The copper door sealed behind me with its usual sub?audible thrum, but this time the air on the far side carried a sharper chill, as if someone had left the cosmic refrigerator open too long. My sled—an aluminum garden cart rebuilt with skateboard wheels and steel axle braces—groaned across the rough concrete. One wheel squeaked a panicky rhythm: Eek?eek?eek, like a mouse protesting the weight of Costco’s apocalypse aisle.
Same room, same coffin?gray walls, same smell: wet limestone, old dust, and the faint ozone tang that clung to everything the Gate touched. Only the screen—that smug fifty?inch slab of tempered glass bolted above the exit door—felt different. Its black face flickered, then bloomed into cobalt blue.
A progress bar crawled across the top edge, as though reality itself needed to buffer. When it finished, clean white text scrolled in a neat monospaced font:
pgsql
CopyEdit
> WELCOME BACK, TRAVELER JOSHUA REEVE ──────────────────────────────────────────── ? BIND?POINT UPDATED NEW PRIMARY LOCATION: SUBURBAN COTTAGE BASEMENT ? TIME?ALLOTMENT ADJUSTABLE BY VERBAL COMMAND ? KILL?COUNT MONITOR ACTIVE (Say “Status” to retrieve metrics) ? TRIP 03 BONUS: $200?USD CREDIT REDEEM AT ANY SYSTEM KIOSK TYPE OR SPEAK COMMAND TO CONTINUE
Below the text, a holographic keyboard oozed out of nothing—tiny blue hexagons rising from the concrete like reverse raindrops until they formed a full QWERTY spread, keys hovering an inch above the floor. Each letter glowed, pulsing faintly, waiting for a toucher. My breath clouded the air; the letters rippled in response, as though the keyboard itself sensed carbon dioxide.
This is getting absurd.
I parked the sled beneath the screen, double?checked the ratchet straps. The load towered five feet high—pink tampon cartons on the bottom, peanut?butter bricks stacked like gold ingots, sleeping bags lashed lengthwise, and the war?hammer cross?braced across the very top like a medieval hood ornament. One jolt and a gallon of Folgers could crack my skull, but so far the rig held.
I adjusted my grip on the Estwing framing hammer tucked through my belt, then studied the screen again. “Kill count monitor.” Great—gamified murder. Somewhere an alien developer was posting patch notes on my life.
“Status,” I said, voice rasping from the chill.
The keyboard dissolved; new text replaced the menu:
pgsql
CopyEdit
> TRAVELER JOSHUA REEVE — ACTIVE METRICS ────────────── ? TIME REMAINING AT CURRENT BIND?POINT 47H:59M:23S ? TOTAL ELIMINATIONS Roamers: 27 Ferals: 1 ? CURRENT PEARL HOLDING 27 units (unredeemed) ────────────── SAY ‘BACK’ OR TOUCH TO RETURN
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
“So it’s counting pearls too…,” I muttered. “Nice of you to keep track.”
No reply—just blinking cursor.
I tapped backspace on the holographic “B.” The key felt like a soap bubble—no weight, only a tingle against my glove. The system returned to the main menu.
Next item: Trip 03 Bonus. Two hundred U.S. dollars just for showing up? Cosmic frequent?flyer miles. But “Redeem at any system kiosk.” I scanned the room. Four bare walls, flickering fluorescent strip near the ceiling, drain grate in the far corner. No kiosk, unless the grate spit out twenties.
I circled the sled once, hammer tapping rhythm on my thigh. “Locate kiosk,” I said aloud.
Nothing.
“Open kiosk.”
Still nothing.
The line “TYPE OR SPEAK COMMAND TO CONTINUE” hovered like a bored receptionist. I blew out a breath, condensation scattering the holographic keys again. Tried the keyboard: F?I?N?D K?I?O?S?K. Keys chimed, text printed beneath:
yaml
CopyEdit
> QUERY: FIND KIOSK RESPONSE: 0 MATCHES IN CURRENT ZONE SUGGESTION: EXIT ROOM
So the kiosk lived elsewhere—maybe in the city itself. Great. One more side quest.
I moved to the sled and began a final inventory check. Voice echoed off the concrete while I recited each item, half prayer, half customs manifest:
Food Bucket (Gate?Load)
Crown?Nut Peanut?Butter, 6 jars (2,500?kcal each)
SPAM Classic, 12?cans
Instant coffee sticks, 200?count vacuum pack
Electrolyte powder, 3 tubs
Medical Crate
Amoxicillin 120?tabs
Doxycycline 60?tabs
Gauze 24?roll pack
Iodine swab sticks, 100
Ibuprofen bulk, 500?tabs
Hydrocortisone, 6?tubes
Hygiene Tote
Dr.?Bronner Peppermint soap, 12?bars
Baby?wipe bricks, 2?packs
Travel toothbrush multi?pack, 10
Feminine hygiene tower (tampons, pads, liners, wipes)
Tools & Hardware
Estwing 22?oz framing hammer (personal)
30″ wrecking bar
Bolt cutters, 14″
3?lb GRK screws, 1?box
100?ft 12?gauge galvanized wire
80?ft barbed wire coil
Shelter Stack
REI TrailPod sleeping bags, 4 (compressed)
ClimateGuard fold?flat mattresses, 4 (ratchet?strapped)
Inflatable pillows, 4
Mylar bivvies, 4
Trade Luxuries & Misc.
Domino sugar, 40?lb (two 20?lb sacks)
Wrigley’s gum, 2?tubs
Spare socks, sports bras, cargo pants, waterproof shell
Sawyers squeeze filters, 2
Hand?crank radio/flashlight combos, 2
$200 cash for toll + buffer (plus the bonus once I find a kiosk)
The sled’s aluminum rails bowed under the load. I’d reinforced the undercarriage with ??inch threaded rod, but the creak that escaped each time I leaned on the handle wasn’t encouraging. If the bearings seized mid?street, I’d be tossing tampons and Spam to outrun ferals.
“All right,” I told the screen. “Open exit.”
Nothing. Then the display minimized, shrinking to a corner like a YouTube video, and the concrete door opposite the copper Gate clicked—just once—but loud enough to echo. A hairline seam of light appeared around its edges.
I gripped the sled handles, braced my foot against the floor, and shoved. Wheels squealed, the cart grudgingly budged. Lavender?peppermint soap aroma wafted up, colliding with the smell of old mold. I imagined Anna’s face when she saw the tower of pink boxes and laughed under my breath—half nerves, half relief.
“Next stop,” I muttered, “neighborhood home?improvement show… hosted by zombies.”
And with the screen’s cursor blinking behind me like a silent audience, I pushed the creaking sled toward the thin slice of light and whatever patch?notes the cosmos had queued for our next update.