The last noxious mushroom was on the edge of a cliff right next to a massive pine tree. The tree had a trunk the width of a small tire, limbs the right thickness to support someone his weight.
Logan eyed the bodies around him. He needed something to shield his head and fabric big enough to cover the mushroom. Most of the people had been wearing summer clothes, but the woman’s business jacket was the right size to hold over top of his head and her spouse wore a t-shirt that should be easy to remove.
“What are you doing?” Jack shouted from across the clearing as Logan lifted the body of the woman. And then quieter, as Logan peeled the jacket from her arms. “That’s… don’t do that. It’s giving me the creeps.”
Logan ignored him and shook out the jacket. It was black and a smaller size than anything he could fit into, but it was still big enough to drape over his head, cover his scalp and the back of his neck.
“Oh,” said Jack from the edge of the clearing.
Now for the extra-unpleasant task. “You may want to look away,” he said, raising his voice as he grabbed the discarded cleaver. He tried to be careful cutting the shirt, but a cleaver wasn’t something you could maneuver easily. Grimacing, he cut the shirt down the man’s back, splitting the fabric. “Sorry,” Logan said to the corpse as he pulled the fabric away and jarred the body.
The man had been overweight, so when the shirt split, there was a large swath of fabric. Logan eyed the size of the mushroom cap, trying to figure out how much fabric would drape down the sides. This might work.
Logan needed to test one more thing.
Placing the fabric on the ground, stretching it out, Logan held the cleaver high above his head and then dropped it. The weight of the knife and the sharpness of the edge made a thud. Logan pried the cleaver from the ground.
It had gone right through the shirt.
Perfect.
Climbing was his other worry. He’d read about people who tried to survive in the wilderness only to be done in by their own ineptitude. What happened to the cleaver-kid was evidence of that. If he climbed the tree with a cleaver, he’d just as likely end up with the same fate. Better be safe than shish kebab.
Logan gently pried the long, dangling silver necklace off the teenager’s body. “Sorry, kid. I need this.” He looped one end around the handle of the cleaver and then tied the other end through one of the shoelaces in his running shoes. Lastly, he bunched up the cut t-shirt and jacket into the shape of a rolled-up towel and tucked it into his waistband.
The last time he’d climbed a tree, he had to be ten years old. Logan was worried at first, but the extra points in his strength and agility attributes had him climbing like a monkey. He shook his head in amazement. His body was a stranger. Logan grabbed limb after limb, pulling himself up, the cleaver dangling from one foot. By the time he reached the top, he was covered in sap and scratches and he couldn’t stop sneezing from the scent of pine. Wiggling, gripping with his knees, he inched up to reach the thickest tree limb, scooting until he was in place.
Logan peered down. The mushroom was directly below and swinging drunkenly in the breeze. It was twice the size of the other and had yellow circles like polka-dots on its white mushroom cap.
“Logan, what are you doing?” Jack said from the edge of the clearing.
“Five more minutes!” Logan shouted with what had to be a crazy glint in his eyes as he took out the bunched-up fabric and grabbed hold of the dangling chain, prying up the cleaver. He wasn’t sure what would trigger the spewing spores and whether the thing was sentient enough to tell that throwing the fabric on top of it was the start of an attack, but he wanted to be prepared. First, he slammed the cleaver into the tree limb, using it as a placeholder while he threw the jacket over top of his head, ready to duck into it to shield his face. Bracing himself with his knees, he held the fabric like a matador flinging a red cape at a bull, eyeing the path of where it would fall. This would be luck more than anything.
Maybe his luck attribute would finally work for him. “Here goes nothing,” he mumbled.
Logan flung the shirt. It fluttered down, fabric billowing until it settled on top of the cap of the mushroom, slightly off center. Half of the fabric draped over one side, covering its gills, but the other was exposed. “Damn.” That wasn’t what he wanted.
At least the mushroom didn’t seem to perceive the blanket as a threat. It had stopped swaying in the breeze, but it wasn’t spewing spores.
This next part was tricky. He hadn’t gone to all this effort just to miss. Logan adjusted his perch on the branch and grabbed the cleaver, eyeing the distance carefully.
He let gravity do the rest.
The cleaver slammed into the top of the mushroom cap, dead-center, at least half of the metal digging into the fleshly fungus. “Yes!” Logan pumped his fist and then almost fell, scrambling for a hold.
“Ah, fuck,” he said, deflated, as he peered down. He’d hoped the cleaver would do the job, but with no System message, he’d still need to get close. Something seemed odd though. Where were the spores? Even with the fabric covering it, there should be plumes billowing out, but the mushroom hadn’t reacted. It was motionless.
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“Did you kill it?” Jack shouted from the edge of the clearing.
Logan didn’t answer, too busy swinging from the limb of the tree. He built up enough momentum to drop directly to the ground and his feet slammed into the mycelium, spores and dirt billowing out.
Logan grabbed his baseball bat and then crept up to the mushroom, keeping the jacket over his head. What was up with this thing? Was it in hibernation or something?
It showed no signs of life. No shrieking, no spores. Logan used [Idiot’s Inspect] again to make sure he hadn’t made a mistake.
[Noxious Mushroom: Level 6]
No, no mistake. Bizarre. Well, if it wanted to cooperate while he killed it, he’d take it. Logan braced himself, getting ready to swing at the exposed part of the mushroom cap, when... something swept him off his feet!
