Side Quest

by Christopher Kerns

  “You can’t stay up here for the rest of your life, dummy. You’ve got a job to do.”

  He crouched down, gripping the rusty support holding up the crumbling chimney and leaned over for a better view of the main street. He found himself directly across from the saloon, the mission indicator hanging in the air above a set of plate-glass windows. The glass formed a pyramid, decorated with ornate flecks of stained glass and iron along the sides.

  Mitch quickly realized he had a new problem: even with all the catwalks and platforms and ladders on each side of town, there was nothing connecting his side of the town with the other. Nothing but the dirt below, and a thick rope fixed near Mitch’s boots, stretching over to the saloon’s rooftop. He craned his neck to read the banner hanging from the rope, proudly proclaiming today as “DeadBlood Day.”

  God, I’ve always loved DeadBlood Day. Nice little three-day weekend, you get to sleep in, maybe have a barbecue. It’s fantastic. One of my top three holidays, easy.

  The sound of shuffling feet perked his ears—a lazy mix of slow stomping and a dragging grind across tired dirt. The noise grew with each sliding step, the ringing of spurs, punctuated with a few groans and moans. Mitch could now see the faint glow of torches, their numbers rising as the smell of the undead, mixed with ash, filled the air. The townsfolk of DeadBlood—such a lovely bunch—were all coming together for a big town meeting. Right under the banner.

  Right under Mitch.

  “Tonight ... new ... day ... for ... DeadBlood,” a particularly large creature—a mix of a cowboy, a werewolf, and maybe a truck driver?—stammered at the center of the gathering. “Not ... just ... DeadBlood ... Day ... this ... DeadBlood ... forever! All ... hail ... Baroness!”

  Couldn’t have said it better myself. This guy has some serious public speaking skills.

  The crowd cheered. “All ... hail ... Baroness! Baroness ... will ... show ... the ... way!”

  Mitch watched the mission indicator twinkle bright in the night, spinning like a top, taunting him from across the street. He flinched, spinning to check the darkness on the rooftop behind him, swearing he’d just heard a noise. He found nothing waiting for him.

  I need to get out of here. The rope is high enough ... I’ll just sneak right over.

  He took a deep breath and formed a solid grip on the rope with both hands, inching out into nothing. The “DeadBlood Day” banner shook and shimmied as he hung from three stories up, his legs dangling with each new grip towards the saloon. He fought the overwhelming urge to look down. One hand at a time. Just keep going. Just keep going.

  “Tonight ... our ... night!” the ghoul continued below. “World ... never ... same ... again!” The crowd cheered, hanging on the ringleader’s every word.

  Mitch had made it almost halfway across the rope, now at the point where he’d need to find a way around the banner. He extended his arm out and past the burlap, the scratch of the rope now feeling strangely comforting in the crease of each palm. As he reached for his next grip, his hand slipped, mistakenly grasping at the banner instead of rope, his fingers sliding.

  He fell down to one side, now hanging on with only one arm extended out full, stretching to its breaking point. The jolt shook the banner as his fingers burned. He fought the urge to scream, dangling thirty feet above the middle of Main Street with only the grip of a few sweaty fingers between him and the crowd below.

  The crowd had grown to at least seventy creatures, a sea of dark hats, torches, and spiked weaponry. The smell was unbearable—like a gym sock had been left in a dead raccoon by the side of the road and then placed in the oven at 425 degrees for just about an hour. Mitch closed his eyes, summoning his strength, and swung his other arm up back up to the rope, once again finding a firm two-handed grip. He was back in control, feeling like he was on top of the world, at least for a few seconds.

  “DeadBlood ... night ... tonight,” the ringleader cheered, now directly below Mitch’s dangling, dusty boots. “Tonight ... we ... rise ... again!”

  This time, the rally cry wasn’t just met with cheers, the crowd added some western flavor to the mix, reaching down to their holsters, pulling out their pistols, and shooting celebratory rounds into the air.

  Shit.

  Mitch scurried across the rope, bullets whizzing past him, as the crowd continued shooting in every direction. His hands flew, finding grip after grip, scrambling for the next handhold, the rope shaking more and more violently as he hurried his pace.

