Respawn: Lives 1-5 (Respawn LitRPG series Book 1)

by Arthur Stone

  * * *

  His knee reminded him of its unwillingness to comply at the worst of times. Rocky was down in the basement, inspecting the emergency supplies stored up by the owner of the skull in the barn. The pain was explosive, stabbing, and ripping all at once. He was forced to sit, grind his teeth, and mentally curse to the deepest hell whomever had thought up this whole ailment-and-compensation system. The attack quickly subsided, but though the joint had worked before, albeit with creaks and nervous complaints, it now refused to do anything useful at all.

  He had to finish his search using a shovel happily left here as a crutch. Then he took the stairs, hobbling up them in a sad affair that stretched several minutes long. It wasn’t easy to steel himself, to appear strong—or at least to avoid looking like a defeated dog—but he found the strength to keep on limping.

  He sat on the floor and leaned back on the couch. The girl was still fussing with her splint, so he asked, “Could you make me something like that?”

  “Did you hurt yourself?” Kitty said through clenched teeth.

  “No. I just want to try binding up my knee.”

  “It’s that bad, huh?”

  “My leg almost split in half in the basement. I barely held it together.”

  “Here, roll up your pants leg and put your foot up on the couch. I’ll wrap it myself. You can’t do it right from that angle. Pull a chair over, too—I’d rather not reach from the floor. Make your leg lie flat.”

  He did as she asked, then quickly summed up the work he had done so far around the house. “So I gathered some water, scattered glass around, and found enough food that we won’t die of hunger, though they’re honestly not the tastiest options, either. There’s a barn built onto the house that’s little with bones. Cows, sheep, chicken feathers, even human bones. The place smells bad enough that it kills even the flies. You warned me about the smells—well, that place smells enough to draw the whole town.”

  Kitty thought about that for a moment. “I doubt this is the only building that kept cows, but we’ll have to stay here. We can’t look for a better place with that deluge out there. And we’re in no shape to go wandering. Running out of sporejuice, though—I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “My spore meter isn’t falling too fast. Even with my condition, I could go a couple of days before any real problems start. That’s enough time for my leg to recover, at least a little. I hope. But you’ll do just fine. Your knee doesn’t look too bad.”

  “It’s not about looks.”

  “It’s just your starting debuff. We’re not really penalized, people like you and me, since we get compensation for our suffering. Even in the worst cases, we don’t have to suffer long. Recovery takes two days, three at most. You need lifejuice, of course, but even without it we’ll recover. Just more slowly. Damn, I wish you hadn’t left that bottle in the car.”

  Rocky was unable to contain himself. “How was I supposed to remember anything like that under the circumstances? You know what, no, go on about me being a fool. You love doing that. I admit it. It’s all my fault, and I’m a moron. Well? Nothing to say to that? I guess I’m supposed to roast myself now, eh? Seriously, you’re one of the worst ingrates I’ve met.”

  Kitty abruptly changed her behavior—she did that every once in a while—looked down at the floor, and responded with a word Rocky thought he’d never hear. “Sorry. I know I lose my temper and all, but don’t take it personally. It’s not malicious. Just how my personality works.”

  “Ah,” Rocky’s reply was almost kind as he struggled to deal with the unexpected shift in attitude. “Some kind of mental defense? Like the thorns on a rose?”

  “Maybe. I’ve heard that before.”

  “From who?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Certainly. Because thorns on a rose is wrong. More like three-feet spikes on a tank.”

  “I said I’m sorry. Maybe you’ve noticed that I haven’t called you a moron in a while.”

  “A while?”

  “Well, OK, meaning a few minutes. But I won’t anymore. Plus, I mean, ‘moron’ isn’t that insulting, is it? It’s kind of standard to call newbies words like that. I mean, not everywhere, but I’ve definitely heard it before. Hold on—this might hurt.”

  “It can’t hurt more than it already does,” Rocky said, convinced of the fact. Kitty was running a strip of dark green cloth under his leg.

