(Elf Ruins – Occupation: The Trapline Army)(Amos)

  THE NEXT DAY

  Right after waking, the five began breakfast. The morning smelled of earth, dew, and damp wood. Before the group could pack up, a small clan of seven passed by their camp with trade offers in mind. Although they couldn’t sell their food, Xander managed to buy the wool capes off their backs to use as spares. Amos bought a bronze longsword for a steal, avoiding the unpleasantness of his previous weapon transaction in the Westpoint pub.

  As the group finish packing, Amos (seated near the firepit admiring his new weapon), drops the bronze longsword in his lap when Christ smacks him in the back of the head. “Christ…!”

  “Get moving. Our training starts now,” Christ says. “Take this…” He holds out his hand, summoning a steel short sword into his closing grip. “When that bronze longsword breaks, use this. Don’t switch to your axe; save it for the Dulmans.”

  Amos glances back and forth from the short sword to Christ. He accepts the blade, adding it to his inventory, while raising an eyebrow. “You know I can’t use my axe unless I’m badly hurt. Otherwise, it’d be like smacking a high-level elf with a tree branch.”

  Christ responds to Amos with a blank stare. He leans in, grabs the bronze longsword from Amos’s lap, and raises the blade until its tip touches Amos’s chin. “If fate doesn’t take care of that, I will,” Christ whispers.

  Amos rolls his eyes, grabs the bronze longsword out of Christ’s hand, and rises. He waves the blade in the air a few times before adding it to his inventory. The two gather their belongings and head out to catch up with Cazel, Xander, and Zero, who by now were well ahead of them.

  As they trudge through the trees, Christ turns to Amos. “I’ve been meaning to ask: have you apologized to Sara yet?”

  Amos shrugs, his gaze fixed ahead of him. “It’s hard to apologize to someone you’ve blocked.”

  “You're a real asshole, you know that? All she asked was how your mom was doing and you blew up at her,” Christ says.

  “Yeah…” the trail begins to dip as they approach the ruins. In the woods on either side of the path, the weathered boulders of the forest gradually give way to fragments of ancient masonry. The other three are now in sight. “I’ll make things better with Sara after all this is over,” Amos says.

  Christ wraps his arm around Amos. “Lil’ bro, if you have problems, I…” Christ coughs, “we are here for you, and-”

  “-and if I have any problems I can’t handle, I'll tell y'all,” Amos interjects, lying through his pearly whites. The rift between him and Sara is a temporary problem. The death bug is another matter. Amos turns to Christ. “Where is she?”

  Christ squints as he accesses his interface, fingers gesticulating before his eyes. “Sara is with Marisa and Hypno in the City of Bell. They figured they would eventually follow us once LIT allows us to live in their territory.”

  “What about John?” Amos asks.

  “You mean that little asshole who gobbles Zero’s balls any chance he gets?” Christ pops a smirk. “He left the two ladies with Hypno, so he could go train solo for a bit, fuck knows why.”

  “We should start calling him goblin boy,” Amos quips. Christ snorts.

  A moment later, Christ and Amos catch up to the others waiting at the edge of the Ruins, hidden behind an intact section of the ruin’s outer walls. Figures drift among the dregs of collapsed arches and weathered columns, their steps soundless. Elves, lithe and stoic, patrol the ruined city as if it were still standing as it had in its glory days. Amos wonders if they’re meant to be living, or…

  Christ muses as he and Amos crouch behind the wall with the others, half responding to Amos and half speaking to the others. “Once we finish off the Dulman clan, we can all live happily ever after in our big home, and I can be with my sweetheart Sara.”

  Zero plops his hand on Christ's shoulder. “Nice of you to join us. You know, I always thought you and Sara would make a great couple.”

  Christ growls before smacking Zero’s hand away. Zero chuckles. “Where's that trademark smile, Christ?” Without warning, Christ leaps out from behind the wall and charges at one of the elf NPCs. Zero crosses his arms and turns to Cazel, who slowly shakes his head at his brother.

  “C’mon, you gotta love it when he acts up.”

