The winds were bitter cold, and Pecan kept her head to keep the dancing snow out of her eyes, and Garret lowered his wide-brimmed hat to do much the same. Pecan's hooves clacked against the wooden rails of the old Union Pacific line that ran through the Rockies and down into Colorado. His checkered scarf was raised over his mouth and nose to keep the cold out, and his doeskin jacket did much the same.
Frost covered the knuckles of his thick hide gloves as they wrapped around the reins of his gallant steed. He was just a man alone with his steed. Battling the elements — the snow, the cold, the howling winds. Doing what must be done, no matter the situation. His six-shooter at his side, and rifle smacking against his back...nothing could stand between him and his du—
"You're almost there, Garret."
Garret sighed — his breath coming out in a hot, white fog that seeped through the polyester scarf. He was this close to fully immersing himself in the fantasy of being a cowboy out here. Alone. Following the tracks to God knows where.
"I know that, Carlos." The man responded as he raised the walkie-talkie to his lips. "I can smell 'em."
The buzzing of Carlos's drone sweeping through the lightly falling snow irked him something fierce. Like a gnat that kept flittering by his ear. He brought the walkie-talkie back to his face.
"Is the drone really necessary, Carlos?"
"I wasn't the one complaining about being the only one on call now, was I?"
"I know it's just…"
"Just what? How else do you think we should go about recruiting people?"
"I don't know...Indeed? Monster?"
"Who the fuck uses Indeed anymore? Monster? What is this, 2013?"
"Whatever."
A chorus of laughter came over the radio, and he pulled down his hat even lower.
"Guys, guys, look, he's embarrassed!"
The drone hovered overhead, and Garret felt his cheeks burn as Pecan trotted on.
[QUEST ZONE ENTERED]
The System window opened up in front of him, and he hopped off his mount. He took her reins and pretended to tie them around one of the thicker saplings.
[SLAY THE MONSTERS THE DUNGEON BREAK
0/15 GOBLINS
0/1 GOBLIN WARCHIEF
+120 XP
+Random Loot ]
"You gotta stay here, Pecan."
"HEE-HAW."
"Oh, who's a good girl?"
He tussled the mule's black mane, freeing the flakes of snow that stuck to it. Garret drew a handful of ammo from one of the pouches on her side. She leaned her head into the palm of his hand and whinnied a little. He stuffed the bullets into the pockets of his doeskin jacket: one side for the clips for the Mauser, and the other for the Colt. Finally, he pulled a makeshift spear he had made back when this all started five months ago. It was still usable, if a bit ugly. Made of a piece of Tig-welded pipe and an old lawn mower blade. Sometimes, however, it was all he had left.
The snow crunched underfoot as he made his way off the track and into the snow-covered brush.
"We see the engine up ahead, Garret."
"Any sign of the conductor?"
"No, but about….a dozen or so thermal hits, and one big one."
"Yeah, I know how many enemies there are, Carlos. The System tells me."
"Well, jeez. Someone's angsty today."
"Drop it."
"Wake up on the wrong side of the bedroll, pardner?"
Click.
Garret turned the radio off and stuffed it in his jacket pocket. He grumbled and lay on the ground. He pulled himself forward, crawling on his belly: hissing as the snow slipped down his jacket and stung at his flesh. Pecan, meanwhile, began eating the poor sapling's sparse needles.
He crept closer and closer until the yellow head of the Union Pacific engine came into view from the snow. A large tree had been laid out over the track: perhaps the goblins used it as a way to stop it from moving, or perhaps they felled it out of whatever cruel malice drove them.
Green-skinned goblins crawled on top of it, trying to smash their way into the windows with their clubs, or pry the shipping containers open with their spears and swords. One stood on a bin of black coal, pulled an arrow off his back, took aim at Carlos' drone, and let loose. The arrow flew up, missed the drone, and came back down onto the head of one of the others, currently chewing on the remains of the conductor, half buried in the snow.
[Goblin Slain +2 XP
128/500 ]
A large goblin, about the size of a young bear, hopped up onto the coal train, snatched the bow out of the goblin's hand, and smacked him in the back of the head, pointing to his dead brethren in the snow. The goblin looked down, clasped both of his hands over his mouth, and let out a little, "eek," that Garret could hear from his position about 100 yards away. He turned to the Warchief buried his head in the creature's massive chest and let out a keening wail. The warchief slowly patted the back of the young goblin's head, while the others began to devour their dead.
Garret reached around and pulled the rifle from its sling, and lined up the iron sights with the other archer atop the coal, watching the drone and already lining up a shot. As soon as he took it, he squeezed the trigger. The mountainside roared to life, and he pulled the bolt back to load another round.
[Goblin Slain +2XP
130/500]
...
[Goblin Slain +2XP
132/500]
The brass fell from the rifle into the snow, and he quickly lined up another shot while the monsters glanced every which way for the roaring monster that just killed their kin. With another shot, he removed the head of the goblin in front of the Warchief.
[Goblin Slain +2XP
134/500]
"Owoooooooooooo!" The Goblin chief held the crumbled body of the dead goblin in his arms.
The scream shook the very mountain and woke the birds in the trees. The goblins looked around frantically, and Garret pulled the bolt back, shifted the barrel of the rifle along the snow, and fired another shot.
