by Arthur Stone
Of his limited memories, that first encounter was the most vivid. And the most revolting. Rock grit his teeth. He was mentally prepared to burst into flames, but hearing his bones cracking as the meat was ripped off of them was a different matter.
He took his first step down the stairs only to see a couple of laughing young guys careen down from the story above and bump into him, causing him to lose his balance and clutch the peeling handrail. Rock had to shift quickly to his right leg, causing a flash of pain in his knee. He struggled to keep his balance and shouted at the pair still running down, “The hell you two off to? Gay nightclub’s closed today!” Both idiots ignored the insult, or maybe didn’t hear him—or worse, didn’t even pick up on his sarcasm, had no idea they’d been jerks, and were making new plans to replace the club.
In every life so far, something always happened to Rock’s knee. He didn’t care about the scars. They didn’t get in the way. But his knees were more fragile than those dorm room chairs. One bad step, and his right knee felt like it was crumbling into tiny pieces. It was another part of that unnerving continuity, that stability. Like the shaggy blankets covering a shaggier roommate.
The dorm was genuinely hot inside. Almost steam room level. Why the heck had that moron been under all those covers?
Continuity. That must be it. There was no other explanation.
Maybe Rock was messed up, sure, but this cruel world could hardly claim the moral high ground. It was a slave to its continuity, everyone else be damned.
He stopped when he exited the building, not sure where to go or what to do next. He had to figure something out, but what? Maybe he should just run off to some quiet spot and take a closer look at that cursed menu. It could have some helpful tips for him. The city was all commotion, though. Maybe one of those tips was how to find a quiet spot where he could read the tips?
The building looked different this time. Its color and the design of the entryway were new, and it even had fewer floors. Similar architecture, but still, a different building. The street was different, too—no poplar trees across the way. Last time, they had blocked out the horizon even though their leaves were gone. The avenue here was wider, and the grass luxuriously green, with unfamiliar lawns, billboards, a supermarket down the road, and more.
An entirely different dorm on a different street in a different city. Not like I knew the other city well, anyway. And although Rock had no idea where to go, he knew one thing for sure: he should not under any circumstances approach crowds of people. Gatherings were the preferred target of homicidal maniacs, if that last hint and his own experience were anything to go by.
“It’s dangerous to go alone” didn’t apply. Going alone was the only way to survive.
But getting a break from these terrible conversationalists wouldn’t be so bad.
A look around revealed a promising passage through a tall concrete wall, leading to a run-down and obviously uninhabited building just beyond, next to the frame of an unfinished high-rise accompanied by a towering crane but free of construction workers. There didn’t seem to be any crowds of civilians either, and a green expanse stretched out further beyond. Maybe a park. Rock doubted it would have the same hundreds of mothers with their hundreds of screaming toddlers. He couldn’t make out any details due to the strange haze, but it was the place to be for those looking for quiet.
Rock set course straight for the construction site through an open gap in the fence. The gate was up and no guards and workers were anywhere to be seen. Maybe they had the day off.
He crept out like a mischievous boy into a stranger’s garden looking for fresh apples to steel. As soon as he reached the unfinished building frame and skirted around a pile of concrete slabs, he was surprised to find an oddly shaped minibus. For some reason, it was protected with metal grating and welded-on metal bars. Otherwise, it looked like one of those buses that were always carting the filthiest of vagrants around the city. Nobody who knew what a shower felt like got within a mile of those things.
Rock was paying a little too much attention to the bus and almost ran right into a couple of stern-looking men, both in their thirties and clad from head to toe in worn-down camo—clearly not a uniform but some kind of guerilla gear. They belonged to no army, no police, not even a private security firm. One of them was carrying a bizarre, monstrous rifle. It was unreasonably huge and heavy, designed to inflict damage on targets of ridiculous size. The gun was equipped with an oversized optical sight and a foldable bipod for stability. The other wielded an AK-47, world-famous for its reliability and ease of use. The strangers were wearing vests loaded up with knives, pistols, grenades, spare ammo, and other perilous effects, including a clever ax hybrid and cleaver under the belt of one and the black handle of a bona fide short sword peeping out from behind the back of the second.
Both of them looked nothing like the worthless pedestrians or the senile students he had left behind in the dorm. These were the kind of people who bore instruments of murder like they were born with them. There was something ruggedly difficult to describe in their gaze, too—they hadn’t been to a nice hotel in years, if ever. They had little desire for a quiet life of luxury. These two would have no trouble spending the night out under some bush somewhere, then a night in some shed with a leaky roof, then the next night in some wolf’s lair, snoring away but ready to leap up guns blazing at a moment’s notice.
The three stood silently for a few seconds. Rock tensed every muscle in his body involuntarily, squinting. Green boxes appeared by each soldier with the same short text.
Object: immune. Humanity: low positive. Unidentified. Well-armed. No Continental skills detected.
Very similar to that screaming guy the crowd had gathered around before that psycho had wiped everyone out, including Rock.
The owner of the machine gun lowered his barrel and said, firmly but without a threatening tone:
“Stand aside, boy. We didn’t see you, and you don’t know us, you hear? Come on. You don’t want to be sticking around, believe us.”
