The door to my parent’s room, right by the glass sliding door slammed against the wall seconds before the sliding door came open.

“Who are you talking to?” My father’s pale, bald head peeked out.

Clio squeezed through the space between his legs and

The rank stink of last night’s vodka wafts over to me.

“No one. Was just clearing my mind.”

“Well keep it down. Some of us have actual jobs to get to today. Fuck.”

“It’s Sunday, dad. You don’t need to go to work.”

“Still. Shut the fuck up.”

The glass door slams shut, and the door to my parent’s bedroom slams shut shortly after. My heart beats in my chest, and my lower lip quivers. 30 years old and still afraid of my own father: pathetic, wasn’t it?

“A little?” The words flash on the Shard before vanishing just as quickly.

I sigh and wait for Clio to finish prancing around the frosty grass before heading back inside. Once there Clio hops up on the bed and buries herself beneath the heavy comforter.

“You said before that books could give me skills, would any of the books I have?”

“No.” Came the quick reply, “Most fiction will not. Though there are some exceptions.”

“Such as?”

“Certain classics.”

“What kind of books should I look for, then?”

“Grimoires, magic books, philosophy books, religious texts, certain history books, reference books, and the like. Essentially; most things that are not fiction.”

I curse my past self for being an uncultured swine before sitting down on my computer chair. The pile of broken teeth and blood still sits beneath the desk. Something about that rust-colored pile, with bits of white sticking out within it quiets my excited mind. This was real. I was part of something big. I breathe out a stream of air and swallow the bead of fear in my throat. This wasn’t some game. I clean up the mess with hot water and disinfectant then press my head against my desktop. The thump moves the mouse enough to wake my computer up.

“When the timer ends,” I whisper. “Will I be taken to a battlefield?”

“No.” Was the reply, “Countless doors will open around the world. It is your job to close as many as possible before they are anchored.”

“What happens when they’re anchored?”

“All the armies of the worlds that Roki has conquered will begin pouring into Earth through them, and this world will fall. And its people will be enslaved.”

I swallow.

“How long would it take for these doors to be anchored?”

“Five years. That is when the Moirai say that billions of threads are to be cut.”

“Five years?” I click my tongue. It sounds like plenty of time, “And nothing can come through those doors to our side in that time?”

“As far as the gods know.”

“How many doors will there be?”

“Countless. Through Apollo, Etu, and Kali the gods were able to ascertain the number is likely over a trillion.”

I feel my eyelids pull apart. I turn on my monitor and open up my browser and look up the square mileage of the earth. 196.9 million square miles. Doing some quick math in my head, by rounding it up to 200 million...

5000 portals per square mile? No. This was an impossible task. The invasion, at this point; was all but inevitable.

“How many other people have the gods chosen?”

“Only about 150 million made the qualifications.”

“And what qualifications were those? You chose me, but as you see I’m no one special. I’m a loser who’s scared of his own father.”

“The gods looked at two things: those who they believed could dedicate their all to this quest, and those they believed wouldn’t use the powers they gain from it for selfish reasons, or to hurt others. Nor would you use the rewards granted to you towards those aims.”

I sink into my chair and squeeze the bridge of my nose with my thumb and pointer finger.

“Still...this isn’t a task that can be finished,” I say. “There’s this myth I remember reading about when I was in school about some guy forced to roll a boulder up a hill, only for the boulder to roll back down.”

“It truly is like the tale of Sisyphus. But, still, you must fight.”

It’d be like asking a single man to light the universe with a candle, or a single man trying to put a stop to the tide with his words alone. But what could I do? All I can do is fight.

Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

I pull open the drawer of my desk and fish out my wallet — the black, faux leather tearing apart at the seams to reveal the woven polyester interior. Two crumbled twenties, and one ten. The wallet closes with a heavy thud. What could I buy with just fifty dollars? I’d need a weapon. The spells I learned are nowhere near combat-ready. If only I had more money. Ah, such was the fate of a broke loser.

“There was something about rewards.”

“Yes.”

“What are they?”

“Depending on the level of difficulty of the Door, it’ll depend. Generally, it’ll be a monetary reward; so that those who were chosen can dedicate as much time as possible to pushing back the tide.”

“Monetary? How much?”

“For the United States; about a hundred dollars per level of difficulty of the door, and ten dollars per level of whatever you manage to bring down.”

“How would the 'level of difficulty,' be determined?”

“The Fates will decide on the difficulties beforehand, and the information will be displayed on this Shard.”

“How would I, ‘close,’ the doors?”

“It is uncertain. We believe there is something on the other side that is keeping the door in place. A magical array of some sort, or an item of power acting as an anchor. With this Shard the gods can look into it for you when you enter; the conditions for keeping that specific door closed will be relayed to you.”

“Thank you.”

