That was how Simon spent the better part of the week, more or less. They didn’t linger in the dressmaker’s shop long because it wasn’t very defensible and because it didn’t have much in the way of food. The fact that the room with the blood-covered dolls freaked him out was also a part of it, though.

That was the same reason they didn’t return to the inn, even though there was food in there. Somewhere in that place was Freya’s corpse, and quite frankly, he had no desire to know if it was moldering on the floor or wandering around hungering for flesh. That wasn’t true completely. If he saw her wandering around, he would definitely put her out of her misery as painlessly as he could, even if this version had no idea who he was, but he just couldn’t go back to that place.

Instead, he helped his growing tribe of survivors navigate the dangerous city as they took circuitous rooftop routes in search of other survivors and supplies. Eventually, they succeeded in building a bridge of planks and timbers from the third story of the tax assessor’s office to the north gate and started to build a little refuge camp there on the bridge for which Schwarzenbruck was named. It wasn’t much, but it was safe.

Helva and her husband Gotrick vouched for him, of course. How could they not after Helva became the first cured zombie victim in all of Simon’s many lives. They tried to explain to the other locals that, ‘yes, even though he’s a wicked sorcerer, he’s here to help,’ but mostly, they just heard the word wicked.

‘Who are you? Why are you doing this?’ Those were the most frequent questions he was asked, followed closely by asking if he was the warlock that was responsible for the zombies.

Simon mostly ignored them now. Instead, his most frequent answer was to tell them that they were going to be okay as he searched for any signs that the person he was saving was infected.

There had been some close calls on that front. It turned out that his magic worked, but only within a few minutes. Greater cure worked longer - at least until they turned, but it was chancy. He’d thrown away three years of his life trying to save a young boy, and it had been in vain. Each time, the magic had driven the child into remission, but each time, the palid skin and flop sweat had returned with a vengeance.

Simon would have gladly tried a fourth or a fifth time, but as it turned out, using greater anything three times in one day was enough to make him cough up blood and pass out himself. He’d slept for a day, and when he’d awoken, he was completely surprised that no one had taken the opportunity to drive a stake through his heart.

That didn’t mean they trusted him, but they needed him, and sometimes that was more important than trust.

Simon was forced to take 48 hours off of casting to focus on resting enough that he could whisper “Aufvarum Hyakk” and heal his throat. He spent that time sitting on the wall and watching the slimes multiply so that the desperate men and women he’d spent the week saving wouldn’t realize how weakened he was during that time.

“Did you know there would be so many,” Marken asked, climbing up the ladder next to the postern gate to join him at his lonely observation post in the gatehouse.

Simon nodded. It wasn’t true, though. He’d secretly feared that the slime he’d brought with him would just keep growing and growing until it was bigger than the buildings. That hadn’t happened, though. Every time it got to be about the size of a washing machine after half a dozen feedings, it fissioned into two smaller slimes and started the process all over again.

“It’s all going according to plan,” he rasped, still hoarse despite the healing. He felt better, but he was going to wait until tomorrow before he took one last sweep of the city for anyone who might be left. The slimes were a bigger hazard than the zombies, and it was harder to predict where they would be lying in wait.

“But after the slimes eat all the zombies, how are you going to beat all the slimes?” the boy asked.

It was a fair question. Simon had devoted many hours of thought to the subject, but he still didn’t have a great answer. Fire was the best answer, but he doubted that the people he’d spent so much time rescuing would take kindly to him burning down their homes.

Ultimately, they didn’t get much of a vote. What mattered was making sure that this outbreak was stomped out before it could spread and zombify tens of thousands more, and as bothersome as a hundred slimes could be, they weren’t nearly as bad as the alternative.

Simon didn’t explain any of that to the twelve-year-old. He just looked from left to right conspiratorially before he leaned forward and whispered, “Dragons.”

“Dragons?” Marken shrieked in delight before Simon shushed him.

“That’s right,” Simon said in a gravelly voice, “Every slime eats a hundred zombies, then every dragon eats a hundred slimes, and then all I have to do is slay a couple of dragons. Easy.”

This brought forth gales of laughter, which was really all he was hoping for. He wasn’t really ever going to get all of these people on his side, but one or two would be enough.

. . .

The next day, Simon finally felt good enough to go back into the walled town. He had guards at both gates to keep anyone from opening them since he remembered the adventurers that had set them all free in a past life. His plan was working; it just needed another few days or a week, and then the hungry slimes would start to flee to the river or just start devouring each other. Honestly, he didn’t really care which.

Moving around this city was practically a platformer for him at this point. At least it would have been if he was in better shape. He was rather portly for the Prince of Persia, he thought wryly.

Still, with plenty of force and lesser force, he made his way around the city, calling out for help as he went. Sometimes, he’d taken locals with him since any trapped residents were more likely to respond to a familiar voice, but today, because of the increased danger, he hadn’t bothered.

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He’d already saved 72 people, and that was definitely a high score for this level. It was only about one percent of the population that had lived in the busy trade town a few weeks before, but it wasn’t his fault that Helades was always sending him to places a day late and a dollar short.

It was a number he could be proud of, even if he didn’t think it likely he’d find any more today. He doubted that an actual superhero could have done much better.

