Chapter 31: MREs Again

“Before we climb up,” I said, raising my voice so everyone was paying attention, “we should take a break and eat something.”

“I guess I’m feeling better because I am hungry, very, very hungry,” said Fred, sitting forward. “I think we should try another room, though.”

Marci chimed in, “It’ll definitely be cleaner. For washing up. We, uh, really messed up that bathroom. Honestly, I’d like a shower. Yeah, I know, I know, we’re just going to get dirtier before the day is done. But,” she tossed back her bangs, “I’ll just have another shower then, too.”

“Yeah,” said Fred, “cleaner room.”

Carefully and purposefully, looking at Fred the entire time, Avery slowly set her empty bottle on the table, “The minibar is out, isn’t it?”

Fred’s green skinned smile rose past his large canines.

I shook the keys, “Ok, room across from this one.”

We all stood up, Fred and Dylan stretching, which was infectious and got me, so I stretched too, and after made our way there. I looked back to where I was sitting, a habit to not leave anything behind, and was aghast at how gross we’d left the chairs, bed, and carpet, red, black, and grey streaks, pieces of whatever on them. At the door, I switched the sign to ‘Please Make Up Room.’

***

It was nice to have clean skin and hair, if only until I put my clothes back on. We took turns washing up, and soon managed to mess up this room too, because some things do not wash down drains, and some stains do not come off clothing easily. But, really, this hotel was never going to be open for business again.

Like the last room, we all sat by the minibar. Ave, Bent, and Marci on the bed, Fred, Dylan and me in chairs with the ugly orange rug-like upholstery. Tiny hotel tables between us.

“Haven’t had one of these in a while.” I set down the MRE on the table, spoon beside, staring at it. “It was nice to have hot spaghetti this morning.”

“And coffee!” said Bentley. “Hot coffee was nice.”

“Feels like a lifetime ago,” said Dylan, rummaging around for his MRE.

Bent reached over, touching Dylan’s knee briefly. The two shared a smile.

“Here,” said Fred, passing out half-sized wine bottles. “Last room didn’t have wine. This one does. Weird.”

“I’ll take a white,” said Marci. “Thanks! What MRE do you have?”

The label was stamped on at an angle, the lettering moving off the white space onto the wrapper. “Uh, this one says, ‘Mom’s lasagna.’ God, I hope not. My mom couldn’t even make edible toast. She could burn water.”

“Mine’s ‘minced mice in stir fry.’ Huh.” Marci stared at her label. She shook her head a little.

“No – let me see that.” I reached forward.

Marci held it up for me, “If you take it, you eat it.”

“I’m, uh, happy with Mom’s cooking, thanks. Hey, Bent, what do you think about the loot?”

He looked from Dylan to me, “Loot?”

“Yeah. I mean, doesn’t it seem strange that we’d find a special war hammer when we have a war hammer user? And a suit of armor for our fighter?”

“And this elvish armor for me,” added Marci, opening her MRE, “that sword for you.”

“Well, we’re in a game. Maybe it’s outfitting us for our classes. We are fighting the undead and our normal weapons, our mundane weapons, are ineffective.”

Dylan didn’t look up, just put a spoonful of MRE bits into his mouth, saying, “Let’s hope that hammer is for fighting the undead.”

“The problem with that hypothesis, Bent,” said Marci, “is that we aren’t getting new healing pots. You’d think if the game were taking care of us, we’d be renewing our stock.”

He pointed his fork at her, “The undead don’t like healing magic. They might destroy the pots, but they can’t destroy these weapons. Maybe if we were fighting living enemies we’d be finding more healing pots.”

Marci shrugged, “Only one way to test that.”

“Yeah, well, we are gearing up for our classes,” I said. “I guess if the pattern continues, we’ll know. Like, if I get my missing gun or a special bullwhip.”

“Magical,” said Bent. “I think you mean magical, not special.”

“Sure, sure. Magical. Anyways, if the hypothesis is true, after we destroy the third altar, we’ll find a large sword for Fred, something for Dylan, and what for Marci or you?”

“Me? I guess another spell book. Or maybe a magical dagger or something.”

Marci nodded, stifling a smile. “A staff. You’re a wizard, Bentley. You need a wand or a staff. And a funny hat.”

“You think I can get a hat like River’s?”

“Hey, what’s wrong with my hat?”

“It’s just silly. Doesn’t protect your head like a helmet would and, with that whip, you look like some kind of adventure story character.”

“I mean, I am. In this stupid game. I really am.”