  As a pair of bullets shot through the brim of his hat, leaving behind only black holes with singed outlines, he swung himself full-force at the plate glass window.

  The next thing he remembered was hitting a wooden floor. Mitch was so damn happy to be off that rope that he didn’t even mind the shards of glass falling around him. He laid on the terra firma, saying a silent prayer that the ruckus hadn’t attracted any attention from the crowd. After watching the door for what felt like an hour, Mitch figured the ghouls were too busy shooting every gun they had to even notice his dramatic dismount.

  He rose to his feet, hoping to God to see at least one member of the Nefarious Five in the saloon, standing under the mission indicator, happy to see him. Maybe they’d even thank him.

  Who’s it going to be? Dozer? Punch? Chu? Whoever it is, it’ll be good to—

  His face dropped. The person standing in front of him wasn’t a familiar face—not in the least. The old prospector was a tiny little man, with a gold-yellow cartoon hat and a curled mustache bigger than anything else on him. He was wearing tattered overalls and leaning against the bar, sipping on a half-empty beer. Above his head, the yellow mission diamond spun like a top.

  The man smiled and raised his beer as a welcome to DeadBlood’s newest visitor.

  “Well, howdy ho, partner. Weeeeeeelcooooome to heeeeeelllllllll on eaaaarth!” he beamed, toasting the air with a splash of suds.

  Mitch stared back, brushing the glass from his hair. “I hate this game.”

  ELEVEN

  How Can I Help?

  THE GOOD NEWS, Mitch figured, was that he was no longer outside, dangling over a hoard of bloodthirsty rotting, stinking, undead assholes. No more worms crawling from eye sockets and rusty axes ready to carve his legs up into little bits. It still wasn’t super reassuring, but it was something to put in the old “W” column.

  Mitch hadn’t heard a peep from the prospector since his introductory greeting, and instead kept his focus on the crowd outside as he crouched hidden, peering out of the saloon’s dusty front window. After a few more rounds of cheering, the torches began to disperse, flowing out of the town square like a river of fire, marching down the main street and towards the entrance he’d seen way too many times now.

  With problem A solved, it’s on to problem B.

  “Seen any strangers in town, old man?” Mitch asked over his shoulder, keeping his eye close to the glass for one final check. “Anyone looking like they don’t belong?” He got no response.

  Mitch spun, checking his sound settings and turned to face his new acquaintance. The prospector’s avatar felt half-done, its movements pre-planned and jerky, like one of those Chuck E. Cheese robots Mitch had seen in old movies. The prospector stared right past Mitch’s left shoulder, out into the air, and shifted his weight ever so slightly, never dropping his half-empty beer from the perfect right angle of his elbow.

  “I asked you a question there, um, partner.” Even with Mitch’s outstanding use of the local jargon, the prospector didn’t budge. Mitch approached, waving his hands in front of the man’s eyes, checking for signs of life. As he stepped closer, a dialog box popped up outlined with white, western fringe. The message was styled in a 19th century western American font, a nice touch.

  PRESS OK TO SPEAK TO CAPTAIN TANGLEWOOD

  Captain Tanglewood? You’ve got to be kidding.

  Mitch punched the OK button in the dialog box. “Okay, great, first question out of the gate,” Mitch said. “Captain Tanglewood? What are
you, a breakfast cereal? My name’s no picnic, but damn, you got hosed, man. Hard.”

  The Captain’s mouth showed flicks of movement, like a machine booting up from a cold sleep, but still no spark, no words. Then, without warning, Mitch felt a wave wash over him, almost knocking him off his feet. A dizzy rush overtook his senses, like spinning in a circle but still trying to focus, watching helplessly as the world twirled. His body froze as his view switch to third person. Mitch fought to move, but no longer had physical control of his avatar. He drew a breath, trying to speak, but the words hung, pulled back by his own throat like they were caught on the point of a rusty nail. With each try, his voice never followed. That’s when Mitch realized what was happening.

  You’ve got to be kidding me. A cutscene?

  Cutscenes were Mitch’s least favorite gaming element—a break in a game that allows for the plot to move along, usually featuring extended dialog between two characters, or sometimes showing an action scene that is beyond what gameplay can offer. One thing he loved about Skirmish was that there were almost no cutscenes to slow down the game play—it was all action, all of the time. But Mitch wasn’t in Skirmish anymore.

