Chapter 7

  There Goes the Neighborhood

  “Where the fuck is Ken?!” Dan roared, caving in a boar’s skull with one swing.

  Qi rushed in—warm, clean, perfect.

  Jimmy retrieved arrows, moving like water between bodies.

  “Yeah. We could use the walking disaster right about now.”

  Dan tightened his shield strap.

  “My fault. Thought numbers would keep the girls safe.”

  Jimmy smirked.

  “Me too. We just didn’t budget for assholes.”

  One of the assholes strolled over—mullet, shitty tattoos, smug grin.

  “You two did good. Makes up for the dead weight, I guess.”

  Dan stepped forward, six feet of shaved-head and bearded muscle, holding a dripping club.

  “That dead weight is my family,” he growled, “Say it again and I will break you.”

  Lucas raised his hands, eyes flicking to Kim by the fire.

  “Whoa, big guy. Just saying—teen girl, old farts, and a fucking dog on Hard? And that chick with the—”

  Luna hit him with the loudest, angriest bark a sixty-pound pit-beagle could manage.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  Jimmy didn’t look up from cleaning his glasses.

  “You really don’t want to finish that sentence.”

  Lucas swallowed.

  Dan took another step.

  “Kim is Ken’s wife. He will feed you your own spine.”

  Lucas forced a laugh. “Relax, just asking about my fellow survivors! Where’s he at?”

  “Probably soloing a boss,” Jimmy said, staring into space.

  “Pissed and wondering where we are.”

  Lucas’ eyes narrowed, “I bet, I bet. I was just wondering how you’re holding up after that boy got killed..”

  Dan ignored him, and slung the two-hundred-pound boar over one shoulder like groceries. Nodded to Chris—who was already limping closer, spear ready—and stomped back to camp. Jimmy slowly followed, collecting his remaining arrows.

  Lucas watched them go, muttering, “Strong fucker… and that dude with the glasses gives me the creeps.”

  Dan dropped the boar at his dad’s feet. George, an old biker, grunted thanks and started skinning.

  Dan rubbed his face.

  “How the hell did we end up on Hard with these assholes?”

  They picked gear right after drop-in: Dan a simple club and shield, Jimmy a bow and arrows, everyone else long, solid spears. Chris grabbed a pack of tools.

  He fancied himself a crafter.

  They all had on the same simple blue jeans, white linen shirt, and brown hiking boots.

  Jimmy spun an arrowhead, watching light dance off the edge.

  “We averaged the group high. The system did not care that half of us were not fit to fight.”

  Dan glanced at his wife, Jaime, comforting her daughter Belle.

  At Chris favoring his titanium leg.

  “Yeah,” Dan said. “We fucked up.”

  Jimmy’s smile didn’t reach his eyes.

  “Doesn’t matter now. We advance. We overcome.”

  His gaze lifted to the sky.

  “Or we die trying.”