[Countdown: Day 2 of Day 365 before species culling. Only the worthy survive.]
[Current rank: 3,431,213,628 out of 7,473,432,782.]
[You are in the middle 55th percentile.]
[Advance and grow.]
Logan jerked awake to the sound of the System Ding! ricocheting in his ears. Waking up to that sound was like a Pavlovian response—danger was at hand. After he blinked awake enough to be able to read let alone comprehend the message, he groaned, rolling over on the bed and getting to his feet.
Excellent, in addition to being a murderous, sarcastic mind fucker, the System wanted to rub it in by reminding everyone that the nightmare continued each day.
Logan scratched his stomach and then opened the door to the hallway, intending to stumble to the bathroom, when a crash sounded downstairs. That had to be broken glass. Shit, was someone breaking in?
Jack peered out of his bedroom door in plaid pajamas, his hair mused and standing on end. “What’s going on?” he asked, looking at Logan owlishly.
“Where’s that shotgun?” Logan grabbed his baseball bat. If someone had broken in, the bat was a good backup, but he’d much rather scare them away before it got to that point. Guns were particularly good at intimidation.
Jack went back into his room and then returned with the shotgun. “Do you think I’ll need it?” His voice was full of nerves as he peered down the hallway. “Mom is downstairs.”
Eleanor slept in a room on the first floor. Jack had explained last night that he’d be more comfortable if they were all on the same floor, but Eleanor’s knees couldn’t manage the stairs.
“Let’s hope we don’t. Come on.” As they got to the end of the hallway overlooking the stairs, he slowed down, trying to avoid making any noise. Jack followed suit.
Logan raised his bat, getting ready to swing as they made their way to the main floor. The rising sun shone light into the windows not covered by blinds, illuminating everything in bright light. Gleaming hardwood floor, an expansive, tidy living room and a dining room table with everything in its place. It looked pristine—no broken glass anywhere.
Another crash sounded from behind them, and they turned towards the hallway leading to the back of the cabin.
“Mom’s bedroom is down there!”
They rushed down the hallway, coming to a stop in front of a closed door.
“Mom?” Jack said, knocking and then trying the door handle. “Are you okay?”
The door swung open with a creak.
The scene that met them was something out of a horror movie. Eleanor’s bedroom window was wide open, her lace curtains fluttering in the breeze. Logan was reminded of the scent of fresh cut meat ripening in the heat, a metallic taste that went all the way to the back of your throat.
Eleanor hadn’t had a chance. She was lying on the bed in a long, pale pink nightgown, spatters of blood decorating her face as if someone had splattered her with paint. On top of her, the squirrel he’d had such sympathy for yesterday crouched over her corpse, its black talons digging into her chest like a dog digging dirt. The remains of one of her eyes bulged in its mouth, nerves and connected tissue dangling before it slurped it up like spaghetti, orange pointy tongue licking its muzzle.
[Rabid Grey Squirrel: Level 6]
Jack let out an anguished bellow and the squirrel narrowed in on them, hissing, razor-sharp teeth on display.
In one night, the squirrel had gone up three levels, from level 3 to level 6. In addition to the level increase, it had grown. It was now the size of a medium sized raccoon, with talons to match. It was as far from cute and fluffy as you could get.
The squirrel jumped off Eleanor’s body, bloody paws soaking the white sheet as it skidded onto the bedside table, smashing the lamp to the floor.
Its beady eyes latched onto Logan’s bat as if it recognized it from yesterday, and it let out a screech, its fluffy tail pointing straight up.
Seeing Eleanor’s mutilated body lit a rage in Logan so strong that it felt as if all thirteen points of his strength attribute were amplified, adrenaline rushing through him and the baseball bat creaking in his grip.
Eleanor had been a consistent presence in Logan’s life for years. Before he rented the cabin, she’d been there, lounging on her deck with her quirky Kentucky Derby sunhat, ready to hand out lemonade. Even after the whole pot renter debacle, she’d teased him, but she’d been genuinely concerned. She’d reminded him of his grandmother—stern on the outside but a marshmallow on the inside.