Shortly after noon, he stopped by the inn and tried to decide whether now would be the right time to leave. Perched on the eaves of a house across the street, he looked down at the nearly empty streets, and he was fairly sure he could step inside the second-story window with the help of a quick double jump and be out of there before anyone knew.

He wasn’t really in a hurry, but he also had no wish to stay here longer than he had to. This level, of all levels, had too many memories, and even though he would miss the opportunity to try to find Freya with every pass through, he sincerely hoped that this was the last time he’d see this level again.

He might have actually left if he hadn’t heard the horn from the south gate. He’d given it to the small group of men that he had keeping a watch on it since Simon spent most of his time at the north gate, but this was the first time they’d actually used it.

Fearing the worst, he leaped across the city in leaps and bounds, throwing away another six months of his life to get there that much faster. He thought he’d find zombies escaping, but instead, he found the opposite: the men he’d left here were tussling with the small group of adventurers that he only had the faintest memory of.

“What in the hell are you doing?” He said, landing behind the group just far enough away that he didn’t feel the need to draw his sword yet. “Leave that closed!”

The magical blade would definitely complicate things more than they already were, and so far, every resident of Schwarzenbruck that had seen the steaming blade and given him looks of fear or made warding gestures against the evil eye, and at this point, he rather regretted bringing it with him.

Even though he raised his hands to show he was unarmed, three of the adventurers immediately drew their weapons while the fourth and fifth kept wrestling with the makeshift bar that Simon and a few men he'd gestured had attached to the outside of the city's main gates.

“Well, what did I tell you, boys,” the tall blond one said with a smile. “You come looking for an evil wizard, and you’re going to find yourself an evil wizard!”

“Listen - all I want is to—” Simon tried to explain, but his opponent used the moment as an opening to launch himself forward, and Simon barely got his sword out of the scabbard in time to block the blade that was coming for his throat.

He was skilled enough to see it coming and lock blades, but at this moment, he wasn’t strong enough to hold the parry and was sent sprawling, though he managed to keep a grip on his weapon.

“Oonbetit,” he whispered the word of force as the three men advanced on him like a pack of jackals, looking to take him down before he had a moment to explain. They had no idea how much restraint he was using. Rather than use his magic like a guillotine he settled for giving them a quick shove back so he could rise to his feet.

“Witchcraft!” one yelled.

“Sorcery!” the third man cried out.

Both of them had been put on their butt by the unexpected shockwave, and they struggled to rise again under the weight of their own cowardice. Only their leader held his footing as he was pushed back several feet. By the time Simon was on his feet, he appeared a little more cautious, and Simon hoped that would make him reasonable.

“The next one of you to come at me before I can finish explaining loses your sword hand. Is that clear?” Simon asked.

There was no immediate response, and the flunkies rose beneath their boss’s withering gaze; Simon was sure that they had not learned their lesson and changed his stance. This time, when they all came at him at once, he was ready and stepped around the weakest of the three, using him as a human shield for the critical moment.

This time, he didn’t try to bind up the sword off the stronger man. He needed to put a stop to this, and the quickest way to do that was by using his superior bulk to push the nearest swordsman into the other two, sending them down in a pile. Once that was done and the well-timed ambush was reduced to a tangle of human limbs, he stabbed his frost sword through the wrist of the leader’s right wrist, pinning it to the ground with a deep thrust as Simon moved on to the gate.

The remaining men there had finally succeeded in opening it, and already Simon could see zombies mobbing by the widening crack in the middle. There weren’t many left in the town, but it would seem the few that remained had been drawn by the sound of battle.

The first one turned to face Simon and drew his blade. Simon responded by headbutting him hard enough to drop the man to his knees before the sword was halfway free from his scabbard. Then he pulled his mace from his belt loop and prepared to crack some zombie skulls. The gates had swung wide enough that they were starting to shamble out now in twos and threes.

He could see it all spinning out of control in his mind’s eye as the world descended into chaos. Even as the man with a frozen right hand screamed, the zombies moaned, and the gates creaked, he had a moment of clarity. If he dealt with the dead right now, he could still beat them. This was a small group of less than two dozen that weren’t moving too fast. He could hold the gap until his allies pushed the doors closed again.

If he did that, though, the enemies that were just behind him would repay him with a blade through the ribs, and in the chaos that followed, all of his efforts up until now would have been in vain. That was intolerable.

“Gervuul Oonbetit,” he roared, sending a shockwave of force that knocked back the zombies that were closest to him. They were flung backward like they’d been struck by the backwash of a jet engine, along with the men they’d already gotten their teeth into.

Simon cursed that, but he didn’t have any choice. Not with a greater spell. It was raw power pouring out of him, and in this case, it was enough to disperse the zombies and slam the gates shut once more. It only came at the cost of two of Schwartzenbruck’s dwindling survivors, the mercenary he’d given a concussion, and, of course, his voice.

Simon had only just recovered, but the power of that command was enough to reduce his throat to a bloody ruin, and he spent the next thirty seconds hacking up a lung before he finally turned to face his enemies again.

This time, everyone looked at him in fear when he rasped, “The gates stay shut until the last zombie is dead!”