The guy with the rifle stroked his luxurious mustache and shook his head. “This one’s not a digi, idiot—” pronouncing “digi” like “didji”—“he’s a zero, a noob, not a scratch on him. Looks like he’s lost. Wants his mom back so he can have a suckle.”
The machine gunner stared at Rock, narrowed his eyes, and raised an eyebrow in surprise. “You’re right. You been here long, kid?”
Rock had no idea how to respond to this question, but he knew that these dangerous-looking people had the information he so badly wanted, and so he did all he could to be the model of courtesy and compliance. He shrugged. “I guess you might not believe me, but I don’t know the answer to that.”
“We believe you,” said the mustached man with a nod, but without any hint of emotion. “It starts like that with everyone. How much have you raised your Luck by now?”
“Uh, can you explain?”
“You know, blah blah blah, to help you out, you have been given Luck points to raise your base Luck by fuck all, enjoy your game, and all that. Seen anything like that before? You know, the red words? How much Luck did you get this go around?”
“Two,” Rock blurted out, amazed that his guess that this pair had information was not just on target, it had blown his wildest hopes out of the water. They even knew what the writing he was seeing between lives said.
“Ugh, ‘zero’ was right,” the man continued. “He’s got a lot of pumping to go through, poor guy. I even feel sorry for him.”
“We could take him along,” suggested Mustache, pointing to the unfinished high-rise.
The machine gunner shook his head slowly.
“Mastiff would lose his temper, and nobody wants that.”
“Oh come on, he’s a zero. We can’t just leave him.”
“You know what Mastiff can do when he’s upset, right?”
“He won’t get upset. The guy will sit in the car with us nice and quiet, and we’ll get him to a stable. Yo
u know, do a good deed, earn a little Humanity. It’ll turn out great for us.”
“And what will he do along the way? We’ve got five already. Apricot will have trouble covering the lot of us as it is. His skill’s not pumped enough. And this guy’s a zero! Meaning zero stats across the board. He’ll be as visible as a bonfire from a mile away with numbers like that. Even the weakest infecteds will pick him up and attack us. Come on, Pock, I’m a human being. You know that. I pick up what you’re saying, but you know the state of things, and Mastiff knows them even better than you and I do. He’s got everything planned, and there’s no room for the zeroes in the plan.”
Mustache nodded reluctantly.
“Right, I didn’t think so.” He turned to Rock and said, in a hurry, “Sorry lad, you’re going to have to haul ass. Turn tail and beat it. And quick about it, or you’re going to end up with another Luck point.”
“I can move quick enough, but could you tell me what’s going on, at least? If you were like me once, you should understand. I have no idea what to do, or where to go, or whatever.”
“Look, we all get it, but it’d take days to tell you everything, and we only have minutes till the fireworks start. So memorize what I say. Ready?” The man began to point. “There’s a river west of here, and a river to the east. Both of them are nice and wide, and they meet in the South. The city starts just north of the junction. We call the town Interriver because of that. Not its real name. Not that anyone here cares what it used to be called. The city is a separate cluster, plus a little bit of land around it. Here, just before where the rivers meet, there’s a tiny stable. When a reboot happens, the local infecteds all scatter. All the infecteds, the settleds that are still left hanging around, anyway. They love water about as much as a sinner loves preaching, so they usually just amble alongside the river and then gather where the rivers meet until they’re living on top of each other. As soon as the mist hits, they come back here, to the city. They don’t want to cross the water, after all, so returning here is their best move. This place we’re camped in is one of the narrowest. There’s water on all sides, and only one way through, besides the bridges and dams. Most of the beasts from near the junction will be coming through this way, so get out of here quick. Things are about to get hot.”
“Thanks for the valuable advice, but where should I go? What are settleds? What are infecteds? What’s a stable? I don’t know a thing, guys. I’ve been killed two times so far for nothing, and I’ll be killed again before any time at all since I’m still clueless.”
“Well, if you stay here, then you’ll get killed for sure,” said the machine gunner tensely, pointing the way to Rock with the barrel of his gun. “Go that way. Turn left onto the widest street—it crosses this one a little further—and move straight down it. There’s a bridge at the end of it. If you make it across, well, you’ll have bought yourself some time. You’ll be across the river. That sector’s a lot different. Just don’t linger on the bridge. It’s a chokepoint, and you’ll be a sitting duck out on the water.”
A voice distorted by radio transmission sounded from the man’s vest. “You homos done making out over there? Where the hell are you? Get on up there! The hungriest are past the lake now, catching the joggers in the park. Still a couple left. Their jogging’s turned to sprinting, heh.”
Mustache lifted his heavy rifle up over his shoulder and muttered, with a tinge of guilt, “Sorry, buddy, that’s all we got time to tell you. If they come at you, go for the skull or the spine.”
“Who?” This last clue interested Rock the most, but he still felt completely lost. Well, this was lame. He had listened to everything and understood nothing.
“You’ll know what we mean, don’t worry.” The machine gunner handed Rock a flattened canteen. Here, for the road. Drink it as you go. That should be enough to make life tolerable for a day or so, but you won’t stretch it much farther than that.”