The worse part of the rage building inside of Logan was the guilt that fueled it. By letting the squirrel go, Logan had thought himself magnanimous. It was his way to rebel against the System. This felt like a pointed dig at his own agency. By letting the squirrel go, he’d given it a chance to level up.
If he’d killed the thing yesterday, Eleanor would still be alive. By being lenient, Logan had killed her by his inaction.
Well, it was in for a world of pain. The squirrel was going to regret fucking with him. Logan rushed towards it, using his extra agility point to good use and swinging the bat with all his might.
Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.
The squirrel didn’t move.
Shocked, Logan took a wary step back. Yesterday, when he hit it, he’d flung it clear across the lakefront, the nails on his bat puncturing its hide. This time, he may as well have hit an oak. It must have increased the hell out of its constitution.
The squirrel seemed to grin, its orange tongue slurping up a last bit of blood clinging to the side of its muzzle before it charged at him as if his hit had injected it with steroids. Its talons lashed into his bare chest as it rushed by him, scoring deep, bloody gouges. Chittering, it slammed into the opposite wall before pivoting towards him again.
“Jack, you need to shoot it! It’s too strong. Shoot it!”
“What?” Jack sounded hysterical, his hands trembling on the shotgun.
The squirrel disregarded Jack, rushing by him and leaping at Logan’s face. That was sixty pounds of rabid squirrel barrelling towards him at speed. There wasn’t enough room or time to raise the bat.
Logan did the only thing he could think of—duck. But this thing was three levels above him and those extra attributes were paying dividends. Even after swivelling to the side, it still managed to slash the side of his face, just missing his eye.
“Shoot it, Jack!”
Jack raised the shotgun, aiming, the barrel jerking in his unsteady hands. “You’re in the way! I can’t keep it in sight; it’s moving too fast!”
Against Jack’s level 0 perception, the squirrel may as well be a cartoon, careening away. Fuck, it was up to Logan.
Logan turned, raising the bat and charging, using every bit of his earned strength to slam the bat against the squirrel’s side. This time, he managed to force it back as it chittered, but it still grinned at him as if it were having the time of its life.
This wasn’t working. Logan wasn’t strong enough and unless he gave Jack a clear shot, they’d both be dead, not just Eleanor.
Logan’s gaze narrowed into tunnel vision as he considered and discarded options, each one more absurd than the last, before he came to a decision. It was their only chance.
Logan charged at the squirrel again, giving it another swing of the bat.
Nothing, not even a dent. But that wasn’t his goal. He hit it again, one hit after another, until, gradually, the thing’s humor turned into annoyance, then annoyance into anger.
“Come and get me, peanut fucker!” screamed Logan, backing up as he taunted it. The squirrel hopped, tail pointing upwards. “Jack, get ready to shoot!”
Jack’s expression was panicked, but his hands steadied when he glanced at Eleanor’s body. He gave a firm nod. “Ready.”
This thing was still a squirrel, despite its physical capabilities. There was something simple that he could have done all along, but in an emergency, the simplest options are often the ones overlooked.
As he backed up, Logan grabbed a handful of the quilt at the end of Eleanor’s bed. When the squirrel leaped for him, mouth wide and full of razor-sharp teeth, he threw it.
The squirrel hit the quilt like a fish into a net. But most importantly, it covered its whole body, making it impossible for it to see, and most important of all—impossible for it to move. “Now, Jack!” Logan took a flying leap to the side.
Jack unloaded into the thing with a bang—one shot, two. He kept going until he ran out of bullets, Logan’s ears ringing from the blasts.
Silence.
“Is it dead?” Jack demanded.
No movement. The squirrel was motionless underneath the quilt. As Logan crept forward and nudged it with his bare foot, a large red bloodstain bloomed on the fabric. That was a lot of blood. “Stay back just in case,” he said before lifting the quilt.