  Amos tilts his head to whisper in Zero’s ear. “I can’t help but wonder what you did to him to make him hate you?”

  Zero turns to Amos. “It’s the same reason John hates you.”

  “No reason at all?”

  Zero chuckles. “No reason at all.”

  Cazel walks between the two as his steel spear appears in his hands. “You two ready?”

  They made good progress grinding over the next few hours. Amos’s movement speed was nearing where he wanted it to be. As he, the immersion mechanics caused calluses to form on his hands. Even so, Amos’s focus drifted at times. He couldn’t get the thought of the death bug out of his head. With every NPC he killed, a part of him kept asking – almost taunting: would you really feel any different if these were players you were killing? In all this time, there’d been no word on the bug. All this time, and they still no answer.

  A heavily armored elf, raising his greatsword overhead as he leaps at Amos, derails his rogue train of thought. Amos swaps his bronze greataxe for his steel sword, clashing blades with the elf. Amos lets the elf’s greatsword slide to the hilt of his steel sword and, with a kick from the guard, Amos sends the elf’s sword flying, the blade embedding itself in the root of a hardwood tree.

  Amos leans his kick into a spin as he switches back to his greataxe, bringing the duller but heavier weapon down on the elf’s neck.

  The lower half of the axe blade strikes the upper part of the elf’s chestplate, while its upper half slices through the opening of the elf’s steel helmet. The blow opens a jagged rift extending from the elf’s neck to his eye, while the tip of the axe glances off a small portion of the helm, enough to knock the helm off the elf and send the piece of gear careening into the trunk of a tree growing from a collapsed well. Thin jets of blood spurt from the wound to the rhythm of the elf’s pulse.

  Amos rips his axe out of the elf and takes a deep breath. After wiping a spatter of blood from his cheek, Amos surveys the scene of death before him. What was once a ruin of whitish-gray stone half-eaten by tree roots has been transformed into a gore-painted open-air abattoir. Fragments of broken weapons and armor lie strewn among half-looted corpses. Much of the ground is now a brownish-red and oily mixture of soil and blood that reeks of putrefying fat and the metallic tang of iron. In some parts of the ruins, the forest floor is completely covered with bodies, making traversal either impossible or at least significantly awkward. But this scene of death won’t last long. Very soon the roots of the forest will claim the remains of the elves (gear and all) transforming the bodies into soil.

  For hours, heavy breathing has been the norm. Continued usage of his worn-out gloves has made Amos’s hands raw, blistered, and numb. He’s sustained no serious injuries so far, but if he continues, that will likely change. “Time for a break…” Amos mutters. He puts his great axe away, wipes his brow, and begins to search the bodies. There’s not much worth holding on to except for the teleport scrolls Amos keeps stacking in his inventory in the hopes they’ll eventually be useful.

  Amos makes his way to the helmet he knocked off the elf, expecting it to crumble to dirt like the other items, but it doesn’t. The helm is too small for Amos’s head, but he could sell it if he gets it resized by a smithing clan. Dragging his axe along the ground, with the elven helmet in his other hand, Amos makes his way to the new campsite the group set up near the ruins.

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  While crossing the clearing that separates the ruins from the new campsite, Amos notices Cazel standing near a pile of some twenty dead elves, spear in hand, the butt of the weapon planted firmly on the ground, as if he were posing as a chess piece. Half of the elf bodies are already turning into soil. Amos makes his way over to Cazel. “Yo! I'm heading back to camp for lunch. You want to join me?”

  Cazel doesn’t move. He doesn’t make a sound. In the silence, Amos becomes acutely aware of the wind playing with the leaves high above them, where the branches of the trees are thin enough for wind to bend and sway.

  “Cazel?” Amos examines his friend, finding no injuries. “Man, you need some rest.”

  “What is my name?” Cazel asks.

  Amos’s head jerks back. “What?”

  “What is my name?”

  Amos glances between the campsite, the ruins, and his friend. “Cazel.”

  Cazel drops his spear and grabs Amos, pulling him closer. “No, it’s not! Tell me my name!”

  Amos’s eyes widen. “Filip…” Amos shakes his head. “What’s this about?”