  “Yes it can. Mor—uh, newbies like you don’t know the first thing about pain.”

  “It was kind of a joke. So I’m guessing you don’t really feel pain?”

  “What gave you that idea?”

  “That wound of yours. Any normal person would have gone insane by now.”

  “As you pump your stats, your pain threshold goes up. I’ve been here for months, remember. And I try every day to forget the things I’ve been through. You never just used to it, really, but you can learn to tolerate it. Or try to, anyway.”

  “Months? No way. A year, at least.”

  “What?”

  “You’ve been here longer than you’re letting on.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “I might be a memory-less moron, but some weird vestiges remain. It’s like I know everything, but every time I try to remember how I know something, I come up with a blank. I remember what girls were like, Kitty. I don’t know how, but I remember. You’re not like them. They were predictable, and behaved nothing like you. Becoming what you have must take time. A lot of time.”

  “You think too much.”

  “Hah! Never thought I’d hear you say that.”

  “What I mean is, you’re bad at thinking. You still have no idea what this world is like. None at all. Is this place, you age at least a year every month.”

  “But not as much as you have.”

  “I’m a bad example. I was different from day one. Lots of quirks. And those have grown into what I am now. Don’t bend your knee like that. It needs to be straight.”

  “I’m not bending it.”

  “Yes you are! Quit arguing with me. Oh, by the way, did you happen to find some vinegar?”

  “Vinegar? Yeah. What about it?”

  “We can splash it in the corners of the house. That’ll kill some of the smell.”

  “Yeah, I was just thinking that I’d really like to smell some vinegar right now.”

  “Better than rotting flesh. I hate that smell.”

  Kitty’s face gave away that her hatred for the smell was not an inborn one. Something had happened to make her feel that way. Some kind of bad memory. Rocky would like to hear the story which had that effect on her, but not right now. At this point, the bandaging process was indeed making his knee feel worse than ever. The girl was wrapping it with all her strength, which was considerable.

  What a strange world. A bunch of numbers hidden from everyone else turned this fragile girl into an athlete who could straighten a horseshoe with her bare hands. The look of her at once assured and disassured him that she could break the bones of a man built like he was.

  But more assured than disassured. What level was she at? And how could he reach it as quickly as possible? Rocky’s sole ambition, for some reason or other, was now becoming Kitty’s equal. He was clearly failing. Big time.

  * * *

  “Is that the best you could find?” Kitty twitched, as if he had just order fine lobster tail at a top restaurant and had gotten a cow pie instead.

  Rocky didn’t like the food he had brought them either, but he wasn’t about to turn his nose up at it. “Look around, Kitty. These were simple people, with a simple diet. Nearly everything has spoiled. Just be glad they had some canned goods. And crackers.”

  “Which are dry as a rock.”

  “Oh, you prefer wet crackers? Well, there are piles of potatoes down below. Want some raw potatoes? Be right back.”

  “Why not some cooked potatoes? What kind of stove does this house have?” />
  “Electric.”

  “Damn. We can’t even make tea, can we.”

  “I’ll try to think something up, my dear. For your sake.”

  “I’m not your dear. Don’t make me break your nose. But what are you thinking?”

  “Well, that complicates matters. But this house does have a wood-burning stove.”

  “Don’t you even think about making smoke from the chimneys.”

  “Yeah, I thought that was a bad idea, too.”

  “Don’t even light up a cigarette here. Not anywhere. Very dangerous.”

  “I wouldn’t even think of it. I don’t smoke, and don’t want to.”

  “So you weren’t a smoker,” Kitty decided, her face contorting in disgust as she picked around an open tin can rusting along the edges.

  “I mean, I might have been, but I don’t remember.”

  “Nobody forgets that. Smokers always respawn with a half-full pack of cigs in their pockets. Sometimes they come with a lighter or matches, and sometimes not. But you didn’t get a pack, and you don’t want a pack, so you must not have poisoned your lungs with that crap in the real world, either.”

