3 – Sheila

“Semi-customized? What the hell?” Was the System clowning on him? He read the part that really stuck out aloud, “Ignorance is best defeated by action.” He didn’t know if it was a personal message other than the “Andy” bit, but it certainly felt like it. He looked around his trailer, disturbed to see that the windows were still dark; it was still daytime. Even during a thunderstorm, there ought to be more light than that. Shouldn’t there be?

Suddenly, a distant scream broke through the steady patter of rain on his camper’s roof, but Andy couldn’t tell what direction it came from. Was it Larry and Tina again? Was it someone else? There were fifty-seven lots in the Sleepy Saguaro Trailer Park, and Andy didn’t know everyone. He started toward the door, planning to open it and see if he could hear anything more when another damn bunch of floating letters appeared before his eyes:

***Andy! The Sleepy Saguaro Trailer Park has become contested ground. Contend for ownership, die, or flee. Accept? Simply think or say Yes or No (this instruction will not be repeated on every such message.)***

“What the…” Andy stared at the message. Was this one of the “quests?” If so, it seemed like a pretty damn easy one. No matter what he did, he’d complete it, even if he died. He laughed at the thought and said, “Yes.”

***Congratulations! You’ve accepted your first quest! Your reward will depend on your victory condition and contribution. Good luck!***

He wanted to laugh at the message, but part of him was still freaking out. Part of him was worried about his mom, and part was wondering what the hell had happened to the electricity and everyone’s phones. Was it everyone? Was it possible that he, Tina, and Larry had all had their phones die randomly? Those odds sounded astronomical if you asked him. With that in mind, he decided to go knock on Sheila’s door—worth seeing what was up with her phone.

“First, my bike.” Andy tentatively opened the door, the System message about “contending” for the trailer park still in his mind. However, he didn’t see anything other than blown-over picnic tables, scattered trash barrels, and lots of wet concrete. He crept down the steps and gently closed the door behind him. The rain had slowed to a steady drizzle, but he was glad to have his helmet on, anyway. He groaned when he saw his bike on its side, the front wheel smashed through the thin sheet-metal skirt around his trailer.

The bike wasn’t anything all that special—just a six-year-old 300cc dirt bike with the equipment to make it street-legal. Even so, seeing it on its side hurt, especially after all his other losses that day. “What a damn bummer,” he groaned, squatting to heft it up onto its wheels. The trailer skirt rattled and didn’t want to come loose from the tire, but Andy gave it a jerk and pulled the bike free. The damage didn’t look too bad—just a broken handlebar mirror, a bent clutch lever, and some scrapes on the paint.

Curiosity got the better of him, and after putting the kickstand down, he went back into the trailer to get the key. He had just emerged with the little key in hand when another scream and something that sounded like a snarling growl echoed through the little trailer park. He’d been so focused on the bike that he’d forgotten the sounds he’d heard earlier.

“What the eff?” More than ever, Andy wanted to hear the growl of his bike’s motor. He hopped onto the seat, pulled in the clutch, jammed the little key into the slot, and turned it on. No lights on the little display appeared. “Come on! Dammit!” He flipped the switch off and on a few times, but nothing happened. Just in case the LEDs were disconnected, he tried starting it. Nothing, not even a click. “Shit!”

Andy hopped off the bike and, with the light rain pattering on his helmet, jogged across the gravel lot between his trailer and Sheila’s. He hurried around the trailer, peering at her windows to see if there was any sign of her, but when he came around and saw her door open, flapping in the occasional gust, he began to feel real worry clenching his gut. What the hell was going on?

He approached the door cautiously, rotating his helmeted head left and right to compensate for his impaired peripheral vision. The visor was up, but his eyes were recessed enough that they were shielded from the drizzle. He peered through the open door.

“Sheila?” His voice was tentative, the weird noises echoing around the park making him cautious. Her trailer was bigger than his, a proper single-wide, but he could see a significant portion of it from the doorway: a living area, a kitchen area, and a hallway leading back toward some other rooms.

Nothing moved within, but his eyes spied a black rectangle on the counter—her phone. Andy crept up the steps and through the doorway, his shoes making the particle board beneath the threadbare carpeting creak. He froze, listening, but only distant sounds came to him through the patter of the rain. Emboldened, he darted for the counter and the phone. Unlike his, it was in one piece—no flaming hole blown out the back of it.

Even so, when he tapped the screen, nothing happened. He held down the power button, hoping it would come on. At that point, he didn’t even care if it was locked; he just wanted to know it worked. Nothing happened, though; the screen stayed dark. He set it down and started to turn back to the door, and that’s when he saw her.

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

Sheila stood in the hallway opening, wearing a long T-shirt and nothing else. Despite how that might have interested Andy even a single hour ago, all he wanted to do when he saw her was run. There was something deeply wrong with Sheila. Her arms were…too long. Her hands hung below her knees, and, worse, her skin was tinted a faint green. No, maybe that wasn’t worse—those long arms were freaky. He looked at her face and gulped. Sheila’s lower jaw was distended, and enormous bottom canines jutted over her lip.

She sniffed the air, and that’s when Andy noticed her elongated nose and deep-set red eyes. “Hey, uh, Sheila. I was just wondering if I could—”

“Raaaaarrrrrrgh!” she screamed, lifting her arms, displaying inch-long black nails as she bared her teeth and charged. She moved fast, and before he knew it, Sheila was between Andy and the door. He backed around the counter, trying to keep it between them.