My fingers drum against the desk before my fingers begin tapping against the keys and I begin researching. What armor could I easily get? What armors were readily available to the average medieval peasant, and the like. I learn about gambeson — an armor made up of layers of cloth woven tightly together. Would I be able to replicate that by wearing several layers of clothes? My goal was clear. Close doors until I earn enough for a firearm and ammunition. A thousand dollars sounded like a reasonable amount.

My clothes were scattered all across the ground or were gathered in messy piles. My ears burned and my eyes scan the mess of my room. Knowing that there were actual gods and that they were currently watching me, the state of my room was embarrassing. I gather up the clothes into heaping piles in my arms and take them out to be washed in the garage, and tossed them in the washing machine. After that I gathered up the loose cans, and trash and took them out to the black can outside.

I stepped inside and came to the realization that my entire house was in a similar state. I could practically hear the gods snickering and muttering in disgust. All in all, it takes me until noon to clean the entire house. By then all of my dirty clothes were washed and neatly folded in my poor neglected dresser.

I yawn as I walk back into the room. The timer on the Shard flashes at 11:54:27 as I sit at the computer. As I settle in my chair the television in the living room just beyond the thin drywall blares on in the chattering of some pundit or another. My parents were waiting for me to be finished cleaning before coming out of their room, it seems. I sigh and lean in my chair. I’m sore, and, above all, I am tired. But still, there is more to do. More before I can go to sleep. I need to be ready, after all.

I throw on some clothes, grab my wallet, and my glasses, and take another deep breath before exiting my room and standing awkwardly on the threshold between the hallway and the living room. My mother and father are sitting on the single couch in front of the television; each with a lit cigarette held between their fingers.

“Hey, dad. Can I use the car?”

“What for?”

“Just to go to All-Mart.”

“Why don’t you walk?”

My mother asks as she glares back at me.

“It’s too far,” I say.

“It’ll be good for you.”

“I’m already tired from cleaning up the house.”

“Oh wow, you cleaned the house," She rolls her eyes, "Good job. Is that what you want to hear?"

I swallow the anger budding in me. My father tosses the keys on the floor in front of me. I bend down to pick them up.

“I’ll be back,” I say.

“Great. Maybe you can look for a job while you’re out.” He says. “Fucking pig.” He mutters barely loud enough for me to hear before he takes another drag from his cigarette.

I take another breath as I step outside, and around the corner to the car. It's a five-year-old SUV; with scratches from my father’s drunk driving scarring the chassé. I climb into the driver's seat and head to the store. I buy only what I need with the fifty I have — a 25-dollar machete, and a 15-dollar canvas backpack. A cheap wooden mortar and pestle kit catch my eye as well. It was eight dollars, so I also buy it.

The gazes of the people all around me hurt, so I keep my eyes on the ground all the while. Even from this distance, I know they’re muttering about how awful I am. How fat and hideous. My eyes stick to the moving conveyor belt, so I could avoid the gaze of the woman checking out my items, leave the store and shove everything in the backpack, and head home.

I set the keys by the television to not bother my parents, and head to my room. Clio greets me with kisses all over my cheek. The timer now reads 10:15:39. I stuff the backpack within the shadow of my desk and lay down and drift into a dreamless sleep.

By the time I wake, the television had gone quiet, and the timer reads 1:47:02. Clio exits my room with me and darts to the glass door. My father is slumped over on the couch; a half-finished bottle of Smirnoff on the coffee table in front of him. My mother was probably in their room; sleeping off the effects of some prescription drug; yet still, I walk on my toes to not make any sound. I slide the door open, and Clio darts out and heads into the grass, while I tip-toe into the kitchen.

I fix myself something to eat; feeding Clio thin slices of deli ham as I wait for my eggs to cook. When they’re finished, I plate them and take them into my room. The timer now reads 1:30:10.

Time creeps by slowly. I wonder what the doors will look like. I imagine great swirling portals of shimmering light; like those, one would see in a manhua, or donning the entrance to a dungeon in an MMO. While fear still palpates in my chest, it is soon overcome by excitement as I watch the time tick away.

1:20, 0:59, 0:45.

It goes by so slowly. I let Shadow in for the night by sliding open the window, and playing with Clio as I wait. When the timer reaches 20, I get ready. I throw on layers of clothes; the final layer being a thin hoodie I had, so I could put the Shard and my wand in the front pockets. I cut open the plastic housing of the machete with a kitchen knife; and store the knife in my backpack. Who knows when it could come in handy, after all? I fill up an empty soda bottle with water, tighten the cap, and set it beside the knife in its cheap plastic sheathe.

0:10:15

The leather belt strains to hold my pants up as the buckle is set to the largest size. The machete’s clip rests on it on my left side.

0:5:10

I spend the last few minutes doting on Clio and Shadow.

“I love you both so much, I’m sorry if I don’t come back.”

Clio licks my forehead, and Shadow takes up occupancy on my computer chair with an arrogant yawn.

“No. I’ll come back.”

0:0:30.

I shove the Shard in my front pocket next to the wand, toss the backpack on and step out my door. By the time I make it to the front door, midnight breaks into the world and I step out of my house.