Chapter 11

Slate

The workout and experimentation had been exhausting and I lay on my bed, relaxing and contemplating the future. An awful case of cottonmouth and a headache forming right behind my eyes were reminding me about my water situation. If nothing changed the signs of dehydration were only get worse in the days to come. Without roommates I could hold out a few more days in this dank basement, but I was tired of inaction. I was tired of things happening to me, of things being out of my control. There was still no sign that the purple covering the world would ever clear up and I would not be able to hide from it forever. It was time to be more proactive.

According to one of my favorite books water is best stored in the body. Following such sagely advice, I picked up a clear plastic jug of spring water, popped the top, and drank about three quarters of it in one go. That jug had purchased for 97 cents before the world had turned to shit. It was funny how an item bought for less than a dollar could be so important to right now.

A combination of dirt, blood, sweat and a tiny bit of homicide had combined into a film that coated my body. The odor was tempting me to dump the remaining water over my head in attempt to wash off the filth, but I held back. After all, I was just most of a dumbass and not a complete one. I could put up with my stinking ass for a while longer.

I stood up with a sigh. Guns were worthless. I opened up the 400 lb Hayman safe stashed in the corner of the basement and started dumping guns out. All of the precision-made machines of death stacked in my gun safe were now worthless pieces of scrap. The pile of wasted recourses growing on the floor was sickening. I could have spent that money elsewhere. I tried to positive and be glad the safe relied on a mechanical combination instead of an electrical key pad. There was still one item inside that could help.

The compound bow inside was not the best model out there, like most of my purchases, but it was a good bow. The six arrows that had survived my training sessions all fit inside the mounted quiver. They are modern arrows made from carbon fiber with plastic fletching. They had been touted to be long lasting, but I knew from practice that they would only last a couple months if fired with any regularity.

I gazed longingly at the busted crossbow inside the safe before I tossed it into the pile of junk. Modern crossbows like it fire remarkably similar to firearms. As long as you are within 60-80 yards of your target, you simply sight on target and pull the trigger. The kinetic force behind the bolt will take care of the rest. But it was useless. I had slung the thing over my shoulder while dragging a deer out of the fields during the last crisis and slipped while crossing a ditch. It had not survived the fatass landing on it and had broken it into pieces.

An actual bow took an entirely different level of skill to use. From practice, I considered myself accurate at still targets up to about 40 yards away. It takes me a little time to line up the shot but I fancied myself a somewhat competent archer. The process of readying an arrow after I had loosed the first was a little slow and I would not have much of a fire rate, but with only six arrows that shouldn’t matter. I had only really ever thought of the bow as a weapon for silently poaching deer and shooting passive animals. Shooting at a moving target would be much more difficult.

I needed something for close range fighting other than my holdout knife. I had some kitchen knives upstairs and a small Gerber folding knife in my pocket, but they were not made for stabbing things.

I grabbed a piece of one and a half inch steel pipe from an old plumbing job. At about three foot in length, it had a solid weight to it. It was just a little bit too unwieldy to be comfortable in one hand, but it felt ok in both. I just could not figure out how to carry it with my bow. So it was dropped in favor of a claw hammer shoved into my belt. I gave up striking power and reach for convenience and accessibility. Growing tired I decided to sleep a little before going back out.

Deep thoughts encroached upon my consciousness as I lay down. Like how the closet nerd in me always wanted a big ass sword to hang on my wall, preferably in a place of honor over the fireplace. Not one of those cheap ones either. I wanted to the $1000 dollar functional replica katana made of high carbon steel with a good Rockwell rating. But I was afraid to publicize my fascination with all things fantastical and unwilling to expose myself to make the purchase. I should have rocked out with my cock out, but now that sweet sword would forever be an object of my fantasies. Instead the challenges of this new Middle Earth will be met with a freaking claw hammer. That won’t be very heroic.

Ok, they never mentioned mutants in Tolkien, so what fantasy world or game would this be? There were no guns, but it had mutants and the remains of an old world, so maybe a hardcore version of Fallout? That didn’t fit. Hmm. No AI guiding me against an alien invasion. No dragons taking over the earth, well that I know of anyways. Maybe it was more of a comic book crossover game, with people given power ups instead of pure superpowers. I just hoped it wasn’t a game like Resident Evil, all scary and no hope. Thoughts of conquering the world filled my head as I drifted off to sleep.