“J-Jesus, Sheila. You’re not looking great.” He knew he was being stupid. He knew the evidence of the System was too abundant to ignore, but something in his brain still rebelled, still wanted to think things could go back to normal. “Sorry I barged in here. I was just worried about—”

She screamed again and dove over the counter, scrabbling with her claws. Her shirt rode up, exposing her green butt, and Andy blanched when he saw a stiff, spiny tail sprouting out above it. He continued to retreat, his mind racing through every horror movie he’d ever seen. What if it was contagious? What if whatever had mutated her could be transferred? Was that possible? Was that a thing?

He bumped into the fridge and threw the door open, putting it between him and Sheila. She raked her claws over it, grinding them into the ancient yellow-tinted metal. Andy grabbed a bottle of tomato juice and smashed it over the top of the door, trying to club her with it. Idly, he realized some part of him accepted the reality of this situation. If he thought Sheila was…salvageable, he wouldn’t be trying to smash a glass bottle over her head.

She swatted it aside with a surprisingly strong backhand and followed up with a clack of her wolf-like jaws, trying to take his hand off at the wrist. “Shit, Sheila!” He slammed the fridge door against her, sending her stumbling back, then scanned for something else he could use. The only thing to hand was a broom wedged between the counter and the fridge. He grabbed it and used it to keep her at bay, jamming the broom bristles toward her face. “Chill, Sheila!”

She did not chill. Sheila shrieked, grabbed the broom in her oversized hands, and yanked. Andy wasn’t a weakling. He played sports. He did back-breaking labor to hide from the frustrations he’d faced while in college. He growled back at her and pulled. Together, they fought over the broom, driving and pulling each other back and forth in the kitchen. “Drop it, Sheila!”

“Aaaarghh!” She ripped the plastic bristles, stripping the housing off the threaded tip of the broomstick, and suddenly, Andy was left holding a rather dull spear.

“Back off, Sheila! I don’t want to hurt you!” He feinted with the broomstick toward her face, but she didn’t flinch. She dove at him, windmilling her claw-tipped, absurdly long arms. Andy did not want to get clawed by her. Gritting his teeth, telling himself it wasn’t Sheila anymore, he thrust the broomstick at her. He’d been aiming for her neck—her throat—but she lunged at the last second, and the stick went into her mouth. He’d pushed hard

, and he felt it slide into her throat and grind against the back of her neck, punching past something stiff but yielding.

Sheila gagged and growled, clacking her jaws against the broomstick sticking out of her mouth, but Andy kept driving it, pushing her back until she hit a wall, and then he held her there, grinding the stick into the back of her throat with the unyielding wall giving him leverage. Her screams and thrashing grew desperate, and foamy red saliva bubbled out of her mouth as she continued to claw at the broomstick, tearing deep gouges in it. What would happen if she broke it or tore it from his grasp?

Andy eyed the door. Could he make a run for it? If he let go… The thought died, unfinished, as Sheila collapsed, hanging from the makeshift spear where it had punched through her neck and driven into the drywall. She twitched and shuddered in her final death throes, and Andy felt sick. “Stop it. Stop it, dude,” he said to himself, desperately trying to reorganize his thoughts. “That’s not Sheila, bro. That’s not. That’s a goddamn monster.”

***Congratulations, Andy, on your heroic victory! You’ve slain an adversary that would be a challenge for even a level-two human! Keep that up, and you might just earn a class! You’ve advanced from level 0 to level 1! You’ve gained level 1 knowledge of spears! You’ve earned 1 improvement point! Keep it up, Andy!***

***Your quest to compete for control of Sleepy Saguaro Trailer Park has advanced. You’ve made progress toward gaining control, earning contribution points toward a final reward. You’re currently ranked first for contribution! Others will see your name on reports like this.***

Andy gritted his teeth and pulled the broomstick out of Sheila’s mouth, and then he fled the scene of his “victory.” He didn’t want to look at the corpse. He practically leaped out the door and then circled her trailer, charging back toward his own. When he was inside, with the door slammed shut behind his back, he tested his sanity by saying, “Status.”

***Congratulations on accessing your STATUS sheet! In the future, if there’s a single value you’re interested in other than the whole STATUS report, just think of that!***

STATUS:

Name: Andrew “Andy” West

Species: Human

Active Class: Unclassed

Level:

1

Experience toward next level: 14%

Mana: 10/10

Perception: 5

Will: 4

Strength: 6

Vitality: 8

Speed: 6

Improvement Points: 1

Notable Skills or Spells:

Spears: 1

Andy grappled with the urge to scream as the yellow, slightly three-dimensional characters floated before his eyes. As an outlet, he turned and smashed his fist against the thin wood paneling of the trailer. It cracked under the blow, and he split the skin on one of his knuckles, but it felt good. It focused him—reminded him that he was real. This was real. Shit was going down whether he wanted to accept it or not.

As though the thought had been a prophecy, rough grunts and guttural growls sounded from outside his door. Something heavy slammed into it, shaking his entire trailer and popping some of the screws holding the door hinges loose. “What now?” Andy sighed, gripping his broom-turned-spear as he pulled the blinds up to peek out the window.