Revealing shredded squirrel guts.
Ding!
[You have defeated a Level Six Rabid Grey Squirrel! Experience points reduced and awarded based on contributions made.]
[You have leveled up!]
“I just received a message that we killed it,” said Jack. “Is that true? Is it dead?”
Logan nudged the sludgy remains with his baseball bat. “Yeah, it’s dead.”
Jack slumped, dropping the shotgun to the hardwood floor. He glanced at Eleanor’s corpse before looking away, his throat moving in an aborted swallow.
Now that the fight was over and Logan’s adrenaline was dropping, numbness was creeping in, the reality of the situation swallowing him in a wave of grief. But whatever Logan was going through had to pale in comparison to whatever Jack was feeling. First, he lost his wife and kids, and now his mother? Did the poor man have any family left?
“It was that stupid cat’s fault,” Jack said, his eyes red. “If it hadn’t run off, mom never would have left the window open.”
“What?”
Jack gestured to the open window. “Buttercup, her cat. She was so worried about it that she left her window open last night.”
Logan’s stomach dropped. Buttercup, the cat. The cat that was currently rotting inside the remains of the snake corpse he’d killed yesterday. The same cat he’d known was dead. He’d thought keeping it to himself would save Eleanor’s feelings, especially after learning about her grandchildren. The guilt he’d felt before turned into a chasm. “I’m sorry, Jack,” he said, his voice rasping.
“It’s not your fault.”
It was his fault. It was entirely his fault.
Jack ran his hand through his hair, darted a glance at Eleanor, then looked away just as quickly. “What do I do? I don’t know what to do,” he said to himself before directing his stare at Logan. “Who do I even call? They don’t have hearses—they’re blown up with the rest of the cars.”
Logan took the quilt and gently laid it over Eleanor’s remains. “We’ll have to bury her.”
Jack took a step back. “I can’t—I can’t. Logan, I can’t do that.”
“We can’t leave her here.”
“I know, but—” His expression was desperate, and he looked one word away from a nervous breakdown.
“I’ll handle it,” said Logan, firm. “I’ll find a place. Somewhere… peaceful.”
***
Logan had asked Jack for a shirt to cover his wounded chest before he searched for a suitable spot for a burial. Despite his constitution stat and what had to be a higher resistance to disease, he doubted exposing a wound to what remained of poor Eleanor was a smart idea. Jack had blindly grabbed something from his closet before closing himself inside his room with his grief.
That’s how Logan found himself wearing a white long-sleeved dress shirt with what had to be a crazy thread count and kitten-pattered orange swim trunks as he trekked across the terrain with a blanket-wrapped corpse slung over his shoulder. It was the least he could do to atone for his mistakes. If it would bring Eleanor back, he’d walk across hot coals with her in his arms. But the reality of the situation was that she wasn’t coming back, and it was all his fault.
After Logan killed the second snake, he’d been so cocksure and filled with overconfidence. All he had to do, he’d thought, was kill some shit, and he’d make it out all right. Little did he know that there was more to killing things in this new reality. His actions had consequences. Eleanor wasn’t coming back. This wasn’t a video game.
Logan had made a mistake, and he’d have to live with that for the rest of his life.
He’d brought Eleanor to the only place that would do her justice. Majestic and always there for him, the weeping willow had been a consistent feature since he was a child. In the blasting sun, it supplied shade, its dancing branches dripping mist. He’d used to love playing in front of the knotted trunk, creeping underneath the interwoven roots, and envisioning that he was in a fantasy world. There may even still be tiny plastic toys hidden in the roots from when he was a boy. But most importantly, it was grand, it was majestic, and it was the perfect resting place for someone who had the same personality in life.
Logan gently rested Eleanor’s body on the grass in front of the willow tree and then made his way to the utility shed. Knowing his grandpa, he’d have more than what he needed to dig a decent burial hole, and sure enough, there was a shovel resting against one wall.
Logan got to work.