POV: Casper.

  The streets only got busier and busier the closer I got to the Dungeon entrance. With more and more people either crowding around makeshift stalls to buy or sell equipment or otherwise trying to get through the crowds with their catch intact.

  A quick glance revealed why.

  Cecil had obviously been busy designing new creatures for his murder pit in order to encourage folks to delve deeper and deeper. One of his new additions seemed to be little more than a walking fish monster that… against all odds… smelled amazing. Even while raw.

  Furthermore, the beings grown from sunflowers had their insides stuffed with vibrant, sweet-smelling tissues as well. With their veins filled with something that smelled suspiciously like mango juice.

  Most people would have balked at the idea of dragging those kinds of things away from a murder hole in the ground in order to eat it of course. At least, they would have before everything went as bad as it did.

  Now though, the fish monsters looked like they were some of the most popular things on the market, with the bodies of the sunflower monsters being a close second.

  Indeed, on closer inspection, a fair few of those people carrying them out met with other groups carrying tarps in order to wrap their trophies up and strap them into pickup trucks or… failing that… into actual carts pulled by donkeys.

  Or people.

  Suspiciously muscular people.

  That brought a smile to my face.

  ‘It’s been less than a month, and the guys here already figured out that it doesn’t make sense to use pack animals.’ I mused with some pride.

  The effort of moving the carts would also count as a workout. And a very significant one at lower levels. If one wanted to get stronger as quickly as possible, then the smartest way to go about it was to adopt a lifestyle where you were being pushed in all kinds of small ways when you weren’t training or actively hunting.

  It would give the magic time to settle, and the incremental decimal point gains would add up by the time you got your first level.

  Granted, there were better ways of going about it. Homer and Russell’s tried and true method of running up and down the wooded hills near town like a maniac with weighted clothing came to mind. But heavy manual labor would do.

  “Hey!” A voice called out next to me.

  I turned.

  “Yes?”

  “Stop blocking the way man! Some of us need to work for a living! Move along! The slaughterhouse is paying top dollar for the fish freaks and I we need to get them there before the afternoon shift leaves.”

  I blinked at the man again. Noting his Kevlar vest and the welded metal plates protecting the rest of his body.

  I hadn’t caught on at first because he looked so small and relatively skinny, but this guy and the group behind him must have been some of the new delvers. One of the groups trying to take things more seriously from the looks of things.

  ‘Though they don’t have any kind of uniformity. And their gear sucks.’

  The welded metal plates might help. Strong emphasis on ‘might’. But wearing Kevlar to a Dungeon made as much sense as delving in a string bikini. With bloody slices of prime rib stapled to your privates.

  The regular monsters like the Rippers back home wouldn’t even think of shooting you. Because they couldn’t. And even the few monsters that could theoretically hold guns, like the ghouls and some gargoyles, would much prefer to beat you to death of inject you with venom while biting chunks off of you.

  Kevlar failed because it was both heavier and less effective than a bunch of welded plates pout together on top of your chest.

  Also, even in cases where you did get shot, like with Cecil’s own monsters, the ammunition he used meant that the vest would do less than nothing. The roaches being able to chew straight through it and into your organs where regular bullets might have been deflected.

  Given that they were all wearing either football or motorcycle helmets, these guys might have done better by simply wearing padded motorcycle outfits or actual football equipment.

  At least while they were just getting started.

  I said as much and got a bunch of weird looks from the men and women. All of them staring at me as if I were speaking Mandarin.

  “And how do you know we won’t get shot?” One of the women with short hair asked. “The bodies they pulled looked they’d been punctured a whole bunch. And they started spurting out those human-faced freakish things when they were being dissected.”

  Her face twisted into a visage that suggested she was about to vomit.

  “They got shot full of eggs.”

  Another woman embraced her and pulled her close. While a bigger man behind them spoke up.

  “Yeah man. Listen. No disrespect, but I think we’ll keep the Kevlar for now. I don’t wanna die, but if I do die, I don’t want my body to go around Ourtube as a horror video.”

  “Or to show up in mockumentaries.” Another man added in.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  Then his eyes went towards the leashes I had and widened.

  “Oooooh. You’re one of those are you?”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  The rest of the group followed their friend’s lead and also whistled.

  “The kind of guy who goes into the Dungeon with live bait.” He said. Nodding. “Honestly, a lot of people think it’s a bit of waste of good veal. And I sorta agree. The monsters come to you easily enough and they wander into traps enough as is. There’s no need to bring animals in to bait them out.”

  He looked different all of the sudden. Almost nostalgic.

  “Damn but it is good to see real living animals again.” He chuckled to himself. “Folks had a farm way back when, but it got bought out after mom got a gambling addiction and we had to mortgage it again. I remember having to clean up the pig pens and hating the smell. I remember thinking how much I wanted to live in the city.”

  He let out a self-depreciating chortle.

  “Turns out stupid kids will think whatever.”

  He reached out a hand, slowly. As if to pet the piglet.

  “Hey there little lass. How are you?”

  Pravda reared as far back as she could. Kobe the calf doing the same.

  “Aww. That’s a shame.” The man said.

  “Though maybe you didn’t waste your time after all.” The bigger man spoke up. “I haven’t had a good cut of veal in a long time. And the pig will be good and fat in a month or two, I reckon. How much for them?”

  I raised a hand to forestall the offer.

  “Sorry, but they’re not for sale.” I said softly.

  “Oh come on man. Don’t be like that. You’re obviously gonna have them die some way if you’re bringing them out here. Not like they’re pets. Why not make a buck?”

  He reached for his wallet and pulled out a solid lump of scratched leather. So full it barely closed.

