CHAPTER 2: Reaper

  That number in the corner of my eye kept ticking up with mechanical indifference. By the time I was halfway to Minot, it was over 405,000, climbing by the second. Each digit felt like a hammer blow to my ribs, but I couldn’t stop myself from checking, the way you pick at a scab to see if it’ll bleed. If this were a leaderboard, I had to be in first place, and I didn’t even know what I was playing.

  Somewhere along the ride, I realized I wasn’t going home. There was no home. The blast that had to be from Bismarck had punched a hole in the horizon, a roiling pillar of black and fire that ate all the air, all the color. I knew that Mom and Lacy were dead, apparently by my hand … somehow. I briefly considered just driving into the crater that used to be Bismarck, and when the tires melted, get out and walk until I melted as well. At least I wouldn’t be recycled, right?

  After driving south for about three miles, I made my first actual decision since the world ended. I didn’t know where I was going, just that I couldn’t drive toward the impossibility of Bismarck. The landscape rolled open, all dirty snow and dead cornstalks, nothing alive but the twitch in my right eyelid. I idly wondered if normal sight would return to that eye. I didn’t really care.

  Five minutes later, I was seeing double from dehydration or trauma or both, so I pulled into a truck stop on the north edge of Minot that must have been built in 1983 and hadn’t been updated since. The lot was weirdly full, but silent except for a distant generator and the soft whump of something burning behind the diesel pumps. I sat for a minute with my hands on the wheel, waiting for the number in my vision to stop. It didn’t. 4,047,921.

  Except for the bodies, everything appeared fairly normal. A couple of overturned merchandise racks, but only the small, mobile type. Perhaps the big ones were bolted to the floor? There were a few signs of shelving units being used as cover; bashed in bags of chips, candy bars strewn all over the floor. But it could have been any Saturday morning … assuming, of course, that someone had just robbed the store prior to me showing up with seven … scratch that, nine homicides as part of the act.

  The coffee was still on and smelled fresh. I poured a cup, black, and grabbed a doughnut off the rotating bakery rack. It was blueberry-glazed, maybe the last one on earth. I sat on a stool at the counter and let the sugar and caffeine try their best. Intellectually, I knew I was in shock. I should have either been huddled in a corner crying, or running and screaming in fear. I did neither of those things. I sat quietly, sipping my coffee and munching on a fresh doughnut.

  A little while later, I couldn’t say how long, a guy slid onto the stool two seats down. He was late twenties, wearing a denim jacket with a pretty glorious mullet, holding a sawed-off shotgun on his lap like a favorite pet. “You hear the President’s dead?” he asked, like it was the weather, or a football score.

  “Doesn’t seem to matter,” I said, feeling like I had already been “recycled” … into a simple sack of meat. Not a care in the world when there was no longer anything to care about.

  He nodded at the window. “You from base?”

  “Was,” I took a sip of coffee. “Now I’m not from anywhere.”

  He grunted agreement, picking at a scab. I shot him in the forehead, then popped the last bite of the doughnut into my mouth. It didn’t even occur to me to watch him fall to the floor. According to the System, I was now responsible for 18,245,109 deaths … what is one more? I got up to see what other flavors were still available. I knew that in a civilized society I should not have shot the guy. I knew I should feel … something for having done so. All I felt was numb, and because every person you killed made you more powerful post-purge, I just figured he would make a move at some point. I made mine first. This is the world now. I looked down at my watch. It was gone, lost during the mayhem of the last… I glanced up to look at the clock hanging on the wall behind the counter; twenty-eight minutes. It had felt so much longer than that.

  Thirty-two minutes later, the lights went out. The purge had concluded. My kill count? 78,786,031.

  I went and got a refill on my coffee while it was still hot. I should have made a fresh pot before the world went dark. The coffee was bitter. My phone had remained still and quiet as a grave since the blast. Now it would remain so forever.

  Right on cue, the system was back.

  “System Message 1.002: Congratulations on surviving the purge. You all performed very well, as a full 11% more than the required population reduction. You will now receive your interface and class. You may experience some discomfort during the transition, but fear not, the System activation survival rate is nearly 80%. During the System activation protocol, the planet’s mana core will become active. Autonomous Multiverse Integration Systems Inc. is very proud of the intuitive interface that survivors will experience upon successful activation. Per System Protocol 1642.1B, the Earth will have 365 earth days with a protected status. What you do with this time is up to you. Will you become a valued member of the interstellar community, or will you let yourselves be subjugated and become a mana mining colony? During this time, no wormhole waypoints to Earth’s vicinity shall be made available, and any attempts to bypass this protection shall result in significant fines for the offending party. Phase two shall begin in 3… 2… 1… begi…”

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  Before the word had even finished, I began to scream. Oddly enough, as the world went black, I was just happy to have felt something.

