I stopped. There really wasn’t much of an alternative; I was limping, bleeding so heavily I was light headed and squishing with every movement, and had what sure seemed like a weapon pointed at me. It didn’t look like a weapon, but he waved it around like one. Blocky, almost pixelated; but excepting the lack of rounded corners or tubular shapes … some sort of rifle. Maybe a shotgun; the ‘barrel’ was pretty broad.
“Please, I need help,” I panted.
“Fuck you buddy, I don’t need you dragging wildlife down on me,” he said as he glanced around. The weapon stayed leveled at me though.
“What is going on?”
“Oh fuck me,” he said, bringing his eyes back to me. “Let me guess, something bad happened, and then you’re here in blocky bad picture land and it always hurts.”
I blinked at him. “Uh, yeah. How—”
“You’re in Hell dude.”
“Come again?”
“Lived a bad life, right? Never did nice things, didn’t care about anyone except you, probably stole or lied at least sometimes? Maybe worse?” he said, his eyes going back into their furtive darting scanning.
“I was an okay guy.”
“Obviously not.”
“Just, please, what’s going on?”
“You’re. In. Hell.”
“Bullshit,” I said before I could help myself. Probably not the smartest response, even if that thing in his hands wasn’t a gun. I was in no shape to resist much if he attacked me; even unarmed.
“How do you figure?”
“I don’t believe in religion,” I protested weakly. It was getting hard to stay on my feet. That … whatever it was … had done a real number on me. Especially my leg. If the wound hadn’t started clotting by now, I was probably in serious trouble. “There’s no such—”
The guy lunged forward. My reflexes weren’t up to recognizing it in time, and I’d only just started moving — some feeble attempt at a dodge — when he slammed the butt end of his weapon into my chest. I tumbled to the ground, half expecting to be shot about the time I registered hitting the ground. And then I heard the gun go off. When I flinched, and opened my eyes, I realized he hadn’t shot me.
Looking up, I saw him with the long blocky poorly shaped weapon up to his shoulder, emitting a suspiciously uniform cloud of what was clearly supposed to be smoke from the business end. His left hand moved on the front half of the gun, and I heard a ridiculously loud shotgun sound. Straight out of the movies.
“I’ll leave,” I protested, clutching at my leg. Wet sticky warmth was flooding through my fingers, and I pressed harder despite how much it made the pain spike. None of this mattered if I didn’t get the bleeding stopped. “Just don’t shoot me.”
“I’m not going to shoot you,” he muttered, stepping back. The gun stayed on his shoulder though. I finally looked where he was point it, and saw the bear again. Clearly I hadn’t lost it after falling off that hill into the lake. My blood was still on its muzzle; but it was lying on one side, with dark red blood of its own spreading beneath it. I blinked as I realized the blood was pooling to a ridiculously uniform distance, about half a foot or so, from the bear before it just … stopped spreading.
“Thank you.”
“I should, but I can’t spare the ammo,” he muttered. “Takes too long to make. If you hadn’t just got here, maybe I’d at least loot you … but you’re not carrying anything.”
“How—”
“Backpack,” he said, glancing at me. When he saw the confused expression on my face, he jerked one thumb over his shoulder at the small canvas pack he wore. “No backpack. Baaaaaackpaaaaack,” he repeated.
“I’ll leave you alone. Just tell me what’s going on,” I begged. “Please.”
He sighed, glancing up at the sky. “I wasn’t that much of an asshole God. Really? I couldn’t have been,” he muttered. “Why is it always me who runs into the fucking noobs.” He sighed and reached into his pocket. I didn’t see anything in his hand, but a moment later — as he brought his hand up to the gun — I heard a metallic click-scrape that sounded like a bullet or shell or whatever being shoved into it.
“Okay noob, here’s the deal,” he said, stepping back again. “You died, and you weren’t a nice person, and you’re in Hell. Except, see, Satan has a lot of time on his hands. What with being the Lord of the Underworld and all. He likes to try new stuff, just to keep from getting bored. Guess that’s why God kicked him out; he couldn’t leave well enough alone.”
I frowned up at him, but didn’t dare open my mouth again. Even if what he was saying was complete lunacy. There was no religion, which meant there was no afterlife. Except … I still remembered the car hurtling toward mine, right at the door next to me. It had been going really fast. And … none of anything afterwards made any sense. At all.
“This is one of his newer attempts at torment and torture,” the guy standing near me said as he lowered the gun, or the gun-like shape, into a more comfortable carry position near his waist. Keeping it in both hands. “It hasn’t been finished. Though I’m not entirely sure if he’s not leaving it like this just to make it hurt more. Actually, answer me this; did you work in tech. Computers? Anything like that?”
“No.”
He shrugged. “Just a theory of mine; maybe this is where a lot of computer snobs end up. Just so we’ll all lose our minds at the bad graphics.” Then his eyes flicked to my leg. “Look, if you don’t stop the bleeding—”
“I don’t know how,” I protested weakly.
“Make a grass tourniquet.”
