Cousin Bob:

  The first thing everyone noticed was the loss of Roland’s helmet bonuses.

  Bob Acosta saw their faces go through the first and second stages of grief in about thirty seconds.

  He was familiar with the stages. The first time was when Uncle Randall and Aunt Christine got killed by that drunk driver. They had been better to him than his own parents; losing them had hit him hard.

  That rat bastard had gotten away with it, too. Well, he’d gotten away with it for a while. Bob had read a news story about him, a couple of years later, and put two and two together.

  Good for you, Rolls, he’d thought back then. You got him in the end, didn’t you? Good for you.

  The second time was with his mother. They hadn’t seen much of each other since she divorced the old man, but when she got sick, he’d stepped up and taken care of her. Watching her go had been a different kind of grief. It was the difference between a stab in the guts that hit you all at once, and a gunshot that let you bleed out slowly.

  Bob didn’t know if he could handle a third time like those.

  Don’t fucking die on us, Rolls.

  He checked on everyone as they stopped staring at the portal Roland had gone through and did a gear check or just looked at their character sheets.

  Barton muttered “I’m going to miss those extra stats” and started examining his new wand, a drop from the Boss they killed.

  It wasn’t that Barton didn’t care; he just cared differently than regular folk.

  From the way Dahlia glared at his back when she heard Barton’s words, he hadn’t done himself any favors in his quest to get with her. Not that his quest was ever going to be fulfilled.

  Dahlia wanted what she wanted. Barton was not it.

  Neither was Bob. A year or so back, she’d needed a place to crash after her ex-boyfriend (not the one that punched her) threw her out of his place. Bob had offered, of course, because that was how he rolled, and she stayed.

  On her second night there, he’d dropped a hint or two.

  “Not going to happen,” she said in a tone that brooked no discussion, and slammed the door shut on his face.

  “And I’m doing you a favor!” she added as he retreated in disarray towards his own bedroom.

  She’d ended up staying for almost a week before hooking up with a passing carny and disappearing for a month. Bob never bothered her (that way) again.

  Dahlia was firmly in the anger stage, and she probably would stay there for a while. And when Rolls came back, she would either make his life hell or get with him. Which would also make his life hell. And now she had a horde of MiniFiends at her disposal for any make-his-life-hell needs she might have. Jesus wept.

  Wendy had moved on to anger as well, and she was glaring at the portal. She was mad at Roland. The elf girl either knew her brother was going to buy the farm without Roland playing defense, or she suspected it was going to happen.

  Rolls didn’t leave us that damage-transfer ring, either. Just as well, because I’d be the one to wear it and I don’t know if I want to take the hits for Josh. Guy’s kinda overstayed his welcome.

  He’d met Josh during his time in the Army, and they’d hung out before the guy was deployed to Afghanistan. Same battalion, but Bob’s company didn’t get sent to the rock pile, lucky him.

  Josh had been okay back then. Not a gamer, but back then Bob had set aside his nerd persona and adopted his tough guy persona.

  Bob had learned early in life that playing different roles was his ticket to blend in. You observed the group you were with, you picked up the jargon and mannerisms, and next thing you knew, you were one of the guys.

  In the Army, he’d been ‘tough Army guy,’ and Josh, who also liked to act like a tough guy (neither of them were in the infantry, where the actual tough guys went), had befriended him. They would talk about guns and how they would do all kinds of badass stuff one of those days.

  After they got out, Josh had come calling. Josh drove a big rig for some years before losing his Class A CDL, and during that time Bob got him some gigs moving stuff that some states weren’t okay with. Nothing like drugs or guns, but some untaxed goods and other penny-ante stuff.

  Bob’s father did a lot of that stuff on the side, laundering the money from those sales through the junkyard and pawn store. Bob was a somewhat reluctant participant.

  Around his family, Bob roleplayed as a shady guy, as Roland liked to say. Family was one place he had to fit in.

  Helping Josh out when he showed up that weekend was par for the course. Getting him and his sister fake IDs and hooking them up with some expatriates in Canada or Mexico cost extra, but Josh had paid for the privilege.

  All of that was fine. But ever since they got on the Roland Express, Josh had become a growing liability. The rules were different during a System Apocalypse. Bob had run his old pal through his personal scoring system and found him wanting.

