John’s eyes widened as the old woman squeezed the triggers of her mounted gatling guns, she barely even gave them a warning.

  Acting quickly, he dived from the top of the stairs as a hail of lightning-fast bullets tore into the goblins surrounding him. The chief’s tent burst into tiny pieces of cloth as it was shredded, and the wooden steps exploded as the powerful rounds ripped them apart sending pieces of wooden shrapnel flying across the camp.

  John hit the floor with a thump and rolled to the side, grabbing truffle under his arm.

  I swear he used to be lighter than this! He thought as he absconded with the pig, swinging his free arm like his life depended on it – which it just might have.

  Sprinting as fast as he could, John ran in zig zags across the camp and dived behind a thick, metal conveyor belt. He wasn’t convinced of its legitimacy as a form of cover, but it was the best thing he had. Overhead the gatling guns roared like chainsaws and, though he couldn’t hear her over the cacophony, he was pretty certain the crazy old bat was cackling like a comic book villain as she fired.

  “Boss!” Truffle shouted to be heard over the noise, “I did what you said, I got the chief’s power!”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s called Pig Squeal, it says, a metal vocalist’s bread and butter. I’m gonna use it!”

  John’s eyes widened; he knew what was coming. Slipping his grip, Truffle wriggled underneath the conveyor belt and screamed.

  Autonomously, John reached up to cover his ears as a blast of pure power erupted from the pig’s mouth. It was so powerful that he could see the shockwave as if it was a physical thing. He felt blood trickle down his ears as a bone shattering earthquake rippled through the camp throwing the goblins all over the place.

  Before his eyes, a dozen goblins were thrown into the air and the crazy lady mowed them down with extreme prejudice. In seconds, all that was left was a pink mist as their bodies exploded from the impact of her fierce, 200 rounds per minute firing, weaponry.

  Eyes popped out of their heads as the pressure from the rounds destroyed their skulls. Splintered bone scattered through the air and blood seemed to land all around the camp like gothic rain.

  Not wanting to be left out of the massacre, John drew his revolvers once again. His dragon’s breath rounds had cooled down and were available once more. He flicked the cylinders and the golden runes turned a deep crimson colour as he picked his target.

  A group of three terrified goblins ran towards him, likely seeking cover as well. Little did they know that John was waiting for them. As they came into range he peeked over the top of the conveyor belt and pulled the triggers.

  Fire blasted out of his guns like a momentary flamethrower, lighting the three goblins on fire and peppering them with magnesium pellets. They burned from the inside out as the scorching chemical element slipped through their skin like a knife through butter.

  Screams pierced the wall of sound created by the gatling guns, and the smell of rancid, burning flesh penetrated deep into John’s nostrils. It was disgusting, it was horrifying, but it sure was effective.

  Flicking his cylinders back to 38. Special mode, he began picking off cowering targets from his place of relative safety. It was a complete slaughter. The goblins didn’t even have a chance to fight back. In less than two minutes, the fight was over. Signalled by the old lady’s gatling guns running out of ammo.

  Assuming that they worked similarly to real gatling guns, John expected that each drum held 400 rounds and could fire 200 per minute. That was how he knew the fight had only been two minutes long. He’d enjoyed modern weaponry as a hobby once upon a time – kickstarted by his stint in the National Guard, now it was a necessity.

  Of course, this was a system led death game and if his own revolvers were anything to go by then there was no reason for the gatling guns to follow the same laws of physics that they had a week ago.

  Moving gingerly from behind cover, guns raised, he steadily approached the old woman.

  “That was one hell of a fight, deary,” she said with a toothless smile. “Nearly went and gave myself a heart attack.”

  “You nearly gave me one too,” John replied cautiously. “That’s some serious hardware you’ve got there.”

  “What, this old thing?” She asked, patting the wheelchair, “I’ve had it for years. I asked my grandson to buy me one of those fancy new electronic chairs like that black hole scientist had, but the lazy bum wouldn’t get off his rump to help out his sweet old grandma.”

  “Um,” John stuttered, bewildered by her response. “I was talking about the gatling guns.”

