Chapter 25 – Up the Mountain

  Ludwig left not long after his long-winded story and bare-bones description of what was in store up the mountain. Being the baron of humanity’s last dying gasp still included plenty of chores and petty dispute-solving. Cole knew he was far from the first pilgrim Ludwig had seen, and he wouldn’t be the last.

  “Howie, go let Besson know it’s safe enough in here, if he’s inclined to join,” said Cole.

  “But…” said Howie.

  “But he won’t be,” finished Cole. “Still dickish to not offer when there’s a roof, four walls, and a mostly-dry floor. Roxy, why don’t you check on Morganstern in the meantime? Once you’re back, we’ll barricade the door and keep watches.”

  “Don’t trust the locals?" Asked Roxy.

  “Do you?”

  She shook her head.

  Howie pushed up. “Alright. I’ll let Besson know,” he said. He looked over at Ken. “Feel like stretching your legs?”

  “I feel like taking a five-year nap,” said Ken. “But I will join so that you don’t have to walk alone in the dark.” The man picked up his revolvers and holstered them, then slung on what looked like an otherworld version of a lever gun.

  “You get some sort of cowboy class?” asked Cole.

  “Cowboy?” scoffed Ken, “I’ll have you know I am a Vintage Quickshot. Which means I’m probably not going to see any firearms from this century. You should see the trash drops I didn’t keep. Some of them would have made you wish you had one of the baron’s arquebuses.”

  Constantly being handed free vintage firearms didn’t seem so bad to Cole. But then, he didn’t have to stuff rounds in a revolver cylinder one by one while zombies sprinted at him like Olympic athletes. The pair left, and Cole took a few minutes to eat, drink, and relieve himself in a much-loved chamberpot while Roxy was out of the room. He still hadn’t shit since he’d come to Curahee and he doubted he would until he got back to civilization. Pretty typical of a diet consisting entirely of ration bars.

  But they still had to make it back.

  * * *

  Besson leaned back in the crook of a tree, rain-fly spread out overhead. With a pair of small binoculars, he kept watch on the gate-house, wondering if he was going to have to storm them and bust everyone else out. The only one he’d seen so far that looked tough was that armored guy with the mustache, but these had to be hardy people to have a whole town up here on the mountain in a zombie-infested forest.

  Then again, maybe he wouldn’t bail them out. If they wanted to get themselves captured or killed by locals, that was their issue. And he’d already put Nutmeg at risk by going out of his way to help them. That wasn’t smart. It wasn’t his plan. The plan was to look out for one man and one dog.

  He lowered the binocs and sighed. Yeah right. Like his conscience would allow that.

  Activity at the gate drew his attention back, and he spotted Howie walking out the gate with… Ken. That was his name. The chatty Pacific Islander with the constant wisecracks. The two started heading out toward the tree-line. Besson let out a high whistle, high enough to be outside the human hearing range. But Nutmeg’s ears perked up below him, and she looked up.

  “Go get those two knuckleheads, girl,” he said.

  With a soft chuff, Nutmeg got to her feet and shook off the dust and the rain that had managed to make it under the fly. She stretched, yawned, and then set off at a trot toward the other two kicker hopefuls. They followed her back, stomping through the forest so loud it was like nails on a chalkboard to him. Besson winced, wondering how Colton put up with it—especially with his hearing that must be bordering on supernatural with his high acuity modifier. At least Georgia-boy knew how to walk in the woods.

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  They got to the base of his tree and looked around. Besson threw a twig down to get their attention, and Howie looked up.

  “Oh, shit. Nice treehouse,” he said.

  “I take it the locals aren’t planning to butcher and eat you all?” asked Besson.

  “If they are, they’re waiting for breakfast,” said Ken. “They’ve offered us a larder—err, hostel, to spend the night in, if you are so inclined.”

  “I’m fine out here,” said Besson. He’d preferred it until they decided to come talk to him, anyway. Now it didn’t feel like there was much difference.

  “We figured,” said Howie. “But Cole said I ought to offer anyway. Oh, and they’ve got a lift on the cliff that can give us a boost up the mountain in the morning, save us at least six hours. And you won’t believe this: There’s more monsters waiting for us up there.”

  Joy. Still, decent of Colton to consider him. Besson thought for a minute. He’d seriously considered leaving them and stealing six hours of march through the night. But it sounded like they’d beat him to the top anyway and be more refreshed when they got there. And then the whole thing would be awkward when he showed up.