“Drink,” said Mustache. “Double’s right. It’s unlikely to keep you alive, but you never know. Good luck.”
“Just don’t smell it, alright? Believe me,” said Double sternly, “drink it. It’s the most important thing you can have. Nobody around here can live without lifejuice for long.”
Rock was upset, frustrated. This knowledgeable pair of soldiers was sending him away without explaining anything, and yet warning him of great danger. He took a sip without thinking and gagged. The mysterious swill was revolting. Unpleasantly sour and musty yet cloyingly sweet, with notes of rubbing alcohol and moldy tree stump.
One portion of spore solution integrated. Spore solution balance: 90%.
“Don’t spit it out. Drink it!” Both of the soldiers muttered the command at him, chuckling like the whole thing was a cruel joke. Once Rock had recovered from the filth, Double asked with feigned sympathy, “How’s our homebrew, eh?”
“Like it was brewed from old coal miners’ socks,” answered Rock, though trying not to sound angry.
“Hey, this guy’s got smarts. Figured out our secret recipe already!” smiled Mustache. “No, it’s not from socks. It’s worse, much worse. But you’re a zero, so you can’t handle the truth yet. Got to see what life is like first.”
“Get a move on,” said the machine gunner, serious now. “We have to get started or Mastiff’ll bite our asses off. The fun’s already started in the park, and here we are chatting with a noob. Scram!”
“Remember—don’t get stuck on the bridge. If you get across, go north as soon as possible. Get some weapon—even a piece of pipe or a heavy stick if you have to. Hit them in the head or the spine. Avoid open spaces, and trust no one,” added Mustache. “Get going. Time is up, for real now. They’re quicker than usual this time. Not a good omen.”
Rock knew there’d be no more help coming from these people. Pushing their relatively good relationship further might have unpleasant consequences, so he turned and moved back towards the dorm. Running as fast as he could—as they had admonished him to—was a little beneath his dignity in the crowds. He moved at a reasonable pace, and they didn’t make any comment to hurry him on. Either this pace was good, or...
Or that strange pair really didn’t care whether he got away or not.
Chapter 4
Life Three: Bar Fight
Those soldiers had forgotten that walking was not the best way to get from point A to point B in the twenty-first century. Especially in a city.
Rock didn’t have a phone, which was strange since the shadow of his memory which still remained told him a phone was a necessity. And countless people on the streets were trying to get their worthless cells to function, which meant that most everybody else had one. He wasn’t bothered by not having a phone. Something else in his pocket wouldn’t leave him alone, though.
Rock had found his wallet in the dorm as he was scrambling to learn anything about himself. Besides money, it had contained a sporting goods store discount card, a movie ticket—the name of the movie told him nothing about what it was about—and a tasteless advertisement for the school rifle club. Nothing with his first or last name, his occupation, or his birthdate. Nothing.
Finances were something Rock wondered about, though. He had a little cash in his wallet, but no idea where to get more, and he didn’t have a credit card. As if they would work without the power out.
The taxi he had noticed when he stepped out of the dorm, though, was still parked in the same spot, halfway between the dorm and the supermarket. It was beat up but solid, a workhorse of a car without any bells or whistles. Uncomfortable and a little dirty, but it did its job. Rock didn’t care for comfort, as long as the thing drove. The driver was in the car, doing what everybody else was doing—beating on his smartphone, as if he thought another pound of his pointer finger would have different results than the last five hundred.
Rock knocked on the half-lowered window to pull the driver away from his portable stupor and asked, “Can I get a ride?”
The driver, without blinking or speaking, studied
the would-be passenger for four whole seconds—far too long for an ordinary human interaction—and then replied laconically, “Fine.”
“I want to get over the bridge. Quick.”
“Bridge?”
“You know, the thing that goes across a river.”
The driver’s eyes bored through Rock, warning him that the man’s intelligence had been woefully underestimated. “Which bridge?” he said, with the tone of a man patiently explaining the foundational principles of quantum physics to a moron.
Rock didn’t know there was more than one bridge. They hadn’t said that, had they? He tried to take the news in stride, explaining and pointing as best he could. “There’s supposed to be this wide street up ahead that runs to the left, down to the bridge I need.”
“You not from around here?”
“Is that a problem?”
“No, just asking. So we cross the bridge, then where to?”
“Just take me a mile or so out. Anywhere. How much will that cost me?”
“Ten bucks or so. Meter’ll figure that out. But we’ll have to wait for service to come back. GPS is even out, and the meter’s not responding.”
Thankfully, Rock could pay for the trip a few times over, so the driver’s excuses failed to faze him. “The car works, right? I have to go immediately. I’ll pay you forty for the trip, if you take the backroads. Away from the circus on these main thoroughfares. I don’t want to get stuck in traffic. Deal?”
“There’s no way around the bridge, obviously, and the traffic there is anybody’s guess.”
“Yeah, bridges are bottlenecks, I get it. Just do your best, OK?”
“I always do my best.”
“So, here we go?”
“Get in.”
Rock had barely buckled in by the time the taxi driver asked, “Why’d you say you weren’t a local? I remember you. You’re the soccer player.”