  “Do you spawn with cigarettes?”

  “You think I look like a smoker?”

  Rocky imagined her with a cigarette in her mouth. The picture made him laugh and shake his head. “That would be kind of funny.”

  “I hate the smell of tobacco. And it brings all the ghouls running. Best to avoid it entirely in this world.”

  “Surgeon General’s warning: Smoking may cause painful death by monster. Anyway, can we change the subjects?”

  “I don’t talk when I’m eating food.”

  “Kitty, you’re talking right now.”

  “Yeah. This isn’t food.”

  “Fine, then that means you can talk. What are our plans? For the near future, I mean.”

  “How the hell am I supposed to make plans? We’ll lie low here until we recover, at least party. Try to move as little as we can and eat as much of this crap as we can.”

  “For a few days?”

  “That’s what it’s going to take.”

  “The canned goods are sparse, and if you’re going to keep downing them like that, by tomorrow you’ll have nothing to eat but raw potatoes.”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “Raw potatoes, really?”

  “No, but stuff like that. Potatoes are nothing. But canned food, now that’s scary.”

  “Why?”

  “Canned goods can have botulism. And there’s nothing like botulism to knock an immune flat on his back. A few hours of torment, then back to respawn. Seriously, it’s perilous. You have to watch what you eat. Sniff it, carefully. If you have the slightest doubt that it’s bad, keep away from it.”

  “Alright. So, three days pass. Then what?”

  “Then you grab that ax and walk around the town. And the shotgun, too.”

  “Walk around the town? Why?”

  “Because there could still be settleds here, even if all the food has been eaten. Hopefully there are at least three or four of them. We’d better hope to God there’s not just one of them. You kill them and search their sacs. We really need spores.”

  “Wait...”

  “Oh come on, what more is there to explain?”

  “Why should I hope to God I’ll be facing four of them rather than one?”

  “Because if this is a big town and there’s only one infected left, that infected will be a serious opponent. One that ate the people, the cows, the sheep, and the lesser ghouls. Sometimes the bigger monsters travel in packs, but when they settle down, they prefer to be alone. Anything trying to be neighborly gets killed. In a city, things are different. But a town doesn’t offer as much food, so competitors are detrimental.”

  “So there could be an elite here?”

  “Hope not. Knock on wood.”

  “Well, thanks for not calling me a moron, at least. Still, could you answer the question?”

  “I doubt it. Why would there be an elite in a back-of-the-woods town like this?”

  “How should I know? I’m not a specialist.”

  “An elite would be bored to tears here. He would just pass by. Or see our tracks and pick us up on the way. There’s no one else living here, except maybe some lesser monster. Still could be dangerous, though. Let’s say there’s a level twenty-five ghoul here. The part above his neck is starting to look more like a lopsided cabbage than a head, with curved armor plates in place of leaves. A special living armor covering all the vulnerable spots. It’s near impossible to puncture as long as the monster lives, but easy once it’s dead. The most developed infecteds are basically the same, just with thicker, stronger plates. The kind that are tough to get through even once they’re dead.”

  “What about bullets?”

  “I doubt anyone could take a level twenty-five monster down with pistol bullets. You’d need a machine gun. Or better, a rifle with an armor-piercing round.”

  “Right.”

  “We call the monsters around level twenty-five rafflers. They’re one of the nastiest ghouls, not because they’re the strongest, but because they’re everywhere. You never know when you’re going to run into one. They start growing armor plates along their spines and over their chest, too. The plates are still soft and weak, but they protect the vulnerable spots at least a little. Melee weapons have a tough time punching through. Guns are better. Rafflers run fast and are aggressive—and strong enough to rip your head clean off. They have huge claws and excellent senses of smell and hearing. Their vision is mediocre, though. They won’t see you from far away. If you freeze, they might even move past you without noticing you. Not always. But sometimes. A ghoul like that would crush you like a fly. Me too.”