  THANK THE HEAVENS. YOU’VE COME. IT’S MY SISTER—YOU MUST HELP.

  The Captain’s dialog was now not only spoken, it was also displayed in all-caps along the bottom of Mitch’s view. The dialog box populated with three options for Mitch’s reply, each one pissing him off more than the last.

  ( ) WHAT’S WRONG?

  ( ) TELL ME MORE ABOUT YOUR SISTER

  ( ) HOW CAN I HELP?

  The whole point of VR—the thing that Mitch loved about Skirmish and the Karma Systems network as a whole—was that it allowed players to become something they weren’t. To discover new places with a unique degree of freedom the real world just couldn’t offer. But cutscenes took that all away, trapping the user in a predefined, locked script. They were cheap shortcuts, a lazy approach to what could otherwise be an amazing experience.

  These options all suck. Where’s the “go F yourself” button?

  Mitch could feel himself squirming back at home, back in reality, strapped into his VR rig. He wanted out of the scene, wanted control back, but knew the only way out was to just bite his lip and plow through. He was trapped in the dialog until he made a choice. He swallowed his pride and chose the option he figured would lead to the fastest resolution.

  (*) HOW CAN I HELP?

  The cutscene continued, the prospector slapping Mitch on the back with his free hand and looking relieved.

  I KNEW YOU’D BE THE ONE. YOU SEE, MY SISTER, SHE WENT OUT THIS MORNING TO THE APPLE ORCHARD, JUST DOWN THE ROAD ...

  Mitch strained to keep himself from screaming inside his own head. I. Don’t. Care. About. Your. Stupid. Sister. The prospector rambled on, diving into his sister’s backstory—about how she was a school teacher for the only schoolhouse in town, and how the children loved her so much, and how her disappearance wouldn’t just be a family tragedy, but a tragedy for the future of the civilized side of DeadBlood (even though the town has its flaws, sure), and how this town hadn’t been the same since “the curse” had hit. Finally, after telling the entire history of his family, the town, and the surrounding region, Captain Tanglewood got to the fucking point.

  WE THINK SHE MAY HAVE STRAYED TOO CLOSE TO THE OLD BARONESS MINE, OUT IN THE FOOTHILLS. BE CAREFUL, THOUGH—IT’S A DANGEROUS TIME FOR BOTH LIFE AND LIMB.

  And then, mercifully, the cutscene ended. Mitch felt his body release, rushing back into a first person view of the virtual world. He shook his arms and paced around the prospector, if for no other reason than because he could. He jumped into the man’s face, which had faded back to its default, glossed-over state, and screamed at the top of his lungs, yelling into the air to feel his voice again, with no reaction from the now silent Captain.

  NEW MISSION: THE BARONESS MINES

  The yellow diamond over the prospector’s head blinked off and a new mission indicator appeared at the top of Mitch’s navigation screen. A fresh target, now well off in the distance.

  Wait—new mission? Did I level up?

  His status answered that question for him—not even close. The game had awarded him a fresh set of experience points, but only about 10% of what was needed to reach the next level. Once Mitch managed to find a member of the Nefarious Five in this hellhole of a game, he’d still need to track down more mission locators to gain the needed experience, and he knew the mines were his best bet. As he turned, a new inventory indicator sparked in the top right corner of his display.

  CAPTAIN TANGLEWOOD HAS GIFTED YOU: STEAMPUNK PISTOL

  Mitch’s eyes lit up. He scrolled through his inventory and produced the new weapon, cradling it in both hands. He studied its features as he held it gently in his palms, like a shining, extremely dangerous newborn infant. The pistol was a beautiful thing, and not just because it was going to make Mitch’s life in this game a hell of a lot easier. It had been crafted with care, a genuine work of art. Spinning silver disks connected to pins and springs, all clicking together in lockstep. The barrel and grip were decorated with engraved wood and painted metal, topped off with a pewter sight that looked more like a shot glass than a scope. He ran his finger over the ridges of the barrel, feeling the weapon’s weight in his hand. He couldn’t remember being this happy in his whole damn life.