  “Christ’s name!?” Cazel demands.

  “William”

  “Hypno’s?”

  “Todd.”

  “Xander?”

  “Brian.”

  “Vodka?”

  “Hamilton.”

  “Amos?”

  “Liam!” Amos barks. Cazel removes his shaking hands from Amos’s shoulder. “Cazel, what's going on?”

  “You're not a killing machine, not like RoT thinks you are. You're a kid. I'm... a kid. It’s too late for me; I’ve already killed and it’s already taking its toll on me.” Cazel locks eyes with Amos. “Once we cross this line, there is no going back.”

  A slow rain of leaves, some pale green and some starting to yellow, falls around them. The same, ratcheting tightness returns to Amos’s chest. His breathing becomes labored as the tension builds.

  Cazel shakes his head and turns around, picking up his spear. “I’m… going to get back to… training.” Amos’s eyes drift to the dead elves on the ground. None of them have been looted.

  Back at the camp, Amos tosses the elven helmet into the loot pile. Xander leaps to his feet, his hands outstretched. “Amos, take this.”

  Taking the bundle cloth in his hands, Amos begins to unravel it. “What is…”

  “The clan cape. It feels like the normal game, doesn’t it?”

  The cape vanishes and reappears around Amos’s neck before feathering down to his calves. “Now we just need to claim the old manor, and we'll be set.”

  Xander cracks a smile. “Yeah… Hopefully Hypno can smooth-talk ‘em enough to bag the place.”

  “And if that doesn’t work?” Amos asks.

  “We’ll see about RoT. Oh!” Xander turns to a neatly crafted basket. “I saw a small clan of ten, and we traded a little. They sold me buffalo meat for a few pieces of steel armor.”

  “Xander… Your cooking isn’t Hypno’s. Let me help.” Grabbing the basket from his leader, Amos lifts the lid to a hard, raw smell with a burning mixture of mint. “Why is the meat covered in a mint-cane leaf?”

  “The herds of buffalo in the Village of Tatter seem to have a fly problem,” Xander explains. “This strong mint smell repels the flies.”

  “Yeah… Now our meat will taste like mint.” Amos turns to the cutting board, tossing the meat chunk on it.

  Xander preps the pan with some oil before placing it over the three metal rods sticking out of the fire. “It’ll be fine. Once you eat MREs three times a day for four years, you learn that everything tastes good.”

  Hunching over their craft, they remain silent throughout the rest of the process. They have little to work with, but at least they have salt and onions. Amos craves his favorite food, beef Wellington, especially his mother's way of cooking it with large-cut onions and marinated chicken—an old recipe his grandmother brought back from the UK.

  His mother. Regret fills Amos, as the thought of not spending as much time with her enters his mind. The longer he stays here, the less time he spends with her. In the worst case, she could pass before he manages to leave… if he ever gets out, that is. He’s been so busy grinding for these past two weeks that he didn’t realize what he was missing.

  Christ drops a steel chest body into the pile of armor pieces. “What’s that minty smell?”

  Amos jumps to his feet as his stomach begins to turn. “I’ll be back.” He picks up his pace out of the stone ruins and heads for the bushes in the woods.

  Christ glances between the two. “He alright?”

  Amos empties what little he has in him. His stomach is still turning, so he sticks his fingers down his throat until dark yellow bile drips from his tongue. Amos hears movement behind him and begins to clean himself up.

  “Amos?” Zero says as he begins to rub Amos’s back. “Brother, what are you doing?”

  “Just…” Amos gulps, tasting stomach acid between breaths of air. “Felt a little sick…”

  “I don’t think sick is fingering your mouth hole,” Zero points out. “Tell me.”

  Amos raises his head. “I won’t spend my mom’s last moments with her…”

  “Oh…” Zero says, as he pulls Amos in and wraps his arms around his him. “Everything will be fine. They’ll fix that damn bug, and we will make it home.”

  “This world is… hard to breathe in…” Amos says as his eyes begin to water. “I want out.”