  Gun-Proficient? Half a point; there was no lack of gun enthusiasts (and gun nuts) in the good ole US of A, even in a den of iniquity like Connecticut. Not a gamer? One demerit. Hot sister? One point. Hot sister that can see the future? Two points. Being a dick? Three demerits. Having a shit Class? One demerit.

  Verdict: Vote him off the island.

  Problem was, Josh and Wendy were a package deal, and Wendy had turned into not just a super-hot elf girl, but a healer and support Classer any party would sacrifice their firstborn to get.

  Josh would have to stay. Bob wouldn’t be sorry if an unfortunate accident happened to the guy, though.

  In the final analysis, Bob didn’t care about anybody who wasn’t related to him or hadn’t done him a solid, and Josh was oh-for-two.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Setting the Josh problem aside, Bob decided it was time to roleplay Roland.

  “All right, people,” he said. “Let’s clear this level. We know there is a hidden room, so after we clear the non-hidden ones, we’ll find it, get the other Boss, and get some sweet loot. Anybody got enough Essence to level up?”

  Nobody had. On the plus side, Bob noted that everyone had gained a couple of Skill levels. In his case, Sorcerous Shield had hit Beginner 3. Mostly because he had created a Spell linked to the Skill:

  Sorcerous Shield – Other (Sorcery Spell): You can create a protective shield around a non-hostile subject. The dedicated Mana cost can be granted by the caster or subject; in the latter case, it must be voluntary. All other effects work as per the Skill description.

  Bob had put shields on everyone except Rolls; he had eaten the Mana costs, since the others needed the magic juice more than him. Nobody had gotten hurt yet, but things were likely to change now that Captain Death wasn’t there to save the day.

  At least we can look forward to Rolls getting sick and tired of the Captain Death bit when he comes back.

  That was the only Spell he’d created so far. Protecting everybody seemed like a good use of his sorcery. Next, he was planning on adding an ablative component to the Shield. Give the force field hit points of its own that the mobs needed to deplete before getting to the user’s Health.

  “All right. Let’s go back to the intersection and we’ll go through each door. We can use C-4 if we have to, but I only have two remote detonators and three timer ones.”

  After the detonators were gone, the bricks of C-4 would be useless for anything other than starting fires. The stuff burned great, but you had to work hard to get it to explode, for obvious reasons.

  “Let’s go.”

  * * *

  Time to hold the door, as the slow big guy used to say.

  The first door they tried didn’t have traps, just a complex lock that Barton disarmed merely by canceling its System effect.

  Such a broken Skill. Love it.

  What Bob didn’t love was the fact that Wendy couldn’t see through the door even when Barton tried to cancel its anti-scry effect, so they didn’t know what was inside the room until they opened it.

  Which Bob did, kicking it open after Josh unlatched it.

  The room was a Ratlings barracks.

  The small type, Marauders with twenty-four hit points apiece. Trash mobs. Problem was, the barracks were big and every one of its thirty-odd bunk beds was occupied. And the bunk beds had three bunks each and some of the rats doubled up on the bunks.

  The math added up to a bad day for everyone involved.

  “Holding the door,” he called out while the rats jumped from their ratty beds, assorted improv weapons in their ratty hands. He crouched down behind his shield to give Josh and Bloodykee room to shoot over him as he kept giving out instructions.

  “Prep Fireball!” he told Barton.

  “Memorizing! Two minutes!”

  “Dahlia! Sangara?a!”

  “On it,” Dahlia said, her tone deadly serious.

  “Josh, target the rear and blast them. Wendy, heal as needed!”

  By the time he was giving orders to Wendy, three rats had reached his position. His shield blocked much of the door as well as his body; their initial attacks, using spears tipped with X-Acto knives or broken bottles, didn’t even scratch his Rare Quality Shield of the Crusader. But as many as four or five Ratlings could squeeze in to attack him. He noticed they were glowing, which he was positive was a new effect.

  Identify confirmed his suspicions:

  * Strength in Numbers (Area Effect):

  As long as they are inside the Barracks, Ratlings of all types gain +1 to damage and +1 Damage Resistance (all) for every Ratling within 30 feet of them. Maximum Bonus: 10.

  “Fuck my life.”

  Shield of the Crusader could handle the extra damage, but his plate carrier only covered a portion of his chest; his lower body and other important bits were swinging in the wind, protected only by an eleven-point Sorcerous Shield.

