Chapter 11
Six Months Post Apocalypse
Dinner
The Refugee aka (Annoyingus refugeeus). These human creatures have been showing up at our fortress in greater numbers, fleeing aliens and Skull patrols. My people worked hard to steal this fortress from its previous owner and make it our own. We don't need these refugees entering our home and sponging off our resources.
As Gabe Anderson aka Zaldron The Mighty Wizard, I need peace and quiet to perform my wizardly research and build my bombs. I can't have these people bothering me all the time, and among other things stealing my lunch.
—Notes from The Anderson Monster Manual—A work in progress.
Gabe aka Zaldron, you are far too young to be my crotchety old grandfather. If things had gone differently, that could be us out there. Please be nice.—Carl Anderson. Father.
—Addition to The Anderson Monster Manual—A work in progress.
***
Things that upset BG.
Threatening to commit suicide, especially suicide by alien.
(In the event of human extinction. BG has to turn herself off. She loses.)
Worshiping BG. (BG hates being worshiped)
Being nice to aliens, and not killing them. (Please visit our alien petting zoo)
A poster seen in multiple locations around the Cirsium City fortress. Often surrounded by derogatory spray-painted graffiti.
***
He was a good Kitykity, and he was having fun. He'd separated two small human children from their parents. The parents were watching from hiding. If they came out to rescue their children, they would be killed. If they didn't, they'd have to watch while he ate their children.
“Bad Kitykity! Bad Kitykity!” Ian's words went through Kitykity's mind like a spike.
Kitykity snarled, unable to ignore this unseen threat any longer. Its current prey forgotten, the Kitykity began walking in Ian's direction.
Ian sat up in bed, gasping for breath. These nightmares were getting worse. He lay back down again, feeling exhausted. His injuries had taken it out of him. At least tomorrow he was leaving the infirmary.
***
Ian filled his plate with chicken. This was his first night back from the infirmary, and it was nice to be eating with his family again. The regen treatments had given him a huge appetite and cravings for protein. He was whole, but he felt drained, and he itched like crazy where his skin was growing back. Shots sounded in the distance.
Dad went to the balcony to look out. “Bar-fight. Security will take care of it.” He returned to the table. “Did you hear Robert got offered the Head of Security job? He turned it down, says he's more of a hands-on guy.”
Their cat Fluffy meowed, and rubbed against Ian's leg underneath the table. He slipped the cat a small piece of chicken, grateful Fluffy had made the fortress move successfully. Ian wished he could say the same for his dog, Fergie. Poor Fergie. Fucking fire hydrant shape-changers.
Dad helped himself to a generous portion of chicken and rice. He was eating more and sleeping less since he'd been put in charge of fortress defense.
“I spoke to Hunter,” Dad said, “What I can't figure out is how, with the rest of your patrol in the open shooting at this alien, the one hiding behind a stone fence almost gets burnt alive.”
“Just lucky I guess,” Ian answered. He used the solar-powered ice maker next to the sink to put ice in his glass. The ice cracked and popped when he added stale Pepsi.
“Oh, and I heard Ian needed blood for his bloody nose,” Stacy said. “As usual.”
“He got one unit of artificial blood, and ten units of artificial plasma, to speed up the regen booster treatment for multiple injuries,” Dad said. “I know because I paid for it.”
“But if anything happens, Ian's nose bleeds,” Stacy complained.
“Does not,” Ian protested.
“I'm worried about that too,” said Dad. “It's an obvious reaction to stress. Unfortunately, there's a lot to be stressed out about with all the aliens trying to kill and eat us. I wonder if tranquilizers would help?”
“When the squid thing broke through the wall, Ian's nose bled. When the tumtum was throwing boulders at us. Ian's nose bled, When Ian wakes us all up from his nightmares going 'Bad Kitykity! Bad Kitykity!' his nose starts bleeding. And what did Fluffy do to you?” Stacy said.
“Enough about my nosebleeds!” Ian said. “Kitykity is not Fluffy, and that nightmare was scary. Look, my nosebleeds are not that big a deal. Some people get nosebleeds, some sisters get annoying. It's one of those things.”
Uncle Ben stomped in, pulling off his boots at the doorway. “Hey, guys. Family dinner. Wouldn't miss this.” He was in charge of fortress sanitation now. He looked tired. He and Dad had way too much to do. “You alright, Ian?”
“I'm fine,” Ian said. “I itch where my nerves are growing back but thanks to regeneration shots, third-degree burns are nothing.”
Uncle Ben folded his hands in prayer. “Thank you, BG, for this meal we are about to receive. You had nothing to do our getting the food, or preparing this meal, but thank you anyway.”
“Does BG hate being worshiped?” Dad asked.
“Seems to. BG thinks our gods are imaginary, while she is real. But what if BG is the imaginary one?”