  “Oh, yeah they’re good too I guess. Take a lot more maintenance than I wanted though. When my grandkids were younger I used to watch them play fantasy games with swords and sorcery. I was kind of hoping to get some magic of my own but I guess we can’t always get what we want now can we?”

  What kind of psychopath isn’t happy with twin gatling guns? John thought, but he knew better than to say it aloud.

  “Well they sure made short work of those goblins,” he opted for instead.

  “That they did, those pesky little critters have caused me no end of problems, let me tell you.” She took in a deep, wheezing breath before fiddling with her IV. Her eyes glowed for a moment, then she continued. “But I digress. Thanks for the help deary but I have some business to attend to in these parts so I best be on my way.”

  Breathing a sigh of relief, John lowered his guns slightly. He noted how odd it was that the old bat didn’t seem even the slightest bit perturbed by his threatening stance. He’d had his revolvers trained on her the entire time. She really must have been crazy.

  However, before he could holster his weapons – well, put them back in his soul space, but holster sounded cooler – she made a beeline for the large building with the keep out sign on it.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  “Shit,” he muttered under his breath as she whizzed past him.

  “Isn’t that where we’re going Boss?” Truffle asked.

  “It is,” he replied. “Even in a game like this I’d feel bad letting someone’s granny roll in there. She has no idea what’s inside.”

  “Better go stop her then,” Truffle said. “I’ll search the rest of the camp for your card. Wasn’t my pig squeal just incredible? I think this might be the one Boss,”

  “Don’t choose anything yet, it’s the first power you’ve gotten since you levelled. We’ll decide on it together later,” John said, then he turned and sprinted after the old lady shouting his protests. “Stop! Don’t go in there.”

  “Sorry deary, but I have to,” she replied sternly. All warmth draining from her voice as she looked at him with cold, hardened eyes. “It’s why I came here.”

  John shuddered as an icy chill crept down his spine and he suddenly got the distinct feeling that she knew exactly what was behind those doors. Just like he did.

  “Me too,” he said quietly. “How about we check it out together?”

  She nodded and, taking hold of a handle each, the duo slid the sliding barn doors open and in unison, they gagged.

  An odorous wave of stinking death wafted out of the stuffy warehouse. Decaying skin, rotten meat, and despair greeted their all too human nostrils.

  John wretched, doubling over as bile stung the back of his throat threatening an eruption of acidic vomit. The old lady, however, simply powered through it into the darkness with a determined look etched into her haggard face.

  Holding his nose, John followed her.

  Conveyor belts hummed throughout the warehouse, carrying minced meat outside. Further back there was a horrible grinding sound mixed with the sound of whimpering.

  Looking up, John saw where it came from.

  A line of children were hanging by their wrists, strapped to a moving line of chain linked metal which was attached to the ceiling. They moved slowly, some unconsciously, towards the grinding machine.

  “Fuck,” John gasped, “it’s worse than I thought.”

  “Charlie?” The old woman yelled, “Charlie where are you?”

  “Grandma?” A timid and broken voice called back in a defeated mumble.

  The old woman whizzed towards the boy; he was second to next in line to be dropped into the mincer. Pushing up with her hands, she tried to reach him but failed.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll getcha,” Agnes said, but from what he was seeing, John wasn’t hopeful.

  Pulling out one of his revolvers he fired a round at the handcuffs which attached the boy to ceiling chain. The bullet erupted with a deafening crack, hit the handcuffs and then ricocheted off. John ducked quickly as the deadly round bounced around the warehouse.

  Frustrated, he got back up and brushed off an angry glare from the old woman. If bullets weren’t up to the task then he’d have to find another way. There had to be an off switch somewhere.

  Dashing towards the mincer, John began to search but there didn’t seem to be any way to turn it off.

  “I can’t find the off switch!” He shouted desperately towards the old woman, panic beginning to set in.

  Skill: Trauma Response has been activated.

  A sudden and unwelcome wave of calmness washed through him and he began thinking more clearly again. This was the first time he’d gotten a skill activation notification. If there was no off switch by the mincer then perhaps there was a control panel at the opposite side of the warehouse.

  With his mind set, he rushed towards the opposite side whilst Agnes continued desperately trying to unhook the boy. John knew that wasn’t going to work. There was no hook, he was handcuffed. But there was no point telling the old woman that, she was obviously panicking and doing her best – just as he would have been if not for his messed-up skill.