The next day or the next whatever, I have no way of telling time, I woke up and felt great. My remaining non-perishable food had been stashed in the safe and nothing else really had any value. My arm seemed fully healed and the last bit of scabbing was flaking off. I finished off the mostly empty gallon of water, grabbed my bow and hammer then went upstairs. I dug around a closet until I located my old faded black Jan-Sport backpack with leather covered nylon straps. I also grabbed a Rothco Metal 2-quart camping canteen that my grandma had bought me back when she was trying to get me interested in rejoining the Boy Scouts.

A better way to store and carry stuff would be nice. “Open Inventory,” The level two me cried.

Of course nothing happened so I had to use the straps to put on the backpack. Ok, game plan time. My priorities in order of importance were to find a weapon, find water, find food and find other survivors. While at it I needed to limit my exposure to the purple death mist. Once I found enough for another week I would high tail it back to my place and repeat as necessary.

I realized my diminutive high school backpack would not be able to transport a lot of water. Rather than being slowed down by taking the wheelbarrow and containers right off, I decided to locate a source first before carting it home.

“Stop stalling and go,” I mumbled. Looking down at myself, I was wearing a pair of my work jeans, my brown leather work boots that I had broken in during the spring, and a black long sleeved t-shirt. Not the best set of starting armor I had ever had on a character but also not the worst.

A barn caught my wandering eye when I was peeping out my windows looking for monsters. The thought popped in my head that I may be able to snag a pitchfork from it. That would be a way better weapon than my little claw hammer. I had a lot more confidence stabbing some demented canine with a metal capped, pointed stick than trying to hit a moving target with an arrow. The barn was only about two hundred yards from the bunker, a relatively safe distance. Three quarters of that was covered in wilting waist high corn and the rest was lawn.

I was shocked to see a hazy outline of the sun floating in the cloudy sky. The sun seemed to be waging a war against the miasmic periwinkle and was its life giving rays were burning off the gloom. Hope welled up in my heart for the first time in months at the thought of humanity recovering from this crisis. The cycle of night and day returning hopefully meant that the plants in the fields would finish growing in time for the harvest. If collected humanity could potentially store enough food to survive the coming winter. After that it would be more difficult, as we would likely be planting by hand, working together we could rise again. Hell, if we could raise walls to keep the mutants out, some semblance of society might return within a generation or two.

The itching of my skin was fading as the periwinkle continued to burn away like an ill remembered dream. Changing focus to the present, I glanced at the sky. It was just past mid-morning and I got underway. An arrow nocked I ventured out again on my first solo quest.

The barn had seen a lot of rough use through the years. It was a sturdy structure made out of corrugated steel and had large openings that allowed for a breeze to blow through in the summer. The rounded metal top had rusted leaving it a shade of burnt red. The faded gray of the ribbed siding stood out in sharp contrast and gave it a deceptively dilapidated look. It was big, but not overly so. The front opening was wide enough for the harvesters and there was plenty of room to store the rest of the machinery inside. But it was only a barn for a small farming family, and not the huge structure that would be needed for a larger plot of land. An attached silo, built to match, watched the nearby fields and was just a few feet taller than the barn itself.

I moved quickly toward the barn while paying attention to my footing. Anyone who has ever walked across a cornfield knows that it is surprisingly easy to sprain an ankle if you don’t pay enough attention. There was a marked difference in my gait and it was smoother and more coordinated than ever before. My body quickly covered the uneven terrain and I was at the building sooner than I expected. The barn was strictly equipment storage so I was not worried about mutant cows, but who knew what might have taken up residence inside. I paused at the entrance, straining to hear or see anything moving inside, for several minutes before I felt safe enough to proceed.

Out of the direct violet light the burning persisted but the effect lessened as the day progressed. Even the milder effects still caused exposed skin to itch, like a developing rash. The periwinkle seemed to be too weak now to spread illumination into the interior but my nightvision allowed me to see in the darkness. The tools would be attached on a peg board near the far wall so I traveled in that direction. I’ve always heard that while sneaking you should move slowly and when stepping try to roll your feet in a heel to toe motion if on solid ground, and vice versa if not. It was awkward at first but seemed to work. I continued to take my time and worked on leveling up my stealth on the way. Big guys can be sneaky bastards too if they try hard enough.

I passed a couple of tractors, a harvester and a Terrax as I made my way across the floor. The thought of what could be out of my sight was terrifying, so I focused on the machines as I passed. There were a couple options when I arrived at the tool board for medieval combat. The two that most interested me a wood splitting axe and a pitchfork. The axe looked to be one of the 6 pounders, a chunk of not so sharp metal on the end of a plastic handle. It was dull from splitting wood and would wield like the sledgehammer at my house. I have already decided that something sharp in between me and charging animals was the goal, so I left it there after making a mental note. The four tined hay pitch fork seemed to glow in my vision, like an upgrade on my interface. Placing my bow to the side, I picked it up with both hands.