“We can dream,” Dad said. “Look, Ian, I want you to quit going on patrols. There's plenty for you to do here at the fortress.”
“So why can't I go on patrol?” Stacy asked. “Maybe because I'm a girl, which is sexist.“
“Maybe because you're twelve. Which is childist,” said Dad. “Is that a word?”
“Ian's only fourteen,” she protested.
“I don't want Ian going on patrol. Especially since he almost got burnt alive,” Dad said.
“Patrols tend to be boring, Stacy,” Uncle Ben said. He mixed his chicken, rice, and greens together and took a big bite. “You get more excitement from the guard towers. Without getting burnt alive.”
“I'm sick of being stuck in this fortress,” Stacy said. “Remember before the invasion, we used to hang out at the mall or MonsterMart?”
“I don't think I need to respond to that one,” Dad said. “Though I heard a family has been gathering monster-fruit from the giant tree in the MonsterMart parking lot to make wine with.”
“I tried the wine,” Uncle Ben said. “It's not bad.”
“We need Ian to quit patrolling and level up psychically,” Gabe said through a mouthful of rice. “The Skulls have real psychics. We need a real psychic.”
“I am a real psychic,” Ian said.
“So what number am I thinking of between one and twenty?” Gabe said.
“Easy,” Ian said. “Fifty-eight.”
“Wrong,” Gabe said. “It was number two-thousand-one-hundred-and-eighty. Not even close.”
“Well, you were cheating,” Ian said.
“That's enough, Gabe,” said Dad. “Ian gets picked on enough by other survivors. Leave him alone. He's doing the best he can.”
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“Don't need your help, Dad,” Ian said. Sometimes he wished he could drop his idiot psychic act. He washed down some chicken with Pepsi. “I was wondering, are we rich? People keep saying we're rich.”
“Rich is a meaningless concept,” Dad responded. “It's how much more you have than your neighbors. Today people think you're rich if you have an ice-maker. But as I was saying to Gabe earlier, we're doing okay, and we should be grateful.”
“It seems to me,” Gabe said, “some of us work and pull their weight around here, while others run around being worthless, or sit around doing drugs and expect us or BG to take care of them. Like whoever stole my lunch yesterday.”
Dad took a deep breath. “Today I met a guy the Skulls decided owed them money. First, they beat him senseless. Then, when they found he really didn't have the money, they took his thirteen-year-old daughter. Loaded her on their truck and drove off with her. He's been trying to get her back ever since.”
“Speaking of the Skulls,” Ian asked. “When are we going after them?”
“Do you know where they live?” Dad responded. “Because we don't. These bastards are tough and well organized.” He took a drink of water. “You remember Road Warrior? He thought he had an in with the Skulls, because of his alien cat skull helmet. On the bright side, we found out his helmet is bulletproof. Poor kid is lucky to be alive.”
“I've encountered their patrols a few times while out on sanitation management duty,” Uncle Ben said. “If you see them, stay the hell away. They are mean.”
“As I was saying, Gabe,” Dad said. “I'm sure the man I talked to, or any other refugee, would trade places with you in a second. You get paid to make bombs, something you're very good at, and if your bomb kills an alien, you get more money from BG. You have nothing to complain about.”
“Maybe,” Gabe said, looking doubtful. “So is BG getting crazier than usual? What's with the BG population project? Why is it just women getting paid for having kids? Why don't the guys get paid anything?”
“We already established life's not fair, Gabe,” said Uncle Ben, “though BG's breeding project does make me miss the good old days (last month) when she was telling everybody to fight harder and quit being eaten. Anyway, it's not like you're hurting for money?”
“It's the principle of the thing,” Gabe said, looking pointedly at Stacy. “Some of us have to work, and others get paid by BG to sit around and have kids.”
“Well, I am not having any children! Ever!” Stacy shouted. She jumped up, and stormed off.
Dad sighed. “We all received BG's announcement last month saying BG would pay women for having kids, the number of credits depending on the genetic superiority of the child. Yes, BG is fascist. BG also announced Stacy would get 10,000 credits for every child she gives birth to, regardless of the child's father. Stacy is twelve. Anyone bringing up this subject again, ever, will be asked to leave the table.” Dad looked at Gabe.
Gabe looked away. “Sorry.”
“I should probably tell you guys, I'm the one who stole Gabe's lunch,” Uncle Ben said. “I was hungry, it was sitting there, I didn't think Gabe would notice. Sorry about that.”
“You were right, Gabe,” Dad said, laughing. “It was an alcoholic, drug-using, deadbeat who stole your lunch. I'd say you owe him lunch, brother.”
“Two lunches actually,” Uncle Ben said. “Anything for dessert?”
