The pounding of Samuel heart drowned out all other sound as he dove away from the zombie chasing him. Every fiber of muscle in his body screamed for him to stop, to stop the relentless abuse he was putting himself through. But he refused to give in.
He was no stranger to pain and hardship, but this was a different kind of struggle altogether. His body was battered and broken; his mind felt pushed to the brink of madness. But he refused to give in.
He had come too far, fought too hard, to let it all slip away now. Nathan was right. In this new world, you had to survive by any means necessary. And Samuel was determined to do whatever it took to make it out alive. With the zombie closing in, he steeled himself for one final push as he soared through the air away from it. This was it. The moment of truth.
Samuel skipped like a stone across the ground and pain jolted in his hip bone. It would be another brise in a long list.
Blythe let an arrow fly at Jon. It embedded itself deep into his chest next to the hole Yandry’s sword had made.
“Aim for the head!” Samuel called.
“I bloody missed, you idiot!” Blythe yelled, backing up and drawing another arrow.
Samuel hadn’t jumped to the ground just to dodge. He had aimed for the two discarded pieces of the broken club lying on the floor.
The third zombie tackled Oscar to the ground. Oscar was pressing the blade of his sword into the man’s gnashing mouth.
Samuel grasped the two broken bits of wood and spun on his knees to face his assailant. It was the dwarf who had half of his face ripped off when the inn was first attacked. He was a grisly image. White skull and rotted sinew were seen where his nose used to be, the skin torn off all the way down to where his lips used to be, showcasing rotted teeth from not only years of neglect, but true magical decay. Instead of bleeding, the edges of the injury were blackened as if cauterized, with veins of purple pulsing from the wound across the greying skin of his face.
He leapt at Samuel again.
Samuel yelled in defiance of the stocky zombie and shoved the two bits of wood at the dwarf’s face. The longer of the two pieces struck cheekbone and was knocked out of Samuel’s tired hands. But the second struck home. The splintered end burst through the dwarf’s exposed teeth and slid violently into the back of his head. He went limp, the broken club savaging the brainstem.
Momentum carried the dead zombie into and on top of Samuel, knocking him over. He wriggled out from under the corpse, carefully maneuvering so as not to get scratched or have any blood drip into his mouth or onto a wound.
He grasped the longer of the two pieces of the broken club and surveyed the room.
Jon was toying with Blythe, cornering her and egging her on like a bully on a playground. He smacked the flat end of his blade into Blythe’s elbow and she cried out in pain. She dropped her bow, the arm hanging limply at her side. She backpedaled, her one good arm pulling her hunting knife from her belt.
Oscar wasn’t truly faring any better. His sword protruded from his opponent’s gut, but that seemed to be the extent of his success. He screamed and kicked in desperation, trying in vain to keep the Zombie’s fingers from landing a hit and or its mouth from landing a bite. Blood smeared along Oscar’s exposed arms and shredded shirt. Samuel couldn’t tell if it was Oscar’s blood or the zombie’s.
It was a clusterfuck.
Samuel looked to the open door at the tavern’s entrance. The freeing darkness beyond beckoned to him—told him to run and leave the others behind. They were goners. So why wasn’t he running? Blythe had made a run for it earlier, leaving him behind with a small hoard of zombies. His morals were in a jumble and more than that—he had no idea what to expect out in the woods. He was unarmed, save a broken club, and without supplies. He’d starve to death, and that wasn’t if some malignant poison or horrifying creature got to him first.
Every path, every choice, felt hopeless.
But then he remembered something. This was a Game. And this Game had magic. Samuel had magic. He felt almost giddy at the thought, goosebumps rising along the skin on his arms. He could have sworn a gust of wind ruffled his hair.
“FIREBALL!” Samuel bellowed with a crazed smile on his face, throwing his open palm toward Jon.
Searing heat and a reddish-gold ball of death did not hurtle out of Samuel’s open hand toward the zombie. Nothing at all happened, in fact. Samuel’s cheeks flushed red with embarrassment as both Jon and Blythe glanced at him with confused expressions.
“Fire…ball?” Jon asked.
Blythe took the moment’s distraction and lunged forward, steel knife glinting in the sparse lamplight.
Almost casually, Jon parried Blythe’s strike and used the woman’s momentum against her, side-stepping, putting out a foot, and letting her stumble. He whipped his sword against her wounded arm again, causing her to cry out and tumble end over end to the ground. She came to a stop and whimpered, clutching her arm.
Jon returned his attention to Samuel and regarded him, eyeing the brand on his thumb. “Where in the Maker’s hells did you find a firestone since I last spoke to you?”
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
The former barkeep circled Samuel, pushing him further and further from the exit. Samuel gripped the piece of broken wood in his hand. It was a paltry little comfort.
“Found it in Blythe’s bags,” Samuel said, trying to think his way out. “Why do you ask?”
“A host with fire magic makes for a troublesome transformation…” Jon said thoughtfully.
“Meaning?”
Samuel edged back toward the bar. Oscar was losing his fight with his zombie but had miraculously not turned yet.
Jon chuckled, “Sorry lad, I’ll have to kill you the old-fashioned way. No joining the glorious undead for you.”
“Stay back!” Samuel shouted, picking up a bottle of alcohol in his free hand—the very hand marked by the firestone. Samuel suddenly had a no good, very bad, truly terrible idea. But it was an idea. He slid behind the bar, placing it between himself and Jon, and more importantly, hiding his lower half from Jon’s sight.