I had a brief mental image of running through some fancy spear kata and looking like Chris Farley from Beverly Hills Ninja by the end of it. But before I could live out my fantasy the audible scuffling of a tiny fast moving feet cut into the silence. Sharp teeth dug into my in my right calf before I even caught sight of the animal. There was no way I just screamed no matter how it sounded. What happened was I yelled out as my legs back peddled. There was a weight swinging from one leg and I looked to see a giant rat attached to it. It was worrying at the calf muscle like a dog would shake around a chew toy. Each twist of its head making an audible sound as it ripped skin and meat apart.

The rat was the size of a pit bull in the fifty pound range. The ugly little fucker looked like a blind barber had shaved its hair at random and left unhealthy, pink strips of skin amongst greasy, uneven hair. Its tail was a diseased shade of black and its eyes shown red in the dim lighting. Corded muscles rippled underneath its skin as it attempted to pull me to the ground.

The tines on the pitchfork were facing up so I was forced to start jabbing the rat in its head with the rounded wooden end. The rat ignored the weak strikes and continued to gnaw. If anything, it only looked annoyed at my attempt to dislodge it. Kicking my leg and trying to shake the thing off was another bad idea and only caused more damage. The motion caused a small chunk of flesh to be torn loose and the rat flew away with squelch. It landed awkwardly about 10 feet away but rapidly scrambled back to its feet. With a tilt of its head the rodent swallowed the piece of me before it charged again.

What’s up with all these fucking mutants and their mid-battle snacks? The bastards could at least wait until the fight was over before eating people. That shit was poor manners. Frustrated and getting my ass kicked, I lined up the pitchfork so that the pointy end was facing the rat this time. I adjusted my aim as it leapt towards me and caught it through the hindquarters with the tines. It squealed as I pinned it to the ground and started my battle tested stomping routine. It took some adjustments to land a square hit because as it was squirming around, but soon one good boot led to another. The follow up stomps rewarded me with the sweet sound of crunching bones and splattering meat. I missed the exact instant the rat died, but to play it safe I didn’t stop until it was mush.

“You’re not eating me motherfucker,” I cursed at the corpse. That wasn’t quite on point, and I vowed to work on better one liners for future battles.

Hmm. Killing rats in a barn to get a starting weapon. I’ve done this before, but it’s not as intense when you are sitting playing in front of a computer in your underwear. It was not a victory to brag about, but every last bit of EXP will help in the end.

Lightheaded and a little smug I was catching my breath when a group of five more monsters sauntered out of the shadows. I could swear the cocky things wanted me to see them because they could have easily caught me by surprise and finished me quickly. Maybe they didn’t like my shitty taunt from earlier and were doing their own form of intimidation. Four mutant rats came scrambling at me while a giant one stayed back to watch. The rat in the back was almost twice as big as the rest of the bunch and had an intelligent gleam in its eyes.

“Oh, shit!”

So I screamed a little that time as I ran away and tried to think up an exit strategy more effective than running like a bitch. There was loft nearby that was about twelve feet off the ground. Its access ladder was on the other side of the barn and would be impossible to get to. Badass pitchfork or not, if I got surrounded by these things I would be quickly overwhelmed, so jumped for it.

I had played a little bit of basketball during my younger days. Being so tall, and relatively in good shape I never had any issue dunking on the standard 10 foot rim. At my best I could touch the top of the white box which was about 18 inches above the rim. Sprinting towards the loft I would have to make the biggest jump of my life to have any hope of surviving. I dropped the extra weight of the pitchfork and launched myself upward with all my strength. In my desperation, I had not noticed the Ki leaking into my legs during my sprint. Almost like a coiling a spring, it had condensed and propelled me upwards with amazing force.

“Ooof,” I gasped as the ledge struck my chest.

“What the crap,” I groaned as I fumbled over the ledge and flopped over to my back. I rolled over to my belly and looked over the edge at them the rats. They squeaked up their extreme displeasure as they saw my shit eating grin.

“What now ya evil Micky Mouse looking furballs! Whatcha gonna do!” I taunted the creatures.