“Yeah,” Bent said, “And you’d get . . . the same, Marci? A staff or dagger or wand? Except you got armor. That’s not usually a wizard thing.”

“Well, I’m a sorc. And an elf.”

“True, true.”

“What does elf have to do with it?” I asked. “And what do sorcs use?”

“I don’t, uh, really know,” Marci shrugged. “But I’ll know when I see it, like I did with the armor and sword.”

“Elves,” Bent said, “often wear special elf armor they can cast in.”

“Special?” I said, “do you mean magical?” I took a bit of the soggy lasagna. Not great, but probably better than mice. At least the meat tasted meat-like and the red sauce was almost certainly made from tomatoes.

“Unique? Crafted by their race.”

“Wait,” I set down my spoon, “why are they a ‘race’ and not a ‘species?’ That’s like going back to the days when Darwin discussed the different races of cabbage.”

He shook his head, faint smile, “It’s just a game thing. Anyways, in games spell casting classes are usually glass canons. Like, all offense and no defense. So, they can’t wear armor.”

“Or their armor is limited,” said Avery, taking another spoonful of whatever her MRE was. “Cloth armor or whatever light armor is for that game.”

I didn’t understand. “Cloth . . . armor? What, to stop pencils?”

Bent shook his fork, “It’s magical. Or whatever. Look at Marci’s armor, it’s basically metal cloth. Now, we could make metal cloth if we wanted, but it wouldn’t be that light. And it certainly wouldn’t be that protective against a bullet or a sword. We use spider silk textiles for that, with highly engineered padding.”

“Huh. Alright, what about my class, then? Explorer. Finds traps, fights ok but not as good as you guys, has a whip and an awesome hat?”

“You know what an awesome hat would be for you?” said Bentley. “A fedora. Yup, that’d suit your class better than that Australian cowboy hat.”

“Please. For exploring caves? This one,” I took it off, “has a wide brim. Keeps off the dust from the caves, spiders and other crawling things and, when outside, the sun. And the rain. Oh, and it’s made of kangaroo leather.”

“You’re kidding!” said Marci. “That’s so not cool.”

“It is, see?” I turned it over. “It’s stamped with a kangaroo right here. Light leather, keeps my head cool.”

“How do you know these things?” Marci narrowed her eyes, pointing her fork at me, “How many kangaroos have you turned into hats?”

“Seven,” I said. “To make one hat. It’s truly a terrible business. How’s the mice?”

“Terrible.” She casually flipped over the foil wrapping so I could see it. It read, ‘Crab Pasta in White Wine Sauce.’

I briefly stuck my tongue out at her.

“Fred,” Dylan began, “what was it like?”

“Hmm?” He was mid-tiny bottle of something blue.

“Being eaten. What was it like?”

“Hey!” Ave stood, “That’s not cool. Not cool.”

“Very painful. Taking chunks out of me. My skin being pulled off.” Fred slumped down, staring at the floor. “But what hurt worse was being alone.” He looked up at us, his eyes resting on Ave, “I thought the next time you saw me, you were going to be sad. And I wouldn’t know.”

Ave moved around Fred, began massaging his muscles. She gave Dylan a dirty look.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry Fred, I just . . . I was next! I was sure they were going to eat me next. And watching what they were doing to you . . . and we couldn’t move or say anything!”

“Hey, hey,” Bent moved over to Dylan, pulling him into a hug. “You’re fine now. We’re all together now.”

Dylan’s chest moved up and down, but he sobbed quietly. Fred’s eyes were unfocused. I shared a worried gaze with Marci. Waited in uncomfortable silence. It seemed impolite to keep eating. So, I drank whatever wine the bottle I had was. It tasted vaguely soapy.

“Here,” Fred passed me a new bottle.

I turned it over. Whiskey. Finally.

Marci stood up, leaving her MRE on the table, raised her eyebrows at me, then went into the bathroom. Shortly, we could all hear the shower running.

***

The undead were still banging on the door when we got to the end of the hallway. The bolt was getting hammered, taking all that force, and starting to bend a little, the metal frame rattling, but holding.

Ave held her new large, gleaming hammer in her right hand, old war hammer in her left. “Traps, Boss?”

“Not on this door. Marci, can you pass me the keys?”

“Sure, Bossman.” She had a touch of a smile on her face.

I gave her a fake glare in jest. “Thanks. Same as before. I unlock, Fred, push open the door. You and Ave go to work. I’ll switch places with you right after, Dylan.”

“Got it.”

“Ready.”

“Let’s go!”

