Preparations for the master plan took about two hours. And then he needed fifteen minutes or so to recover his strength. You’ve got to make time for yourself. During that period he amused himself by throwing stones in random directions. The pleasure came from imagining Sally curled up somewhere, absolutely pissing herself with fear as a stone clattered down beside her. Bob felt a little bad for enjoying the activity so much. But the girl had really screwed him.
The break had also given Bob time to think about George. Recent developments had rather altered the picture. He’d assumed with his human-centric view of things that the system was only initiating humans, but the presence of the bull and pigeon had shifted that equation. George was in for it. George was playing with the big boys. And Bob was seriously worried for his safety. George was a kind, lovable, harmless creature, but he wasn’t particularly endowed in the brain department (and this was coming from Bob). That escape room, Bob bit his lip, I mean Bob himself, brilliant Bob, had seriously struggled. So how would George, chase-his-tail-around George fare?
Bob was worried for the dog. He wished he could do something. He felt so powerless. All he wanted was for them both to survive together. "Please let George make it through. Please. He’s never done no wrong to nobody. He doesn’t deserve to die like this. Help George won’t you. Please help him." Bob didn’t quite know to whom he was praying. Probably no one. But the thought of making it through, coming home and finding he’d lost George. That was about the worst thing Bob could imagine.
Bob closed his eyes and breathed out. Focus. One thing at a time. If Bob wanted a happy ending with his dog, then he had to make it home too. That meant pulling off this crazy plan. And it was go time. Evening was coming on. The sky’s blue was deepening and darkening. He made his way to the boundary of the village. Nature had long since broken into the settlement even if it hadn’t quite made it to the central square. The outskirt stonework was all vine-faced, the living spaces home to great families of ferns and a tall, dry grass was growing over everything. This was all to Bob’s purpose. Because every good plan starts with fire.
He poured out the last of his gasoline on a pile of grasses he’d prepared in advance. Next he pulled out his pieces of flint. At least he thought they were flint. Flint wasn’t really a household material. And Bob didn’t quite trust that the video-game depictions were accurate. But the stone was black and shiny and spat out white sparks when he bashed two pieces together, so he figured it would do the trick. He leaned over his little pile of kindling and smashed the stones together. There were sparks. But it was a bit tricky getting them to go where he wanted. And then even when they did land on the pile, they just sizzled out. Maybe this kind of thing only worked in the movies.
Bob sat down (might as well be comfortable) and double-checked the time. 34 minutes left. Had he waited too long? Why had he gone and taken a fifteen minute break? He pulled out some more grass, crumbled it up, and started over again. A spark connected, but no luck, then another, silence, a third and a hiss and the kindling caught. He carefully nurtured the fire-baby, sheltering it from the cruel hard wind of our world and feeding it little mouthfuls of grass. The fire-baby grew and he gradually directed it towards the gasoline soaked grass-heap. The fire ambled leisurely along, not seeming particularly interested, and then the fuel caught and the whole heap burst into fire. Flames ballooned up and the wind howled. The fire was spreading. Now we’re talking, Bob whooped, before noticing that the flames were beginning to cut off his escape. You’d do that to your own father? Bob slung up his trusty plastic bag and sprinted off.
Everything was going according to plan. He’d set up similar flammable caches around the whole boundary of the village making sure they were all connected by roads of dried grass. And there was only one open space in the whole of the village. The central marketplace where they’d all spawned in. Bob had even made sure to cover over any wells he’d found while surveying. Long story short. The whole village was about to go up in flames and the only safe place would be the market square. That’s where Bob was heading. That’s where Bob would be waiting for them. That’s where Bob would show them all.
Bob was mean-spirited so he’d also done all he could to obstruct and hinder passage throughout the village. He had a lot of fun collapsing down walls across alleyways and digging little pot holes in streets, the kind you broke your ankle on. Oh there’d be no trouble in the daylight, walking leisurely around with your eyes on the ground, but in a panic, fire and smoke at your back, well maybe he could at least cripple that bull.