A loud chirp caused the rodents to stop and look over at the giant rat. It was standing at the base of the ladder that led up to the loft. I have no idea how the rat was smart enough to immediately go to the only access point to the upstairs, but the other mutants quickly caught on and ran over. You could almost more accurately call the ladder a steep set of steps. The rungs were flattened on the stepping side and it was only about a 55 degree incline. It was mounted with one side connected to the wall, and a railing for safety. If you were agile enough you could easily walk up without it. The rodents were not meant to climb ladders, but I soon saw they were surprisingly adept with their clawed feet.

I pulled out my claw hammer and ran the distance to the top of the ladder, my injured limb screaming in agony with every limping step. I arrived just in time to kick a field goal with the first rat. Ok, note to self: don’t kick anything with part of your calf muscle missing on your planting leg, because that shit hurts. The leg gave out and I slammed down against floor. Bright lights danced at the edge of my vision as the back of my head left a dent in the wood. I was somewhat mollified by the satisfying thud when the rat hit the ground below, but didn’t plan on repeating the attack. I accrued several splinters from the rough lumber while scrambling back to my feet and again faced the ladder.

“King of the hill, bitches.” I challenged.

Rat number two was reaching the top of the stairs by then. Attempting to hit a dog sized rat with a claw hammer is amazingly awkward when you are freakishly tall. The only reason I was able to connect is because they insisted on jumping at me, and presenting a good target. The hammer ripped through the air and struck rat two on the back and knocked it to the floor of the loft. Its ribs crackled as they broke allowing for an easy follow up stomp. It should have been a death blow to the creature, well as long mutants needed their internal organs, and I pushed it off the side. There was another dull thud as it hit dirt.

It looked down for the count and the first rat was slowly limping its way back to the ladder. The third and fourth rats seemed to have noticed the ease at which I handled their predecessors and paused a few feet short of the top. Any hope of them giving up and running away was crushed when an angry chirp from the giant rat got them moving again. The two looked at each other and then came charging up the ladder side by side. The first one got another kick and went flying like the others. I had toned it down to stay on my feet but the force was enough to knock him to the ground as well. Rat four skittered past instead of attacking right away. Turning, my back was to edge the loft. Any attempt to circle around to safer footing was blocked by the rats continuous short lunges. Damn these things were smart. The animals’ coordination and planning had me believing that either their instincts were amazing or these were thinking creatures.

Unable to reach its short form with my hammer I tried for another kick. My leg gave out again as I missed and my butt hit the floor. Capitalizing, the mutant made its signature leap. My right arm placed in its way saved my throat, but it seemed content to chew on it instead. Locking its large jaw over my forearm it started shaking vigorously back and forth, causing the hammer to fall from my grasp. I already knew what to do in this situation. The knife from my belt was quickly out and stabbing into it, over and over. Ending the fight, I gave it a few stomps as it tried to crawl away, turning it into another pile of rat goop.

I made back to the ladder in time to see the giant rat halfway up. It looked at me and turned to jump six feet to the ground, landing smoothly. It turned around and hissed at me like a possum. The boss rat was obviously a lot craftier than its friends. It looked me in the eyes and we had a brief stare down. I am not saying it punked me out or anything, but I did break away first. Aching all over and with two heavily bleeding wounds I unhooked the clips holding the steps to edge of the loft. My eyes caught the rats again as I shoved it to the ground. It continued stare for a few more moments before shuffling out of sight.

Temporarily safe, I took a look at my wounds. My right arm seems to be taking the most punishment nowadays. You would think a righty would learn to use offhand for absorbing damage, but not me. That would be to simple. The hand would no longer close all the way, and only two of the fingers still moved on demand. I sat down on a nearby bale of hay and pulled my shirt over my head. The blood covered hold out knife was dropped and I fished my folding knife out of my pocket. With the knife, teeth and some finagling, my shirt was chopped up into uneven bandages. Half of them were tied over my left calf where the first rat had taken the first pound of flesh. The outline was uneven do to the missing meat and looked awkward under the makeshift bandage. My arm was tougher to wrap, but I managed to at least apply on a basic pressure bandage and the blood flow slowed down.

So far all of my half assed planning has left me wanting in critical situations. The lack of a hand crank on my well water had caused my best friend to die because we had to go searching for supplies. Right now I could really use some bandages, but I had never even considered purchasing some for my bunker. Right now I was thinking about how putting some water in my canteen would be a really nice after fighting a pack of RoUS’s. Heck, it would help with my blood loss too. I hear that shit is dehydrating.

If I wanted to continue to survive, at some point I would needed to stop being a complete idiot.