[Goblin Slain +2XP
136/500]
Perhaps it was the way the metal gleamed in the moonlight. Perhaps it was the fact that he hadn't showered in three days, and his BO was wafting off of him like the musk of a deer. Perhaps it was just dumb luck. Or perhaps it was the fact that fuckin' Carlos had kept his fuckin' drone hovering overhead ever since Garret took that first shot, either way it wasn't long before all of their beady eyes were laid upon him.
"Fucking shit."
He furiously swung the barrel of the .308 to point at the nearest. It cracked like thunder and struck one down.
"OWOOOOOOOOO."
The Warchief sang, pointing his club over towards Garret's position.
"God dammit, Carlos!"
He glanced up and flipped the drone off before springing to his feet, pulling the bolt, and slamming it shut. The goblins swarm around the train and towards the small hillock he found himself on.
Crack
[Goblin Slain +2XP
140/500 ]
Crack
[Goblin Slain +2XP
142/500]
Their green, clawed hands began to bury themselves in the frozen soil: grasping jutting roots and sharpened stones as they pulled themselves up the ridge. He tossed the rifle to the ground and pulled his revolver from its holster. Each shot tore chunks of flesh from the climbing creatures, staining the white ground with their brown blood. Six shots, six dead, and the first one was upon him. He shoved the first one off the ridge, and it stumbled backward and fell to the ground. The other wrapped its hands around Garret and dragged him to the ground in a small tackle.
The two of them fought hand-to-hand. Its claws scraped his face and got caught in Garret's clothes as the two fell to the ground: wrestling for control. Garret pulled his hunting knife from his belt, and jammed it into the goblin's gut several times. It hissed, and Garret stabbed it again. It rolled off of him and tried to scramble away. Garret stood up quick, picked up his rusty spear and drove its curved point through the creature's back.
[Goblin Slain +2XP
154/500
+1 Spear 50/300
+1 Knife 60/400]
The other had climbed up the ridge once more, and Garret swung the curved lawn-mower blade at it. It struck the creature in the head and split it like a melon. Once the greenish blood stained the snow, and it fell dead on the ground, the Goblin Chief looked to the heavens. From this distance, Garret caught the small gleam of tears on the creature's cheek.
"OWOOOOOOOOO."
It hopped down from the coal cart: the whole train lurched as it slammed against the ground. White, powdery snow exploded out from where he landed. He stomped across the mountain top, and toward a grouping of trees. Garret watched as it took a small douglas fir in hand and yanked it free from the earth. He swung it and slammed it against the ground, freeing the soil from the roots of his makeshift club. The Warchief began a mad sprint towards the man surrounded by its dead kin.
"Shit…"
"OWOOOOOOOOOOO."
Garret tossed his spear to the ground and scrambled for the rifle buried under the body of the goblin nearest him. It took three tugs to pull it out, and by that time the Warchief had already made it halfway across the 100 or so yards between them. He shouldered the .308, took aim, and fired. It roared to life, and the Warchief's shoulder jolted as the bullet slammed into it.
He pulled the bolt back to chamber another round, pushed it forward with a thunk, and fired again. It skirted off the warchief's skull in a bright yellow flash, tearing a line of flesh as it struck the iron rail by its feet. Garret adjusted his sight downward and fired again. This time, the bullet struck it in the gut. There came a small jiggling across its body, and chunks of green-tinged white fat were blown out in heavy chunks: still, it came running.
"What the hell, man…"
The bolt slid back and forth again, and he fired. The rifle kicked like...well like an angry Pecan, and another bullet struck the charging monster. It was only then that it began to stagger: only for a moment, though, as part of its thigh was obliterated by the impact. It stepped forward again, and it struck his chest. The layers of fat between the world and his ribs rippled like water that had just had a stone thrown in it, and he kept pushing on.
This is why guns sucked when dealing with monsters. Goblins? Sure, they would go down with a shot of anything over a .22, but anything bigger? A fucking elephant gun would have taken two or three. Garret chambered his sixth .308 round and fired again. Still, it kept charging. Guns also didn't provide any sort of benefit when using them. Bows did. Crossbows did. Fuckin' traps did. What did the System have against good ol' Smith and Wesson?
"Ah, fuck it…" He tossed the rifle to the ground and picked up his spear once more.
"Moonflower Lance," he muttered.
Heat rushed to his cheeks. He hoped Carlos's drone was too far away to hear him.
"Bloom to life."
White light shone around the tip of the lawn-mower blade. Luminescent, bell-shaped flowers grew along the spine of the blade, and he stabbed forward. A trail of white light shot out from the tip of his spear: pushing aside the snow and stones, and leaving a trail of sacred datura plants blossoming in the frozen grass beneath. Those thick white petals danced in the air around the beam, and a fragrance akin to roses filled the air. It slammed into the charging Warchief's chest and halted it immediately. A hole was blown straight through its chest. The beam collided against the mountainside. Gray dust and snow cluttered the sky like small clouds. The Warchief collapsed. The entrance and exit wounds began to be consumed by that poisonous weed.
[Quest complete!
308/500
Moonflower Lance +10
40/100
Spear +5
55/300]
A small green shaded box fell from the sky in front of him. He bent down, picked it up, and opened it. Within it there were 10 copper coins. No larger, no smaller than a penny. Worth a little less.
"Fucking really? For all that?" His voice echoed down the Rockies and carried all the way over to Utah, some say.