  I woke up face-down at the counter, cheek stuck to the sticky melamine like I was trying to merge with it. I expected the kill counter to be hovering in my vision like a shameful ghost, but it was gone. I peeled myself off the surface, wiped a line of dried drool from my chin, and, with a clarity that only comes after a world-ending psychotic break, noticed the entire place looked both exactly the same, yet completely different. The bullet holes in the jukebox, the dead man on the floor two seats down, nine more bodies spread out, all in random places and positions, but all now with looks of fear and horror etched into the faces that I hadn’t even noticed before.

  I don’t know if it was the reality of the situation hitting me, or the smell of ten bodies, now far from fresh, but I immediately turned away from the counter and threw up. Oddly enough, it was only dry heaves. Hadn’t I just drunk three cups of coffee and eaten four or five doughnuts?

  My head thudded with the hangover of a three day bender. I reached for my coffee and took a bitter mouthful. It was ice-cold. I didn't remember falling asleep, but judging by the skin of slime on the surface, I'd been out for a while. Two days, maybe more. The doughnut on the counter was stale enough to crack a tooth, so I moved to the snack aisle. Despite the carnage and the stench, I was furiously hungry and thirsty.

  I grabbed a couple of cases of sports drinks and two baskets full of junk food and headed outside. The sights and smells were intolerable. It wasn’t until I was outside that I realized I had grabbed the fruit punch flavored sports drinks. I couldn’t stand that flavor, but I could no longer stomach the idea of going back inside the store. I could feel it … “it” was catching up to me. What I was going through. What I had done. Mom. Lacy.

  I did my best to bury it. Not to think about it, knowing that if I did, I would spiral. Although the purge was over, every human being alive on this planet was technically a serial killer. It was not the best time to ignore my surroundings while lost in a pity party. Besides, if the numbers I saw were really my doing somehow, there’s no way in hell I’m not the worst of the bunch.

  This time my puke was neon red.

  I eventually calmed down, took a few deep breaths, and tried to repeat the mantra I had picked up from my dad from the time I was a small child. “This is just a little thing.” He would tell me that over and over in a calm voice anytime I got upset over the things that children often do. “You’re here; I’m here. There is nothing to be upset about. This is a little thing.” But he wasn’t here. He hadn’t been for nearly two years now. Telling myself that this was just a “little thing” was no more effective now than it had been two years ago when he had died in a car accident.

  I closed my eyes and focused on deep breathing. Slow breaths, knowing that the best way forward was decisions made with calm, rational thought.

  As I sat, trying to calm down, I realized that there was a weird presence at the edge of my vision. An itch that wasn’t physical, like a pop-up notification burned into my optic nerves. I tried to ignore it, but it felt like something was watching me back. When I focused on the sensation, the edges sharpened and formed into translucent rectangles: tabs, like browser windows, just floating in reality.

  The System interface, as promised.

  The first tab was labeled "Class Selection." I reached for it, feeling even dumber than usual, and the tab expanded with a click so crisp it made my ears ring. There were two big, offensively friendly buttons, as if I was being offered two equally fantastic Christmas presents: "REAPER" and "BUTCHER." At the bottom, a very polite reminder: "You have 60 seconds to choose, or your class will be assigned automatically." Underneath, in footnote-sized text: "Class assignment is irreversible and will strongly affect future outcomes."

  I stared at the words. I hovered my finger over each option, as if it actually mattered, as if I was shopping for a new set of tires instead of deciding what kind of monster I wished to be called.

  The timer ticked down. 55. 54. 53.

  I wondered if anyone else was seeing this wherever they were. Maybe half the planet's survivors were staring at the same two choices, cursing the universe and wishing for a third option.

  As I focused on Reaper, the tab expanded with a bit more information.

  Reaper: This class is available to any purge participants with an excess of 10,000 kills. The Reaper is a ranged weapon of mass destruction and claims an additional portion of its slain victim’s power. Although the Reaper’s abilities are primarily geared towards mass casualties, it is still an effective one versus one combatant.

  I shifted my focus to Butcher.

  Butcher: This class is available to any purge participants with an excess of 500 kills. The Butcher is a melee juggernaut specializing in one versus one melee combat and claims a small portion of his slain victim’s strength and agility. This ability is a one-time boost only applied to the purge portion of the integration and is applied retroactively upon selection.

  I had played enough role-playing games to know which was the more powerful class. The kill requirements alone made that pretty obvious. If I were going to be living in this new hell, I was going to be as powerful as I could manage. Re-reading the Reaper class description, I got a terrible feeling about the “claim an additional portion of his victim’s power” bit. Did this mean that killing people gave the killer some of their ‘power’? The description was vague but concerning.

  I thought about Mom and Lacy. In some alternate timeline, maybe there was a "Healer" or "Guardian" button for me to press. Not here. Not for me.

  7. 6. 5.

  I mentally jabbed the "REAPER" button.