Oscar had wrestled his zombie to the ground and was busy punching the thing in the face with bloody knuckles. The soft bones under the zombies face broke more and more with each punch until only wet squelching was heard. Oscar screamed obscenities at his victim, cursing it with every word Samuel had ever heard and then using some new ones.
“What are you doing?” Jon asked, taking a tentative step toward the bar. He was afraid. The giant barkeep of a zombie was afraid.
“Something stupid,” Samuel replied, hefting the bottle of alcohol back up into view of the turned man. A dirty rag covered in blood, mud, and alcohol had been stuffed into the top of the bottle, reaching into and soaking into whatever fermented concoction the glass contained. Samuel pushed the cork back down into the opening, locking the rag in place. He gave Jon a feral grin and summoned fire.
Or he tried to, rather. Nothing happened.
“Shit,” Samuel muttered.
Jon tilted his head to the side and gave Samuel a smile. “You don’t know how to use your magic, do you?”
Samuel blanched and tried everything he could think of. He snapped his fingers, changed the positioning of his hand, willed fire into the dirty rag. Nothing happened. If anything, a creeping chill crawled up his spine as Jon strode confidently toward him.
“You idiot child,” Blythe muttered, still curled in around her wounded arm.
“Helpful!” Samuel yelled back.
Jon was only a couple paces away now, raising his sword to strike. Lamplight glittered off the bits of steel that weren’t coated in viscera.
Samuel laughed. Jon paused in his approach and gave a questioning look.
Just in reach of Samuel to his left sat the flickering flame of an oil lantern. Samuel laid the Molotov on its side on the bar top, grabbed the oil lantern, and smashed it onto the rag serving as a wick. Bits of glass bit into his hand but the small flame ignited Samuel’s weapon.
“Stop!” Jon roared, pouring that same sickly electric pacify spell into the air in a crashing wave.
But it was too late for the zombie. And he was far too close to miss. The heat of the fire eating away at the booze-soaked rag burned Samuel’s hand. It was a small flame with massive potential energy waiting to be unleashed. Samuel threw the bottle.
It shattered against Jon’s chest, fire igniting the alcohol within in a spray of glass and flame. Drops of liquid fire flew beyond Jon, onto the tops of the wooden tables, into the wooden ceiling, onto Oscar’s back. Everything the flames touched ignited with a burst of heat. Oscar paid no mind to the fire on his back. He was already turning, convulsing on the floor and foaming at the mouth.
Jon, engulfed in flesh-eating flame roared again and swung his sword down at Samuel. Samuel dodged backward, the tip of Jon’s sword passing by his nose with the space of a hair between them. blade bit into the bar as if it was a hot knife in butter and didn’t stop until about halfway down into it.
The acrid stink of burning meat filled Samuel’s nostrils and he felt like choking. Jon left the sword in the bar, swiping at his burning skin, desperately trying to put out the inevitable flame.
The consequences of his no good, terrible, plan became evident. Dry wood and decades of spilled drinks gave the fire easy kindling. The flames greedily licked up everything around Samuel. He felt the small hairs on his cheek burn away at the heat. The fire climbed the shelves toward the dozens of bottles of alcohol remaining. Samuel backed away but not fast enough. The resulting explosion released a fireball of heat so immense Samuel fell to the ground and clenched his eyes shut behind his arms. Bits of glass shot into his arms as if from a shotgun.
Samuel yelped, rolling on the ground to try and snuff the flames eating at his clothes and hair. He remembered his nightmares. His mother’s body being rolled into the incinerator. He was there, in an oven of fire. Samuel scrambled toward the exit, coaxing a whimpering Blythe along with him. She did not resist, only picking up her backpack and bow and hugging them into her chest with her good arm. Samuel chanced a look back at Oscar. Black tendrils of purple, like little worms, wriggled out from all over his body.
“That’s new,” Samuel said to no one.
He and Blythe collapsed to the ground some dozen feet from the smoking tavern. Blythe’s face was screwed up in pain. Samuel sat on his butt, panting, and watching the flames. Timber cracked and sparks danced up into the night air amidst smoke rising upward. It looked like a waterfall crashing towards the heavens.
Jon stumbled out of the tavern entrance.
“God dammit,” Samuel cursed.
Most of the flames covering Jon’s body had been extinguished, but the damage it had done to his body was immense. He was charred down to the bone in some places and smell was horrific. Jon’s eyes had burned out and he was moving his mouth as if to speak but only guttural gurgles were escaping. Small waves of the pacify spell, distinct to Samuel now, were lapping against him. But it was muted, as though it had lost its potency.
Still, the spell’s effect worked into Samuel’s muscles, and he felt relaxation washing over him. That was fine by Samuel; he could do what he needed to with a steady heartbeat.
Gently, Samuel reached down to take the hunting knife from Blythe’s hand. She let him. Samuel left her and limped over to the blinded Jon.
Calmness wasn’t so bad a feeling to experience right before you murdered someone.
Samuel slammed the knife into one of Jon’s open eye sockets.
As Jon’s body fell backward, Samuel kept hold of the knife, letting it slide free from the corpse’s head. Samuel wiped the muck from within Jon’s skull off on the muddy ground below him. It wasn’t cleaned, exactly, but he didn’t like the thought of leaving the man’s brain on the blade.
CONGRATULATIONS.
Samuel jumped at the sudden intrusion in his mind.
THE TUTORIAL IS NOW COMPLETE. GREATER DANGERS, GREATER TREASURES, AND A WORLD TO EXPLORE NOW AWAIT YOU.
GOOD LUCK, HAVE FUN!
Samuel laughed.
“GG EZ,” he muttered.