“Pie from the market, help yourself,” Dad said. “Ian, you need to quit patrol duty. There's so much you could do around the fortress that's safer and pays better. I talked to Hunter, and he will not be inviting you on any more patrols.”
“I want to help,” Ian said. “Besides, this is the only way to improve. BG says, 'You cowered behind your barrier like a true champion. A thousand years from now, they will still sing of your bravery. 350 credits and one stat increase.' So progress.”
“Ian, I got more than that, and all I did was build the bomb they used,” Gabe said. “Stacy got 1000 credits for shooting the alien from a guard tower. “
“Exactly, Ian,” Dad said. “I know Hunter thinks you're lucky, so he lets you tag along, but you're not helping them much, and you're going to get yourself killed.”
Ian sighed. He wished he could tell them the truth. “I'll think about it. I'm not going anywhere until these burns finish healing.”
“Please think about it,” Dad said. “We're working on the Demon Skull problem. I have some ideas, but we need time.”
Ian's phone buzzed with a text. He stood up. “I'll bring Stacy some pie and see how she's doing. I'm sensing you and Uncle Ben are tired. You should get some rest.”
“Hey Ian,” Dad said. “Before you go, I want you to know how impressed I am by the way you're handling everything. Before all this happened, you were angry most of the time. But you've calmed down and you don't let things bother you. I know you're having problems with your gift, and people can be assholes, but you're always willing to help, and don't think we don't notice.”
“Yeah thanks,” Ian said.
“Also a lot of people think you're lucky,” Dad said. “I'm sure it's because you're always around. They kill an alien, see you nearby, and go 'Oh it's lucky Ian,'. But it's great that you're always helping. Keep up the good work.”
Ian nodded. “Will do.”
As he left, he overheard Uncle Ben saying. “Suppose it's brain damage? From that Wuffle thing?”
“Who knows,” Dad responded.
As soon as Ian was alone, he pulled out his cellphone. It had a range of about half a mile, but it was better than nothing.
Mrs. Wilcox had texted.
“Oh Ian, I missed you at our last nightly meeting. I may be thinking bad thoughts about you. Miss you.”
Ian made a face. He put down Stacy's pie and texted a response.
“Road Warrior knows something, he's scared, so be nice. Willie, older boy helping at the orphanage, hiding something. Keeps running off when I come by. I'm sure you know when I was out with Hunter's patrol, we took care of level 5 alien skulking around. For Bazzilionth time, when are you doing something about the Skulls?” Ian waited.
Mrs. Wilcox replied.
“For the Bazzilionth time, we're looking into it. Are you sure you can handle the Skull psychics, if you were to meet?”
Ian texted back.
“Super f-ing positive.”
Mrs. Wilcox replied.
“Good to know, Ian. We're looking into the missing children, and be careful. You may be next. Oh, BG says female dumdums are over twice as large as the males, and much more aggressive.”
Ian sighed. Great.
Ian was concerned about his nosebleeds, too. They happened whenever he pushed his gift too hard, which at this point was all the time. There were so many things threatening the fortress, he couldn't help himself.
As Ian grew more sensitive, he'd come to realize how much crazy-ass shit was out there. His fellow humans did things and were into things, he wouldn't have believed or suspected in a million years.
Mrs. Wilcox, for example, had a small soundproofed happy room she'd retreat to when she was feeling stressed. She'd go there to scream, laugh (not a happy laugh) and pound on the walls to release her pent-up frustration and rage.
Most of what he sensed, he kept to himself. It wasn't his business, and if they weren't hurting anyone, he could care less. When he came across something frightening, he passed it on to Mrs. Wilcox, who would handle it. He didn't always agree with her solutions, but was grateful she had some idea of what to do.
Mrs. Wilcox had kept her word to Ian. In exchange for Ian using his gift to keep tabs on the other human survivors, she'd set his family up on the top floor of the mansion they'd taken over. The mansion sat on the highest hill in the city, and was now the heart of their fortified community. Their living quarters were spacious and the balcony had an excellent view of the surrounding area. The downside was Ian climbed up and down several long flights of stairs every day to get to and leave their new home.
After texting Mrs. Wilcox, Ian found Stacy in her room. She lay on her bed, listening to music with her portable music player. The music player cost one thousand credits from the galactic market. No big deal for Stacy, she wasn't hurting for money. None of them were.
“Go away,” Stacy said.
Ian entered, put the large slice of pie on her bedside stand, and sat down on her chair. “At least BG likes you,” Ian said. “BG keeps saying no kid I have will get any credits at all. Which is fine by me. Last thing this world needs is my children.”
“You're lucky. Nobody cares about you because you're such a loser,” Stacy said. “People stare at me. They follow me around. I'm '10,000 credit Stacy'. 'How's Stacy sucking up to BG?' 'What's Stacy doing to get on BG's good side?' People are jealous of me. Which is stupid, all I can do is shoot.”