  The mincer chugged away as John reached the other side of the barn. A small girl hung dangerously close to the death machine. His time was running out.

  “I-I think it’s over there, mister,” the child closest to him coughed, nodding her small head towards a box a few feet away.

  John nodded his thanks and ran towards it, finding a small panel attached to a metal box. There were three buttons and none of them were labelled.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he muttered as he tried to decide which one to press. “I hate this game!”

  He was guessing, but he had to assume one of the buttons released the handcuffs since they were obviously of an alien design. One of them should shut down the machine and the other one must turn it on.

  That meant that, if he was right, he had a two in three chance of choosing correctly and even if he chose wrong it wasn’t like he could make the machine be more turned on – it was already working.

  Gritting his teeth, he chose one at random and pressed it. A few yelps and some thuds sounded out from behind him. He must have hit the release switch, thank the heavens.

  Turning around with a grin on his face he saw the line of children lying on the floor. They were beaten, bruised, and would likely need therapy for the rest of their lives, but they were safe.

  No one is safe anymore.

  All except for one.

  The little girl on the end, next to Agnes’ boy.

  Her cuffs hadn’t opened all the way and she was dangling right over the mincer which still clanked and hummed as it grinded.

  Turning back to the panel, John smashed a different button.

  Nothing happened.

  He pressed the only remaining button and the machinery noises died down.

  “Oh thank-” He began but was quickly drowned out by a startled yelp followed by an agonised scream.

  He turned around to see the girl hanging half out of the mincer. Her legs were stuck inside of it, blood leaking onto the floor and she looked terrified. The cuffs must have opened somehow, perhaps rather than being stuck before it was actually a failsafe to prevent the livestock from falling in accidentally?

  He must have overridden it when he started smashing them randomly. His stomach lurched as his heartbeat quickened and nausea overwhelmed him.

  What do I do? He wondered, feeling all the blood drain from his face.

  On one hand, he could try to pull her out of there, but she’d probably bleed out – a horrible and painful death for anyone, but especially a child. The mincer wasn’t turned on anymore, but she was stuck inside it mid grind.

  “Damn it!” He screamed, as he realised what he was going to have to do, the only humane thing he could do.

  Fuck this game. You will not take my humanity. I will burn it all to the ground.

  Pulling out a revolver and wiping a tear from his right eye he marched angrily towards the mincer.

  “Deary?” Agnes asked, stunned as she held the boy in her arms. “Surely you’re not?”

  “What choice do I have?” John snapped through gritted teeth, all the while the girl’s screams deafened his ears and pierced his soul.

  “There’s always a choice, deary.”

  “Yeah, a slow and painful death or a merciful one. I know which one I’d want.”

  He reached the mincer, placing the barrel of his gun against the girl’s head. Thick, crimson blood leaked down the side of the machine, dying his boots.

  “I’m…” he began in a low whisper, “I’m so sorry I couldn’t save you.”

  Closing his eyes, he began to squeeze the trigger, gritting his teeth and cursing the people responsible for this sick game.

  Something brushed his cheek and he opened his eyes.

  The girl, who couldn’t have been older than seven, placed her hand on his cheek and wiped a tear away with her thumb. Her eyes bulged, bloodshot and pained. Her lips quivered as she fought to keep the screaming inside.

  The warehouse went sill.

  Silent.

  Looking her in the eyes, John nodded. He knew what he had to do. It was the humane thing. The logical choice.

  You won’t take my humanity.

  “WAIT!” Truffle squealed, barrelling into the warehouse.

  John turned, his heart beating so quickly he thought he might collapse. What was the pig doing here?

  “We can save her!” Truffle shouted.

  “What?”

  “I found a card, give it to her.”

  “How will that help?” John asked sceptically. Every moment he wasted talking was another moment the girl was in complete and utter agony.

  “Just trust me!” Truffle yelled, “pull her out of that thing and shove the card in, there’s no time.”

  John glanced at his gun, then at the girl, and finally back at Truffle.

  “Fuck!” He shouted, dropping his gun. “You’d better be right about this.”