Key in lock, turn, back up.

Fred rammed the door with his shoulder, pushing back a bunch of zombies. He moved in, sword held right-handed, stabbing. When Ave had room, she moved into the landing, swung, blasting one’s head into a conical spray of debris. She backhand smashed another’s chest, exploding its torso, scattering shattered remnants into the wall, its torn hips and legs falling backwards.

“Jesus!” I said.

Marci took my hand, “Might just be.”

Seeing space opening up for him, Dylan shrugged, raised his sword, and strode into battle.

It was hard to tear my gaze away from the utter destruction Ave was wreaking, blowing up zombie after zombie, but I had to watch our rear, so I turned around. A needless endeavor, nothing came, and the landing was soon cleared, and we joined them there.

The walls, ceiling, and floors were covered in zombie pieces. And goo. Gently dripping from the rails, off the ceiling.

Smiling, Fred patted Ave on the shoulder, “Now that’s what I call a war hammer!”

She held it up, “This, this is fun.”

Marci asked, “I wonder what it’ll do to those other creatures.”

“I’d like to find out,” said Ave.

“Alright, uh, Ave, you take point. Then Fred. Dylan,” I stopped myself from saying ‘sorry,’ though it took some effort, “please guard our rear.”

***

We were continuing up the stairs, Ave picking off the stragglers we found with ease. She’d long since put her normal hammer away and was using this one two handed, mostly. Sometimes, left-handed, sometimes right, but mostly both. Whatever that hammer was, I wished we’d had it earlier.

“Oh man, I hope I get a sword like that!” said Fred, between us and Ave.

“I hope you do, too, Fred,” I said from behind. Then, louder, “Ave, remember to stop before the landing of the twenty-sixth floor. We need to make sure there’s no traps.”

“Yeah. Just a minute. There’s one coming down.” Ave pulped it into the right wall, kindly keeping the gore away from us. “Ah, shit, one more. A moment.”

Shortly, Avery stood at the top of the stairway, suddenly flicking her hammer toward the wall, pieces of zombie flew off. Then she put it through a loop on her belt, saying, “That’s the last of them.”

Dylan said, “You’re bad ass with that thing, Ave.”

“It’s tough work but it’s who I am.”

I looked at the door. “This is only level twenty-five.”

“But there’s no more stairs up, Boss.”

“Damn. Looks like the staff weren’t allowed to the penthouse.” I thought for a moment. “That leaves us two options. Cross here to the elevator and take the shaft up, or the main stairs. But that’ll expose our rear. I think we’ll have to take the elevator shaft.”

“It’s that or go down, fight across a different hallway, and take the elevator up,” said Bentley, shrugging.

“Yeah. I’m going to check-”

“-for traps.” Ave stepped off the top landing. “Go ahead, Boss. We’ll give you some space.”

“Try not,” Marci touched my arm, “to blow yourself up.”

“Uh. Right. A moment.” Approaching the door, something felt off. That trap sense I had, making me feel dread. The floor was level, no obvious bumps like the pressure pad we’d found below. I noted a rubber skirt attached to the door, to minimize sounds and/or gas exchange. That was either worrisome or intriguing.

I ran my hands up along the frame, since that’s where the metal bar shot out of last time. No cracks or anything suggesting a repeat of that trap. I kind of wished I had a black light, for no other reason than to look like a detective, checking something out.

Nothing on the door. The handle was the industrial kind: large, flat steel running vertically, with a thumb lever. And there it was. A little needle recessed into the inside of the handle. You push the lever, it presses into your finger, injecting something nasty.

I could avoid it or stick a piece of wood or something for it to stab into. Or hit the handle with one of Ave’s hammers to break it. But that would make a loud noise, potentially alerting enemies on the other side. And we wouldn’t have anything to pull the door open.

“Hey guys, there’s a needle trap here in the door handle. I’m going to open the door carefully, can you get ready in case there’s baddies on the other side?”

“We’re calling them baddies now, Boss?” Fred walked over to me, Ave and Dylan just behind him.

“Yup. That we are.” I decided not to get my hand anywhere near that needle. After unlocking the door, I drew my knife, using it to pull on the handle. Then I pressed down on the lever with my left hand. The needle clicked into the metal knife, and I cracked the door open.

Fred took hold of the door above my head, opening it completely and I stepped back.

Wood paneling lined the walls of the hallway, red carpet with wavy designs on the floor. A medical gurney, with black, worn-out padding, rested a little ways down the hall. It had thick leather restraints hanging off its rails.