“Just ignore them. Soon BG will change her mind, or make some equally annoying announcement about someone else,” Ian said.
“Is it me or is BG losing it?” Stacy asked. “When I shot that alien, BG said. 'You shot a poor baby dumdum who wasn't hurting anyone. Your human cruelty knows no bounds 1000 credits.'”
“It's not you,” Ian replied.
Stacy looked at the pie and made a face. “I'm sick of Monsterfruit pie. You can have it.”
“Thanks,” Ian said. He picked up the large slice of pie with his hands and took a big bite. He loved Monsterfruit, the glowing green fruit from the trees that popped up wherever an adult wuffle was killed. It tasted like a combination of apple and peach, with a nice nutty aftertaste. “I'm not sure I should tell you this,” Ian said through a mouthful of pie, “but you know The Red Baron likes you, right?”
“No, he doesn't,” Stacy said. She sat up and glared at him. Her face turned red. “Besides, I don't like him. That guy's an idiot.”
“Sure,” Ian said. “The Red Baron's very shy. He just turned 13, lives with his mother, she's the one who made him that WWI German flying uniform he's always wearing. I know he likes you, but he's too shy to say anything. If you want to get to know him, you'll have to do some talking. Ask him about his plane. He loves talking about his plane.”
“Well, I don't care,” Stacy said.
“Okay,” Ian said. He finished the pie and stood up. “Take care of yourself.”
Ian left Stacy's room, chuckling. He knew as soon as he left. Stacy would pull out her small hand-held mirror and spend the next hour staring at her reflection. He'd cheered his sister up. That was the important thing.
Ian privately thought The Red Baron was a bit of a dork, but he seemed nice enough, and it didn't take being psychic to know Stacy had a crush on the guy.
How could The Red Baron not like Stacy? Ian thought. Stacy's character build gave her perfect looks. Things like acne and skin blemishes didn't happen in the barbie-doll world. Stacy's newly blond hair grew to the exact length for tying back into a bouncy ponytail and stayed that way. Her skin was smooth, flawless, and fortunately didn't appear to be turning to plastic. Things other girls worried about concerning their looks weren't a problem for Stacy.
Ian staggered off to his room and lay down. His display said. You helped kill a poor baby dumdum. An alien that posed no threat to a big, strong human like yourself. You won 16,000 credits and 19 stat points. Yay. Your galactic following still likes you. They are the only ones.
Ian snorted. That poor baby dumdum had come close to killing him. Considering what he'd gone through, 16,000 credits and 19 stat points were disappointing. He had over 200,000 credits saved up by now, and no idea what to do with them.
His skill tree had branched off again. He'd long since maxed out Alien Mastery, and Alien Attacks. His skill tree now had Alien Domination, Alien Friendship, Alien Paralysis, Alien Disorient, Alien Mind Kill, and Alien Illusion.
If this was a computer game, he could look up what each of them did and know what to do. In this real-life game they were trapped in, he had only the vaguest idea of which of these skill paths would help him the most. He'd spent many hours thinking about it. Any alien powerful enough to be a significant threat to the fortress had a lot of psychic resistance, and no interest in letting itself be mind killed, dominated, or in being Ian's friend. So Alien Mind Kill, Alien Domination, and Alien Friendship didn't seem like good options. On the other hand, he'd had some success in disorienting powerful aliens, or paralyzing them for short periods of time. This, when combined with other humans trying to kill the alien, made an enormous difference. So Ian applied his 19 stat points to Alien Paralysis, Alien Illusion, and Alien Disorient.
He hated lying about his powers, but the truth would frighten the community. Not to mention the family he was trying to protect.
In the beginning, Ian had worked hard to make his gifts work. Now he had to be careful not to hurt people accidentally by infecting them with his fears and nightmares. Once, after a nasty mental visit from Kitykity, he'd gone out and found nobody else had slept well either. He learned to keep his powers tightly reined in.
Ian had spent the last six months trying to get stronger. Something fast, smart, and dangerous was heading his way. When Ian sensed it, it sensed Ian. This was what woke him up late at night, wanting to scream. Lately, he'd started feeling its presence during the day when he was awake. He wanted to tell Dad but wasn't sure what to say. “Dad, there's an unknown psychic catlike alien coming our way. I don't know what it looks like, or how to kill it, but I'm sure it's coming.” This would frighten Dad without helping their situation. One thing for sure. Ian felt very sorry for the mice Fluffy caught and played with.
***
“OH IAN, LORD IAN, MIND MASTER. WAKE UP,” Ian felt a mocking voice in his mind. He woke with a start. Then he breathed a sigh of relief.
“Oh. It's just you guys,” he replied.