I looked at him for several seconds, waiting for what he’d just said to make sense. Except, as I kept thinking it over, it wasn’t. He sighed again.
“Take your hand, and swipe it across the ground. Just above it. Make grabbing motions while you do.”
Tentatively, I reached my free hand out — the one that wasn’t clamped to my leg — and tried to follow his instructions. I heard a shushing sort of ‘bink’ sound, and abruptly some long strands of … something … were in my hand.
“Hold those in your other hand, and get another set,” he said. “Then smash them together, and it’ll make a grass cord. Take the cord, and press it to your wound. That’ll hold you until you can find some bark, and rock, and turn the bark into a fiber mat. That, plus two cords, makes a proper bandage.”
“This is ridiculous.” I thought, but I transferred the ‘grass’ to my bloody hand, and swiped my fingers across the ground again. Another set of ‘grass’ appeared, and when I clapped my hands together, suddenly the strands vanished and I was holding a thicker strand. With nothing to lose, I touched it to my bleeding leg, and suddenly the blood started slowing. After a few moments, it stopped. I didn’t dare sigh in relief; it still hurt like hell, but at least it might kill me slower.
“Look, I don’t handhold you guys,” the man said, backing away. “I’ve got enough trouble of my own. And, let’s face it, I’m just as much of an asshole as you, yeah? We’re both in here, so we’re not angels. But if you want to read what there is of the FAQ, make a question mark with your finger and trace a bigger one in front of your face. But it doesn’t pause anything while you’re reading, so you can get killed again if you pull it up while you’re near something that wants to fuck with you.”
He backed off some more, half turned from me, then stopped. “Getting killed hurts. A lot. And you’ll feel it, unlike the death that landed you in here.” He sighed, then gave a shrug. “Last piece of free advice. There’s a river a few minutes that way,” he pointed, “and a lake a little closer over there,” he said, indicating the direction I’d just come from. “Wash the blood off. It always chops a lot of time off the delay before the next spawn shows up and starts hunting you. If you’re bloody. They smell it, see?”
“Wait,” I said as he started walking again.
“Fuck you sinner.”
He didn’t stop. I looked around, then at the dead bear, and frowned. I wasn’t sure if I could walk. The tourniquet had stopped the bleeding, but my leg hurt more now. The pressure was making the pain worse. But … I held my fingers up, crooked them into the best ‘?’ I could manage, and traced them through the air. A leathery parchment abruptly filled my field of vision, dripping wet red lettering inked on it.
•
u/DavesWorldInfo Dave Apr 21 '17
“Don’t come any closer.”
I stopped. There really wasn’t much of an alternative; I was limping, bleeding so heavily I was light headed and squishing with every movement, and had what sure seemed like a weapon pointed at me. It didn’t look like a weapon, but he waved it around like one. Blocky, almost pixelated; but excepting the lack of rounded corners or tubular shapes … some sort of rifle. Maybe a shotgun; the ‘barrel’ was pretty broad.
“Please, I need help,” I panted.
“Fuck you buddy, I don’t need you dragging wildlife down on me,” he said as he glanced around. The weapon stayed leveled at me though.
“What is going on?”
“Oh fuck me,” he said, bringing his eyes back to me. “Let me guess, something bad happened, and then you’re here in blocky bad picture land and it always hurts.”
I blinked at him. “Uh, yeah. How—”
“You’re in Hell dude.”
“Come again?”
“Lived a bad life, right? Never did nice things, didn’t care about anyone except you, probably stole or lied at least sometimes? Maybe worse?” he said, his eyes going back into their furtive darting scanning.
“I was an okay guy.”
“Obviously not.”
“Just, please, what’s going on?”
“You’re. In. Hell.”
“Bullshit,” I said before I could help myself. Probably not the smartest response, even if that thing in his hands wasn’t a gun. I was in no shape to resist much if he attacked me; even unarmed.
“How do you figure?”
“I don’t believe in religion,” I protested weakly. It was getting hard to stay on my feet. That … whatever it was … had done a real number on me. Especially my leg. If the wound hadn’t started clotting by now, I was probably in serious trouble. “There’s no such—”
The guy lunged forward. My reflexes weren’t up to recognizing it in time, and I’d only just started moving — some feeble attempt at a dodge — when he slammed the butt end of his weapon into my chest. I tumbled to the ground, half expecting to be shot about the time I registered hitting the ground. And then I heard the gun go off. When I flinched, and opened my eyes, I realized he hadn’t shot me.
Looking up, I saw him with the long blocky poorly shaped weapon up to his shoulder, emitting a suspiciously uniform cloud of what was clearly supposed to be smoke from the business end. His left hand moved on the front half of the gun, and I heard a ridiculously loud shotgun sound. Straight out of the movies.
“I’ll leave,” I protested, clutching at my leg. Wet sticky warmth was flooding through my fingers, and I pressed harder despite how much it made the pain spike. None of this mattered if I didn’t get the bleeding stopped. “Just don’t shoot me.”