  Then he pulled out a bundle of $50 bills as if it was nothing.

  Then he shot me an impish grin.

  “The city’s only handing out fruits and veggies as emergency food. Yeah, they’re great. Better than almost anything, but magic fish is still selling at a premium since the Dungeon’s the only way to get it. We’re running a V-E-R-Y lucrative operation here. Why not indulge a fat guy his tastes eh?”

  I looked him up and down. Raising an eyebrow.

  He blushed as his friends giggled.

  “Okay, so maybe I lost a lot of weight with the whole magic veggies thing. But I used to be a real champion back in my day. Won six hotdog eating contests all across the country. And even more awards with my burger business.”

  “The Proud Skidmark.” One of the men around him laughed out loud.

  “Fuck you too George. The Proud Pound was the best thing that ever happened to you and you know it.”

  The men around him laughed, but the large muscular man looked almost as if he might be about to cry.

  “Oh, but I do miss my truck.” He half-sobbed. “She was a beauty, she was. My pride and joy.”

  I didn’t need to ask what had happened to it.

  Businesses big and small failed all the time and times had been tough indeed.

  ‘At least they seem to be doing well for themselves now.’ I consoled myself.

  Yes.

  If there was something to be said for the betrayal, was that it gave regular people like this man and the people who I guessed were his former employees a fighting chance.

  In another time, in another life, they would have had to struggle for their very lives as the economy burned around them and food became scarcer and scarcer. All while Caryle hoarded knowledge and resources.

  ‘Stupid. So stupid. He should have told everyone ahead of time. It might have saved so many lives. Maybe someone would have found a way to mitigate the effects of magic. Maybe other people would get the same Magic as Cecil. There’s no way to know what the limits are without a much larger sample.’

  Even when Cecil had upended the whole system Carlyle had in place, him and his food were not made public knowledge. Instead, Caryle wasted no time in manipulating things so that he and his would have complete control of the food supply in the coming years.

  ‘He laughed at me when I complained.’ I recalled. ‘The man actually laughed.’

  “What would you have me do?” Carlyle’s voice echoed in my ears. “Let the governments of the world enact martial law once they realize how bad the situation really is? Let them lock Cecil up in some black site and try to do unspeakable things to him in hopes of replicating his powers? Because you, what? Think the governments of the world are more qualified to decide how this breakthrough is used?”

  Even his secretary had laughed in the distance.

  “Casper, the average congressman can’t tell his ass from his elbows half the time and most of them use enough drugs to emasculate your average rapper. You’re telling me that people without STEM degrees, people who would be lucky to flip burgers if they weren’t in politics, are going to be able to guide the country through an apocalypse better than me; who literally saw the future and came back to fix things?”

  Carlyle had actually turned to spit.

  “They couldn’t do it the first time around. What makes you think they’ll do any better now?”

  Caryle had refused to speak of the topic after that. Instead moving on to how I could help the cause.

  Naturally, the idea he came up with was me slitting another world leader’s throat from ear to ear.

  I shook my head to dispel the memories and apologized to the men once more. Turning to leave with the calf and the piglet in hand.

  Others gave me similar offers the closer I got to the military checkpoint by the entrance. Even getting flustered when I kept rejecting them.

  “Waste of good meat.” They kept saying.

  Either that or things like:

  “Oh my gosh! They’re so cute! You can’t bring these darlings down to the Dungeon you sick man! Let me give them a home!”

  I refused them all the same and finally made it to where the military had set up a barricade. The aperture having emerged in what looked like the skeleton of an abandoned bodega.

  There was a tank next to it and sandbags all around the premises, but none of the soldiers seemed especially worried about what might be coming out. Instead, they were concerned with who was going in.

  “Papers please.” A sergeant said gruffly. “Any kind of Photo ID will do. Also, you need to have a weapon and at least have your chest covered. And you can’t go in by yourself. Teams of four or more only. Where’s your first aid kit?”

  I raised a hand to forestall the questions.

  “I’m wearing armor underneath.” I assured him. “You can punch me if you want to check. Here’s my ID.”

  I passed him a fake driver’s license and watched with some amusement as he actually did punch me. Swearing like a sailor on leave after the fact as some of his fingers got dislocated.

  “What the fuck are you wearing underneath that?” He asked more politely. “I thought you were just saying that to get past. People get killed acting tough you know?”

  “It’s a very thin armor. A new kind.” I lied. “As for my group, I’m just waiting for them to arrive. Shouldn’t be long now.”

  “Then step to the side sir. You’re blocking the line.”

  I did so with a curt nod and moved towards a closed-off section of road, where park benches had been placed around another group of stall. Each selling a variation of cooked fish meat and produce.

  Raymond’s muscle should be close by. At least, they shouldn’t take more than a few hours to get here.

  Once they arrived, it would be a simple matter of delving far enough so that no one was around to surprise us.

  For a moment, I wondered if Uter’s message would do the trick. If the recorded words would keep Cecil in the right state of mind.

  ‘It’s possible.’ I told myself. ‘But it never hurts to be careful.’

  The animals were here ostensibly as hostages for that very reason. Uter figuring Cecil liked them enough that he would at least stop and think more carefully about what was happening. At least long enough for me to choke him into unconsciousness if it came to that.

  But I really did hope it didn’t come to that.

  Cecil was as much a victim of Caryle as any of the other children born into his little eugenics project. More so, in fact, because at least the other children had not been kidnapped. Nor were they forced to endure Carlyle’s sloppy, degenerate attempts at matchmaking two fourteen-year-olds together like some kind of sick pervert.

  That line of thinking brought me to Elsie, and then, to James.

  James Robertson. Who had once been a mentor. And his son Charles, who had once been a friend.