  Mitch raised a middle finger at Captain Tanglewood just because he could and kicked the bar’s double doors open, leaving only a trail of dust mid-air where they had hung. The ring of his spurs—matched with the thump of his boots meeting wood and a fresh pistol in his hand—gave Mitch a new swagger. Sure, he was out of his element. Sure, he didn’t know what he was getting into. But now he had a gun.

  He paced down the empty dirt road towards the front gate, stopping as a flash of movement caught the corner of his eye. He turned to see the familiar row of coffins—the homes to the undead cowboys that had killed him six, maybe seven times today—with the middle lid sliding back into place from the inside.

  Mitch approached and cleared his throat, knocking a few raps on the coffin with his free fist. The coffin lid opened, revealing his buddy—the ghoul in the white hat—with an axe at his feet and a surprised look, at least on the side of his face that was still attached.

  Mitch leaned back and with one pull of the trigger, blew the ghoul’s head clean off, leaving him crumpled in his coffin as the lid squeaked back shut. He saw his Karma point total notch up by fifty with a spark of white light behind the digits. He stared at the new total—a number he hadn’t seen move in years. A number that now suddenly had a new sense of life to it.

  “You shouldn’t surprise people,” Mitch lectured the headless ghoul, wiping a splatter of blood off his forehead and sticking the pistol down into his belt. “Total dick move.”

  As Mitch Mantock left the town of DeadBlood in his wake—following the traces of a rising sun, towards a mission indicator growing closer with each step, but still too far away—he swore he could hear the rustle of tumbleweed and the opening strings of a western soundtrack in the back corner of his ear. He hoped they were playing him on towards his missing team members, one step closer to home.

  TWELVE

  A Really Good Idea or a Really Bad Idea

  THE BARONESS MINES weren’t exactly subtle. If the towering entrance, adorned with weathered signs reading DANGER and TURN BACK and JUST DON’T wasn’t enough to attract a gamer’s attention, the location should have been enough to do the trick. Located right smack in the middle of a crumbling, dark stew of a cemetery, the cave’s mouth was barely hidden behind a collection of mossy tombs, cobwebs, thick underbrush, and the cracked arms and fingers of tree branches guiding the way. As Mitch hopped over a pair of gravestones, each leaning against the other in an eternal embrace, he questioned the game’s ability to stay focused.

  Gravestones combined with a western theme? Somebody’s crossing the streams with their tropes.

  He plucked a to
rch out of the hand of a cowboy skeleton long dead and forgotten, kicking the poor chap’s head down into the black mineshaft to check for traps ready to spring loose. He heard the crunch of bone rolling across dirt, but nothing more. “Guess nothing is the best I could hope for,” he whispered to himself, taking a long step forward. He kept his torch high, checking the walls and ceiling for bats or spiders or whatever else might be lurking inside. Turns out, he should have kept it low.

  All he could feel was falling—his stomach in his throat, the slick, wet rocky walls flying past his fingertips. The air grew colder, thicker as he continued down, his heart pounding with each bump, turn, and scrape. After a few final twists, turns, and drops, he landed hard on his side with a single, solid thud. Mitch grabbed his elbow with an impressive opening salvo of curses, the words darting through the tunnels like startled bats.

  The graveyard’s decay, still fresh in his nostrils, was replaced with musty, choking air. The sensory upgrades on his VR rig weren’t doing him any favors today—he could swear that he could feel moisture seeping into his skin, through every pore, soaking through his clothes, into his boots.

  Rising, Mitch took a reluctant step forward, not waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, and heard his foot find the rocky bottom of a shallow, slick puddle. Feeling for his pistol on his belt, his skin hit metal—still there. He found the torch laying on the floor next to him, lit it up once again, and held it high. “Coming down here was either a really good idea or a really bad idea. Which one’s it gonna be?”

  The torchlight showed an intersection of caves, like the central chamber of a dark, slimy heart. Rocky arteries and ventricles twisting in every direction, hiding their destinations past quick turns down each path. Mitch’s torch supplied the only light to speak of, the fire dancing off the wooden frames of each shaft’s rickety walls and crumbling ceiling. A skeleton, its mouth flopped open mid-scream and cowboy hat tilted to the side, hung from a noose at the dead center of the chamber.