Bob arrived at the village square. He could see smoke rising from the village suburbs. The net was drawing closed. He took up his carefully prepared hiding spot. See, there had just so happened to be a deep channel on one side of the square. Bob guessed it had originally been designed for piping away rain. But years of neglect had seen the channel filled with wet dirt, mud if you will. It was surprisingly deep and viscous.
Now this had not been Bob’s first choice. Truth be told Bob had wasted a good amount of time looking for some other, any other, hiding spot in the marketplace. But there was nothing to be had. It was all open space or on the potential path of a participant making their way to the square.
So, with great regret, Bob found himself lying face down in a ditch. A ditch filled with mud. Breathing shallow breathes through a hollow stem of dry grass. Clutching the tightly tied plastic bag under his belly. Bob couldn’t help himself from becoming a tad philosophical. He kept asking himself again and again how he’d ended up here. Of course, he understood why intellectually. He understood, and yet, no, no, he didn’t understand at all. This whole experience, this “initiation”, had changed him in fundamental and terrible ways. Could he seriously have conceived, even a day ago, that he might of his own violation, nay, as part of a premeditated plan, lie down in what could only have been the village sewage ditch (rain drainage was a nice story but) and suck out his living breaths through a hollow reed?
Needless to say, even this animated portrayal of the situation fell far, far short of its true experience. It was a torture to remain still. It was a torture to feel the warm sludge against his bare skin. It was a torture to breathe, a torture to smell, a torture to be alive in that half-submerged hellhole. He felt like he was slowly drowning. He couldn’t seem to get enough air through his reed. The stem was too narrow. His lungs were hacking and ragged with the effort of keeping him alive.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
It wouldn’t be long now. He hoped. He prayed. He doubted. Why had he gotten in so early? He could have waited another minute, two minutes at that. The fire needs time to spread, to grow. Did a part of him want to be here? The dark, secret thoughts started to bubble up. Was a part of him enjoying this? Was this what the system wanted of him? Was he some twisted experiment? Would he ever be quite normal again?
The fire was growing. It was spreading, sweeping over the village in one unstoppable wave. A fire creates its own wind. He smelt smoke. He felt warm air on his back. He wanted to sit up and see how close the fire had come. But he didn’t move. He lay there in the ditch and waited. This was his only chance. His gamble. He’d played every last card in his hand. 26 minutes left on the clock.
That’s when he heard muffled sounds in the distance. Stonework was falling down. Hooves on cobblestone, closer, then further away. The beast's snarling and snorting. Would the bull not be able to find its way to the square? He hadn’t calculated for that level of stupidity. What would happen if the bull died somewhere deep in the fire? Did that count as completion? Probably not, Bob groaned.
Wait, the noise was closer now, an angry gallop coming nearer and now a loud, nasal panting. The bull had found its way into the square. It had started pawing the ground. Wait it hadn’t found him had it? Bob almost bolted. The bull circled a few times (the tap of his hooves growing louder than softer). Thank god. Bob metaphorically wiped the sweat from his brow. From what he’d heard, bulls had a difficult time seeing stationary objects. Or rephrasing, a bull would charge at any thing that moved. Good thing he’d stayed so calm.
Lure the bull to the square. Check. Now how was he supposed to touch it. When Bob had imagined the scene, in Bob’s mind’s eye, so to speak, the bull had come to rest right beside the ditch, sitting down and facing the open space. At that point, he had planned to just reach gently over and tap it on the behind. Unfortunately, the village square was rather on the large side. Not that large, mind, maybe twenty-five by forty feet. And yet his arm’s reach was only two to three feet at best. And the bull had parked himself on the opposite corner.
This development was unfortunate. And truth be told, Bob was a little at a loss for what to do. If he moved, the bull would see him. But if he stayed, well, nothing would happen, and at some point the timer would run out and he’d have to read those two awful words again: game over.
The pacing stopped and there was a heavy thump. Sounds like the bull had lain down. Makes sense. The beast was probably pretty tired out. From the racket he’d made getting here, he’d had some rough going reaching the square. Not to mention as a system survivor, traumatized by sudden teleportation and a series of nonsensical challenges, the bull was probably a mental wreck. In a way, Bob felt for the animal. They were all victims here. And yet, one has to be practical. If it was Bob or the bull, Bob was for Bob all the way. And Bob suspected the bull felt the same for the bull.