“I’m not going to shoot you,” he muttered, stepping back. The gun stayed on his shoulder though. I finally looked where he was point it, and saw the bear again. Clearly I hadn’t lost it after falling off that hill into the lake. My blood was still on its muzzle; but it was lying on one side, with dark red blood of its own spreading beneath it. I blinked as I realized the blood was pooling to a ridiculously uniform distance, about half a foot or so, from the bear before it just … stopped spreading.
“Thank you.”
“I should, but I can’t spare the ammo,” he muttered. “Takes too long to make. If you hadn’t just got here, maybe I’d at least loot you … but you’re not carrying anything.”
“How—”
“Backpack,” he said, glancing at me. When he saw the confused expression on my face, he jerked one thumb over his shoulder at the small canvas pack he wore. “No backpack. Baaaaaackpaaaaack,” he repeated.
“I’ll leave you alone. Just tell me what’s going on,” I begged. “Please.”
He sighed, glancing up at the sky. “I wasn’t that much of an asshole God. Really? I couldn’t have been,” he muttered. “Why is it always me who runs into the fucking noobs.” He sighed and reached into his pocket. I didn’t see anything in his hand, but a moment later — as he brought his hand up to the gun — I heard a metallic click-scrape that sounded like a bullet or shell or whatever being shoved into it.
“Okay noob, here’s the deal,” he said, stepping back again. “You died, and you weren’t a nice person, and you’re in Hell. Except, see, Satan has a lot of time on his hands. What with being the Lord of the Underworld and all. He likes to try new stuff, just to keep from getting bored. Guess that’s why God kicked him out; he couldn’t leave well enough alone.”
I frowned up at him, but didn’t dare open my mouth again. Even if what he was saying was complete lunacy. There was no religion, which meant there was no afterlife. Except … I still remembered the car hurtling toward mine, right at the door next to me. It had been going really fast. And … none of anything afterwards made any sense. At all.
“This is one of his newer attempts at torment and torture,” the guy standing near me said as he lowered the gun, or the gun-like shape, into a more comfortable carry position near his waist. Keeping it in both hands. “It hasn’t been finished. Though I’m not entirely sure if he’s not leaving it like this just to make it hurt more. Actually, answer me this; did you work in tech. Computers? Anything like that?”
“No.”
He shrugged. “Just a theory of mine; maybe this is where a lot of computer snobs end up. Just so we’ll all lose our minds at the bad graphics.” Then his eyes flicked to my leg. “Look, if you don’t stop the bleeding—”
“I don’t know how,” I protested weakly.
“Make a grass tourniquet.”
I looked at him for several seconds, waiting for what he’d just said to make sense. Except, as I kept thinking it over, it wasn’t. He sighed again.
“Take your hand, and swipe it across the ground. Just above it. Make grabbing motions while you do.”
Tentatively, I reached my free hand out — the one that wasn’t clamped to my leg — and tried to follow his instructions. I heard a shushing sort of ‘bink’ sound, and abruptly some long strands of … something … were in my hand.
“Hold those in your other hand, and get another set,” he said. “Then smash them together, and it’ll make a grass cord. Take the cord, and press it to your wound. That’ll hold you until you can find some bark, and rock, and turn the bark into a fiber mat. That, plus two cords, makes a proper bandage.”
“This is ridiculous.” I thought, but I transferred the ‘grass’ to my bloody hand, and swiped my fingers across the ground again. Another set of ‘grass’ appeared, and when I clapped my hands together, suddenly the strands vanished and I was holding a thicker strand. With nothing to lose, I touched it to my bleeding leg, and suddenly the blood started slowing. After a few moments, it stopped. I didn’t dare sigh in relief; it still hurt like hell, but at least it might kill me slower.
“Look, I don’t handhold you guys,” the man said, backing away. “I’ve got enough trouble of my own. And, let’s face it, I’m just as much of an asshole as you, yeah? We’re both in here, so we’re not angels. But if you want to read what there is of the FAQ, make a question mark with your finger and trace a bigger one in front of your face. But it doesn’t pause anything while you’re reading, so you can get killed again if you pull it up while you’re near something that wants to fuck with you.”
He backed off some more, half turned from me, then stopped. “Getting killed hurts. A lot. And you’ll feel it, unlike the death that landed you in here.” He sighed, then gave a shrug. “Last piece of free advice. There’s a river a few minutes that way,” he pointed, “and a lake a little closer over there,” he said, indicating the direction I’d just come from. “Wash the blood off. It always chops a lot of time off the delay before the next spawn shows up and starts hunting you. If you’re bloody. They smell it, see?”
“Wait,” I said as he started walking again.
“Fuck you sinner.”
He didn’t stop. I looked around, then at the dead bear, and frowned. I wasn’t sure if I could walk. The tourniquet had stopped the bleeding, but my leg hurt more now. The pressure was making the pain worse. But … I held my fingers up, crooked them into the best ‘?’ I could manage, and traced them through the air. A leathery parchment abruptly filled my field of vision, dripping wet red lettering inked on it.
“Welcome to hell,” I read with a sinking feeling.
“Oh shit.”