  “So you’re under level twenty-five?”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “In most games, you can only easily tackle things with a level below yours. Although I’ve had no trouble taking out walkers at my level, and even pairs of them at a higher level than mine.”

  “Like I said, Rocky, this isn’t a game. Don’t be a slave to the numbers. They can be deceiving. Let’s say you’re a level zero. You could kill a red with a level higher than forty with one bullet, if it’s in the right spot. A headshot means you’re a corpse, no matter how high you’ve pumped your stats. I mean, there are probably some ways to prevent that, but they don’t work for everyone. No one on the Continent is immortal. A raffler would rip my head off in one blow. Yours too. Our necks are made of the same stuff, no matter what our levels are at.”

  “So what level are you?”

  “You don’t need to know that,” she rebuked him.

  “Why doesn’t that show up in the information window?”

  “It does. I see your level. Both in the window and in the party settings.”

  “So why can’t I see yours?”

  “Because I’m the one who created the party. And because you’re new. If you want to see more information, you need to pump your Perception. Along with your level, of course. The closer your stats are to the stats of the object you’re looking at, the more information you get.”

  “So we’ll sit here for a few days, and then I’ll go find out how many ghouls are around and whether they can be gutted or not.”

  “That’s the plan,” nodded Kitty as she tried to scrape what was left in the tin can from around the edges.

  “If there are a few of them around, I’ll kill them, gut them, and we’ll make lifejuice. Will moonshine work for that?”

  She whimpered at the thought. “If it’s strong enough.”

  “Are you joking? No town has weak liquor. Alright, so if I run into a lone ghoul, the master of the town, I’ll die in dramatic fashion. Then what, I walk all the way back here from the respawn?”

  “I don’t know. Depends on how the clusters work out. If nothing nearby is about to reset, you might respawn far away from here. And you’re not the best at long
walks, you know. We’ll have to say our goodbyes in the chat window, then. If we can.”

  “What do you mean, ‘if we can’?”

  “If there’s a dark cluster between us, or a bunch of gray clusters, the chat room might not work. You’ll be able to talk to anyone else, but not me.”

  “What are dark clusters?”

  “You know, black clusters. Oh, I forgot, you’re a mor—er, mortal.”

  “Black clusters?”

  “Just forget about it. You don’t need to know about them yet. I could talk about those clusters for days, until my tongue dropped off and your head burst. I want to sleep instead. We have to sleep for our wounds to heal. So you should get some rest, too.”

  “Can you fall asleep with the pain?”

  “It sucks, but I don’t have a choice. I must sleep. The rain will help.”

  “You kidding? With that thunder it’s like sleeping inside the bass drum at a rock concert.”

  “You totally missed the point.”

  “Then explain.”

  “The infecteds hate water. They won’t be active during the rain. As long as that downpour keeps pounding the roof and shutters, we’re safe. On the Continent, you take those moments whenever you can get them. Assuming you don’t waste your seventy-odd lives left as stupidly as the rest, you’ll learn fast that storms are the best time to sleep soundly.”

  * * *

  Kitty’s words proved true less than a half hour later. Rocky was out fast. Despite the ancient sofa with its bulging springs poking him in the back. Despite the nervous emotions flooding his mind. And despite the overwhelming, unrelenting music of the weather. He lay with his eyes open, then with them closed, and finally descended into impenetrable, dreamless darkness.

  It wasn’t even nighttime yet. Exhaustion had finally seized him.

  He woke in the middle of the night. Kitty was leaning on the pitchfork for support, bending over the bunk, shaking Rocky’s shoulder. He began mumbling nonsense, and then realized what was happening and shifted to his usual misogyny. “Huh? What? Kitty? What are you doing? Wow, here I thought I didn’t have a chance but... Are you sure this is what you want right now? I mean, as long as it doesn’t involve me getting both of my legs broken...”