There was nothing for it. He had to make his move now. Before the girl showed up. He raised his head ever so slightly, just enough for his eyes to peek up out of the mud. He gasped, lost his position on the straw and swallowed down a mouthful of mud (the stuff was starting to taste familiar). She was right there. Literally an arm’s length away. She’d been creeping along the wall, making for the square.
Bob choked and she started at the sudden sound. She turned and her eyes widened as she made him out against the ditch. His hand swiped out for her ankle, but she stepped back just in time, stepped back and tripped, yelling and screaming as she collided with the ground.
Bob scrambled up. He had to touch her. He only needed a finger. She was crawling away. He was so close. He would catch her. A low growl in the distance froze both of them in place. The bull was standing now, glaring angrily at the pair of them. Why, it almost looked like the bull was about to charge. The bull charged. The animal tore across the square, missiling into the space between the two of them. Bob dived back and out of the way.
"Come on. How is that fair? "Bob grumbled as the bull leaned into a turn, ignoring the girl entirely and centering in on Bob. He couldn’t let the girl escape. He had to go after her. The world was angry and red, flashing with savage orange shadows and flickering white sparks. Smoke billowed over everything in dense, choking clouds.
The girl was sprinting away for dear life. Bob was huffing and puffing after her. And the bull was galloping after Bob. Bob sidestepped behind a wall as the bull threw himself forward. Smash, the wall shook violently, then started to topple and Bob took the hint, breaking away just as the stone wall began tumbling down. Bob looked back long enough to see the blood-red eyes of the furious bull glittering in the air.
All the while, Bob hadn’t lost sight of the girl and blundered after her as she vaulted over low walls and dodged around obstacles, searching desperately for some way out. Bob just caught a glimpse in his periphery vision of the pigeon sitting calmly in its previous perch, watching the whole scene unfold, with a quiet, aloft pleasure. All together at last. And there was no escape now. The fire had walled them in. The whole village was burning and even now the fire gobbled up more and more homes.
The girl veered left, but was forced to double back when the fire flared up in front of her and the heat grew unbearable. He was right behind her now. And the bull was rocketing after both of them. She made it through the doorway of a small house. He started to follow. It was right there. But he wasn’t going to make it. The ground rumbled with the sound of the approaching bull. Bob turned and for one eternal moment stared down Black Lightning. It would be easy, simple, one quick step to the side and he’d just reach out and tap it on the shoulder, one moment of brave insanity, he stood there, almost in a trace, semi-naked, double coated in mud, with his plastic bag of possessions looped about his shoulder and watched the bull charge forward.
And then he came to his senses and dove the hell out of the way. He felt an impact. “I’m hit. I’m hit.” He rolled away, tried to scramble up, waiting for the moment a cold, sharp horn would be plunged through his midriff. He patted himself down. Where was the blood? Where was the death-wound? Where was his bag?
The doorway had cracked under the weight of a fully-grown bull’s charge and the wall above had crumbled down on top of the animal. When the dust cloud began to settle, Bob could distinguish a black silhouette in the haze. It was snorting and bucking, smashing into things, howling. The plastic bag was caught on the bull’s horns and flapping wildly against its face. Bob’s possessions were sprinkled about on the ground. The confused and blinded bull rushed off in another direction and Bob remembered the girl.
Bob scrambled over the loose stones of what had once been the entrance and there she was. Backed up against the wall. The building only had the one entranceway. The roof had caved in, but the walls were still standing. Bob reckoned he could have scaled them, but they were a smidge too tall for her twelve year old little arms to reach. Survival of the fitness.
When she saw Bob enter, she shrunk back, eyes darting left and right. Her pupils flickering wildly against the red echo of the sky. So it had come to this. This was the end. He took a step forward. She snarled. It sounded like a wild beast. He took another step. There was no escape. Another step. He could reach out and touch her if her wanted. She was that close. She fell to her knees and started to cry. “Please, please, let me go, let me go.”