  Zero’s hand slides up to the back of Amos’s head while shushing him. “Relax, relax. There's no need to overwork yourself. Tell me, what was the last thing you and your mother talked about?” Zero leans away slightly as he attempts to lock eyes with Amos.

  Amos runs his wet fingers across his eyes, returning his thoughts to the day before entering the portal. “She told me that she loved me... and for me to live for her.”

  Zero smiles. “Nothing like a parent's unconditional love. Tell you what…” He straightens Amos as he glides his hand across his friend's cheek. “Everyone has a reason to live, whether it’s to fulfill a request, to keep a vow, to pursue a purpose, or to chase after a lifestyle. Instead of thinking about what you should have done, think of your mother's words and see how you can live by them.” Amos glances down. “Keep telling yourself that. It’ll get better.” As the two of them connect their eyes again, Zero’s smile becomes more challenging to look at. With a little shake, their eyes continue to lock. “Trust me, I know exactly how you feel. I'm here for you, so are the others. We won't do anything to ruin that trust.”

  Although his stomach still feels tight, Amos’s mind is calmer. He wonders what Zero means, how exactly he knows that same feeling so well.

  Zero lets go of Amos and offers him a warm smile.

  “Amos…” Christ makes his way through the bushes and down Amos’s path. “You good, lil’ bro?”

  Amos wipes his eyes. “Yeah, just felt sick. My stomach was turning.”

  “Could be constipated from only eating meat for two weeks,” Christ mentions. “That could also be why Cazel’s been in such a bad mood. You’re not ‘you’ when your blocked up…”

  “Cazel!” Amos tugs on Zero’s arm. “You should go speak to Cazel…”

  Zero cuts Amos off. “Already tried… three times, in fact. He really is in a bad mood. I don’t blame him, though.”

  The three begin walking back to the camp. “Then why don't you protest against this whole plan to confront the Dulmans?” Christ asks.

  “Because, like Xander said, their reason for just letting us go makes no sense…” Zero says. “We battled them for years. Even though it was just supposed to be a game, we really hated each other. All I'm just saying is, does doxxing us and having one of us SWATted justify killing them?”

  They others look at Zero like the answer is obvious.

  Raising his hands, Zero nods. “Let me rephrase that. If you saw them in real life, would you kill them?” Zero waits a second before answering his question. “No, no, you wouldn’t. So I don’t want to hear you say ‘it’s not paranoia’ because it is, one hundred percent. Who says they had anything planned at all? Maybe they thought they could surprise us and something else went wrong on their end, something we didn’t notice?”

  “Zero, I'm trying to be rational about our options,” Xander says. “The expectation for us to move west to Sanity and Iker is dangerous. They know we benefit from this region, and they know that removing us from here means they have the upper hand.”

  Amos sighs. “I accept the thought of being paranoid because I don’t trust them one bit. My only concern is how Cazel is reacting to it.”

  “Then he doesn’t have to join us,” Christ mutters.

  Amos shakes his head. “He won't abandon us. That's not who he is.”

  Xander chimes in. “I’d like to remind you that we are outnumbered five to eight without the others here. It would be best not lose any more of our advantage.” Zero chuckles. Xander smiles. “What?”

  “Nah, just the fact you say the word ‘advantage,’” Zero says. “Doesn’t that kind of language just add to our perceived ‘cockiness’ as a clan?”

  “Listen, as long as we are on the other side of the map from Sanity and Iker, I’ll be as cocky as I want,” Xander says. “I don’t need statistics when the results are clear as day.”

  Amos looks toward the ruins, hoping to see Cazel heading back, but only the distant flickers of faraway campfires stand out against the encroaching backdrop of forest twilight. In each of those camps are players just as confused and scared as they are, if not more so. How many of them had already killed someone? How were they coping with all this, huddled near their fires? For a moment, Amos felt a kinship with the other lost souls stuck in this hellscape of a glitched game. At least, if they all felt like shit, they could all feel like shit together.

  Zero places a hand on Amos’s shoulder. “Don’t worry too much about Cazel. He’s a strong one.”

  Amos shook his head. “You didn’t hear him earlier… I hate seeing him like this, but I think Xander’s right. We need to do this. It’s either us or them.”