite yet. It was a dark, ramshackle collection of two, three, and even four story buildings with rickety porches, a sign hung here and there, and alleyways leading to places Mitch wanted no part of. The street was lit every few feet by a collection of swinging oil lamps, illuminating the details of every sunken wooden porch and worn, bleached wall. Broken windows and abandoned carriages. Some doors were missing, others looked like they’d been boarded up decades ago. Mitch turned to check behind him, noticing he was leaving a trail of footprints across a thin coat of freshly-fallen gray ash, like the first kid out the door on a snow day.
A maze of platforms, ladders, ropes, and nets formed soft connections, one level to the next, bridging buildings across alleys in a crisscross fashion and turning the town into a rambling maze of madness. There was structure to the place, hidden somewhere in the twists and turns, but nothing made sense at first glance. Barbershops, general stores, and corner saloons lined the main road, leading straight uphill to a clock tower in the distance, which looked down at Mitch like a raven on a wire. But it was all barren, all dead and empty inside. Full of fits and starts, wide open doors leading to brick walls or drops into nothing. No signs of life at all, until Mitch heard a rustle stir from his left side.
He stopped in his tracks as he felt a growing, breathing collective weight of stares from all directions. He didn’t make eye contact, but could make out the outlines of boxy dark suits, skinny legs, and hunched backs. Some of the forms revealed thin outlines as they stepped from the darkness, others proved to be as thick as their crumbling porches would allow. As the crowd grew around him, Mitch quickened his pace, keeping his head down and his eyes locked on the quest marker location. Just stick to the plan. Don’t look at them. Don’t look at any of them.
But then he looked.
Dark figures with red eyes, cloaked in burlap, walked in two or threes, snarling, bumping against his shoulder with hisses and scowls. Some with horns protruding from their disfigured heads and through their hoods, battle axes resting heavily across their shoulders. Others tending to piles of bodies, stacked like Lincoln Logs, lumped and folded into growing mountains of flesh. A ghost-white man staggered past him—black blood caked down his jaw and onto his formerly white dress shirt, his eyes gouged out then sewn back shut.
“You should really get that checked out,” Mitch muttered, keeping his head low. “I swear everyone in this town must have a vitamin D deficiency—”
His view exploded into red, his body jerking backwards with violent abandon, his head spinning. He watched his health indicator pulse out a series of warning messages as it ticked down, bit by bit, finally stopping its descent at 10%. A ghoul—clad in a downright filthy, but somehow still white, cowboy hat, no shirt, and three or four teeth highlighting the left side of his face where skin used to be—stomped forward, hovering over Mitch as he lay helpless, paralyzed. All Mitch could do was stare up at the black sky and wait for the next blow.
Where did he come—?
The ghoul swung his double-bladed axe and connected, hitting bone. Mitch felt his body shudder, health falling to 0%.
YOU HAVE DIED
The world of DeadBlood faded away, swirling with black and red and green, as a fresh load screen worked its way to completion. Within a few seconds, Mitch found himself back in the same place as he had started: down on his knees, the town of DeadBlood in the distance. He plopped back onto his ass and punched the dirt. “I hate this game.”
Stomping back into town, Mitch formed a new plan: find a weapon, anything. He didn’t care about its make, model, blood type, or nationality. He’d take whatever he could find—a club or a stick or hell, even a rock. Just anything but his own bare hands to find that ghoul and show him what he could do.
As he re-entered Main Street, he found the scene completely rebooted, starting its motions over from scratch. He approached the spot where he’d been jumped, right next to a row of rectangular boxes leaning lazily against the rail of a pharmacy. That asshole is hiding one of those coffins. Don’t go anywhere—I’ll be right back, gorgeous.
Mitch sidestepped from the main road to comb the side streets, checking every porch corner and the underside of every barrel, desperately searching for any kind of loot indicator, but with no luck. Either he was terrible at this game or there was nothing here. After ten minutes, he was still just walking around DeadBlood with his dick in his hand.
He crept slowly back up the left side of Main Street, keeping a good amount of distance from the line of coffins and trudged towards the yellow mission waypoint indicator now hovering just a few buildings away.
Nice and quiet like. You got this. You got this.
Then, boom goes the dynamite, it happened again. Blood everywhere. He’d been blindsided, jacked from behind without warning. Mitch looked down to see the tip of a spear, just inches from his face, impaling him through the stomach like a fat summer sausage at a backyard barbecue. This time around, he didn’t even get the pleasure of seeing the face of whoever or whatever had killed him, but he figured that was probably for the best.
YOU HAVE DIED
With each run through the town, Mitch wasn’t learning much about what to do, but his list of things of what not to do was growing fast. On h
is fifth run, he learned the hard way to avoid the zombies walking out of the general store, but as it turned out, they might have been some of the nicer ones in the whole damn game. The old drunk standing outside the saloon would pull a pistol and shoot before Mitch got his first word out. The three lanky figures with oversized cowboy hats and black trench coats that had chased him all the way out of town and back into the valley, spitting clouds of green acid, until Mitch disintegrated into a lump on the dirt. Even the horses would attack if you looked at them the wrong way. And after every demoralizing defeat, just like clockwork, Mitch would end up at the same starting point: kneeling in the black dirt, staring down at a town he wanted nothing to do with him.
“Screw it. Let’s try something new.” He drew up a new plan: avoid as many things and zombies and whatever-the-hell-you-call-thems as possible. If he could get to the safety of the rooftops, he figured he’d at least have a fighting chance at getting through to the mission marker without getting his ass handed to him on the way.
After three or four runs through his new strategy, Mitch finally had the rough outline of a pattern beginning to form. Inching into town, he would quickly veer off to the right and up a set of stairs, only visible from a certain corner of the alley. He’d sneak behind the loose group of thugs milling about, working his way above a steampunk-fashioned beast that looked like an undead prize pig from a state fair, complete with a rotting apple in its mouth. Creeping up the fire escape, he could then tiptoe across the catwalk, gaining access to the rooftops.
Piece of cake.
From his new perch, he could see almost all of DeadBlood, and for the first time since he had left Karma HQ, he felt like he could stop and breathe. He watched the town swell and move, the handheld torches revealing enemy positions, the bloodcurdling screams keeping him high in his nest.
Side Quest Page 6