  Spears and knives began to cut and stab him. Two points here, three points there. Bleed effects took their toll, too. There was a hell of a lot of pain. His only relief was to dish out some pain of his own.

  Bob swung his Double-Tap Warhammer at a rat trying to stab his leg.

  The Rare weapon trait created a ghostly copy of itself. Both hammers connected with the mob’s ratty skull. The two hits were more than enough to let Bob see what Ratling brains looked like.

  More rats started to pile on his shield, trying to push him out of position. He leaned into it, grunting when another spear cut his leg.

  Josh fired right over his head. The blunderbuss boomed and a blast of acrid flaming smoke washed over the rear ranks, obliterating half a dozen Ratlings.

  Go boomstick, go! Bob thought as he swung the hammer back and forth like someone clearing brushes with a machete and pushed back with his shield.

  Ratlings dropped, dead or with broken limbs. Others scrambled over the still or twitching bodies, slashing so wildly they often cut each other. Plenty of them cut Bob, though.

  Wendy touched his back and cool energy washed through him. Pain and debuffs disappeared as he got back more Health than he had lost; the extra points had no System effects but left him feeling refreshed.

  “Thank you!” he yelled as he brained another rat.

  He smacked a few more rats but concentrated on keeping them on their side of the entrance. He knocked down a rat with his shield and kicked another in the head when it tried to crawl between his legs. His lack of a taunt didn’t matter when the mobs had to get through him to reach the party. He plugged the gap, forcing them to face him.

  “Sangara?a, come help me!” Dahlia shouted.

  A disgusting spider that seemed to be made of coagulated blood appeared on the ceiling of the barracks. It shot crimson webs from its butt, webs that fell on the massed Marauders. The Ratlings got stuck together like a thirteen-year old’s Victoria’s Secret catalog. The webbing began to burn the screeching Marauders to the tune of three to six hit points per second, doubled when the spider layered a second stack of the DOT webs.

  Nice spider. No wonder that MiniFiend card had been so pricey.

  The pressure at the door eased but didn’t stop. Rats kept coming, the ones the webs or blunderbuss blasts didn’t get. Four, five, six at a time.

  Bob tanked while the party spanked. Basic PVE, and it worked.

  Even the battle of Trash Hill didn’t compare to this, furry monsters getting in your face, close enough to see the fleas leaping away when your hammer crushed some rat’s shoulder or tore off a mob’s snout clear off its face.

  The sounds were brutal. The cracks of Bloodykee’s lightning and the deeper boom of Josh’s oversized gun mixed with the screeches, loud enough to hurt his eardrums even through the hearing protection Roland had insisted they took along.

  Then there was the stench as rats bled, shat themselves, or burned merrily. The sharp smell of black powder when Josh fired made him think of the Fourth of July.

  Later, he would only remember little bits of it. A minute or two of madness, but it felt like forever.

  Josh shot off his big gun attack four more times before he went bingo Mana, the idiot. Meanwhile, Bloodykee, perched on Dahlia’s shoulder, sniped at any rat trying to outflank Bob with his dark lightning bolts.

  Maybe half of the mobs were down, but a big bunch had gathered on the far end of the room, away from the webs, getting set to charge.

  “Fireball!” Barton shouted as his hex went live.

  A flaming sphere the size of a basketball flew over Bob’s head and landed right in front of the massed mobs. It went off with the fury of ten thousand suns.

  Even through his closed eyes, Bob watched System-generated damage numbers scroll past him. When he opened them, he saw what was left of the rats afterwards; they looked like charred kibbles and bits.

  The average damage was in the hundred-point range. Pure murder. The Hex took two of Barton’s daily slots, but it was well worth it.

  Bob grinned. Fireball had always been one of those encounter-finishing spells you unleashed when the shit hit the fan. It was glorious, seeing the old classic do its thing live.

  Less glorious was the heat that washed over him and singed him for seven points of damage even through his physical and energy defenses. Or the stench of a platoon’s worth of rat BBQ, which smelled a bit like overdone pork ribs with a hint of outdoor concert porta-potties.

  Two-thirds of the surviving rats had been consumed by the massive blast. Sangara?a was busily killing the survivors of her web attack. Bloodykee leaped into the room and shouted its trademark name as dozens of little bolts of black lightning erupted from its pudgy body and obliterated the last survivors. A couple even rose up as ratty zombies.

  They had cleared the room in a bit over two minutes.

  I think we’ve got this.