  “Alright. Dawn, I’ll head in. Maybe. Might go ahead on my own.”

  “Riiiight,” said Howie, sharing a look with Ken that he probably thought was subtle. “Well, enjoy your tree.”

  Besson waited for the pair of them to leave and then sighed, untying the rain fly. It felt like the sanctuary of his tree had been violated, and it was time to relocate.

  As he finished packing his rain fly, a quiet whine from Nutmeg alerted him. He looked around and finally saw the glint of moonlight off a pair of curved lacquer ram horns a few hundred meters to the south, approaching the tree-line from a different angle.

  Well, well, well.

  Besson watched the massive man peer through the trees, just catching the end of Howie and Ken returning to the city. Ram-head, as Colton had called him, hadn’t noticed Besson in the tree off his left flank. He crouched down and considered. After a few minutes, the otherworld invader made up his mind and continued in the wood line, circumnavigating the town and continuing up the path toward the top of the mountain. He was strong. Strong enough to beat Morganstern. But he wasn’t solo-an-entire-town strong. But he could do some serious damage to some unaware knuckleheads if he caught them off guard.

  Looks like Besson would be stealing that six-hour march after all.

  * * *

  Roxy knocked on the door to the infirmary. When that didn’t work, she pounded on the door. Clara must have been hard of hearing, because that finally got the old healer to open up and let her inside.

  “How’s Morganstern?” she asked.

  “Better. In and out, but still weak. I’ve confined the curse to her body—and severed its hold on her mind. She’ll be of little use in battle. But her body is better able to fight this than her brain. There is little more I can do. Would you like to see her?”

  Roxy nodded and followed Clara to the back of the infirmary where she caught Morganstern trying to crawl out of her sick bed with the threadbare blanket clutched around her.

  “For the sake of the Gods,” muttered Clara.

  “Hey, hey,” said Roxy, kneeling down next to her.

  “Rox?” said Morganstern, looking up with fevered eyes.

  “I’m here,” said Roxy. “You’re safe.” She looped her arms under Morganstern’s shoulders and knees and lifted her back into the bed. On her best day back home, the buck-fifty Kicker and her fifty pounds of gear would have been a struggle. Here? She could have lifted two Morgansterns. Roxy could see how Kickers got addicted to the Lewis Field life.

  She set their once-proctor-now-patient back on the bed and helped her sit up, offering her some water from a jug by the bedside.

  “Fuck me, I feel weak,” groaned Morganstern. She looked up at the healer. “Clara? Shit, I promised to bring you some chocolate, but I lost all my stuff.” Her eyes fixed back on Roxy and she shuddered. “Tell me you idiots didn’t drag my unconscious ass through that disgusting Silk Forest.” She coughed. “Hell, how’d you even get me?”

  “We saw your fight. Howie had the idea to light a flare. Cole stayed to see who came sniffing while Howie and I went and got you.”

  Morganstern closed her eyes. “Good, he found you. There were two of them that ambushed me. One armored guy, at least level thirty. And a mage that portalled them in. Not as much of a fighter, but fucker knows his way around a curse.”

  “It’s just the fighter, now,” said Roxy. “Cole killed the mage.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Roxy shrugged. “He says he hit him in the head from range and jumped two levels.”

  Morganstern barked a short, spiteful laugh. “Ha! Fucker’s probably trapped here, then. Hope he likes mushrooms.” She grimaced. “But that means we’re either going to have to keep dodging him or deal with him.” She checked her watch. “First portal doesn’t open for another sixteen hours, and we still have to get to the throne room. And unless you all somehow hit at least level fifteen, nigh-impossible in Curahee, he can probably pound the whole cadre flat. I can already tell you my ass won’t be much help.”

  Level fifteen. Wouldn’t that be a wonder. It seemed like so far away, and yet she’d only been level one just a few days earlier. She’d started from square one. After she’d been taken it had only been a couple terrifying weeks before DOR came and pulled her out. Roxy hadn’t been forced to fight anything yet. Could barely even hold a sword. What was a high school junior with a gym addiction and a vague plan for nursing school supposed to do against an army of blood-sucking whale-sized demons, anyway?

  “We’ll figure it out,” said Roxy. “Me and Howie and Cole, and hell, even Besson seem to work really well together.”

  “No shit?”

  Roxy smiled. “No shit. We’ll get home. Rest up.”

  She believed it, too. She’d made it home once thanks to the DOR Kickers. Now it was her turn to do the rescuing. Albeit, a little sooner than she’d been expecting.