Logan landed on a rough patch of mycelian and saw stars. Get up get up get up. He hadn’t fallen for no reason, there had to—
Something knocked Logan’s head to the ground, and trailing fabric brushed his face. Stunned, he stared up at the gills of the mushroom. The mouths were grinning before they shrieked, spewing spores directly into his face.
The mushroom had feet!
It hadn’t spewed spores to lull him into a false sense of security; it was biding its time until he got close enough to knock him over. Now, it used the fabric draped over its cap to concentrate the spores into an attack. It might as well be sitting on him with a billowing skirt!
He thought he could handle the spores of a level six mushroom, but the intensity between level five and level six was night and day.
Logan couldn’t breathe and the mushroom’s feet weren’t feet, but mycelium that was alive, crawlers that moved across his body, burrowing in and doing hell’s knew what. He still had the jacket and it was covering the top of his scalp, but he couldn’t reach the edges to shield his face and the base of his throat was exposed. These spores might as well have been acid. Logan felt blood pouring down his chin and neck and he couldn’t hold his breath forever—but every breath was poison.
He’d lost his baseball bat; he couldn’t get up, and his strength was rapidly waning. The only thing he could reach was the chain still dangling from his ankle. Logan strained as he pushed up his leg and reached as far as he could. The tip of his fingers just touched, and he used his ruined fingernails to pry the metal closer. Grasping the chain, he yanked, and then grasped it with both hands. The mycelian feet were like insects against his neck, but they were still veins and still vulnerable. Logan used the chain like a saw, digging into the feet and cutting through them blindly.
The mushroom shrieked so loudly it must have damaged his eardrums, but most importantly, it jumped to the side to avoid further amputation. Logan gulped as the fabric cleared his face, allowing him a desperate breath of less contaminated air. He didn’t give himself any time to recover, the hilt of the cleaver gleaming as the thing moved like a crab.
Logan grabbed the cleaver, tearing it from the mushroom’s body and then slashing as though he was chopping up mirepoix. He was making mushroom stew! he thought with an unhinged cackle.
The mushroom tried to retreat while spewing more spores, but Logan crawled after it, following it back to the base of the pine tree and resuming his chops.
Finally, there was nothing left to cut.
Ding!
[You have defeated a Level Six Noxious Mushroom! Extra experience granted for defeating an enemy above your level.]
[You have leveled up!]
Logan didn’t have time for relief. Just as he finished his last chop, the ground underneath the mushroom opened like a trapdoor made out of dirt and leaves, and something crawled out of a hidden hole. It had spindly legs the length of his arms—too many legs—and a dark green body covered in hundreds of gleaming red eyes. Behind it, a rat tail covered in dark green chitin swung back and forth. The body was the size of a pit bull, but its legs made it twice the size.
[Level Ten Trapdoor Spider Rat]
Great. Just perfect. Other than snakes, spiders and rats were his most hated animals. The two pests guaranteed to give him the creeps combined into one package.
The thing hissed at him and opened mandibles the size of his head, layered fangs razor-sharp. “Oh fuck!” Logan said as it rushed at him, spindly legs clacking against hardened mycelian. The spider rat must have hidden its trapdoor underneath the mushroom. It was the perfect set up for an ambush. People would be too worried about the mushroom’s spewing spores to watch for a pouncing monster.
Logan darted to the side, but one of the spider rat’s legs swiped at him. It had a hooked claw at the end and it slashed right through his white dress-shirt, leaving a deep gash. The spider rat clacked and then hissed as it turned around, its twelve legs moving over the ground in seconds, its long tail swinging with the movement.
Logan backed up, trying to keep it in sight, but with just a cleaver, he had no confidence that he could take it in a fight. Logan knew when he was outmatched.
Logan was about to run, but a shot ricocheted across the clearing, just missing one of the spider’s legs. The spider rat paused and so did Logan. Across the clearing, Jack aimed his shotgun again, lining up for another shot. This time, the shell slammed into the side of its body, but it only gouged it and enraged it more than anything. What kind of monster had bullet-proof chitin? It hissed and turned towards Jack, legs scrambling as it changed directions. Oh crap, if Logan didn’t have a chance, Jack was dead.
“Run!” he screamed. “It’s bulletproof!”
Jack’s expression grew alarmed, and he took a stumbling step back.
Shit, Logan had to do something. He scrambled for his baseball bat, using all his earned endurance to reach the thing before it closed in on Jack. “Come and get me, freaky-mother!” he said, slamming the bat against the top of its tail. The spider rat paused and made an inquisitive, rattling noise before turning on a dime so quickly its body was a blur.
Oh shit.
“Run, Jack!” Logan ran in the opposite direction. He had only one chance. Logan powered full speed towards the large pine tree, glancing back to make sure the spider rat followed. He needn’t have bothered as one of its legs scored a deep gash into the back of his thigh. Shit, that hurt! “Yeah, come and get me, fucker!”
But it needed to be blinded by rage. Logan picked up the cleaver on his way past the remains of the shredded mushroom and pivoted as he threw it at an angle. It sung through the air, slicing into one of the spider rat’s red eyes.
All remaining eyes filled with murderous rage.
He had it. Logan faced the spider rat with his arms wide open at his sides, the baseball bat limp in one hand as if he welcomed his death, motionless, waiting for it to come closer and closer.
Ten feet.
Five feet.
One claw-length away. It leaped at him with all twelve legs, mouth wide open with razor-sharp teeth.
Logan stepped off the cliff.