Chapter 36: Sociopathic Rope (Patreon)

Warning: Gore. I actually didn't realize how gory this was until I edited it before posting tonight.

This was an interesting chapter to write! The first time Logan has to fight a normal person, head-on.

There was a difference between learning that people were killing other people from the news and encountering it in reality. Plus, who kills seniors? Or someone in a wheelchair? Defenceless people, who would have died in less than a year when the System went though with its purge anyway. You had to deserve a special place in hell for that. Just thinking about those poor seniors who had probably pled for their lives had him ramped up the more he thought about it. And even worse, if Eleanor were still alive, she’d be in their crosshairs. Sweet old Eleanor, who never hurt a fly.

Logan gritted his teeth, the sound of his heartbeat pounding in his ears as righteous fury swept over him in a wave. They had to pay.

Loganwould make them pay.

Logan had overheard the younger man say he’d almost reached level 8, which meant he was level 7 against Logan’s level 13. He liked those odds. Still, that didn’t account for the other man who was either the leader because of his age, or because he was a higher level.

Once the man was in sight, Logan scanned him with [Idiot’s Inspect].

[Keith Rodway: Level 15. A human being.]

Logan’s eyes widened. He was higher leveled than Logan and he had a gun. A higher level already made this difficult; throw in a gun, and he might be out of Logan’s league. There was no question of retreat though since that surely meant that Jack and the others would be in jeopardy.

But there was only one way that Keith had advanced so high, and Logan was certain it hadn’t been through monster-killing. Those fuckers must have killed innocent people all down the shoreline. His rage was white-hot, his eyes hardening as he looped the rope around his hand. He positioned the rope in a throwing position, adrenaline surging as he approached.

A floorboard underneath his feet creaked.

“Did you finish already?” Keith asked, turning around.

When he got sight of Logan, there was no noticeable change in his expression other than a tightening around the eyes. He was wearing the same army fatigues, dark stains that Logan suspected was blood decorating the collar. On the marble countertop, there was a notepad, the kind that had a magnet on the back which stuck to a fridge. Someone had scrawled in shaky handwriting, Next door neighbor: Eleanor, with a phone number listed underneath her name.

Next to it was a discarded handgun. Leaning against the wall on the other side, was the shotgun, and right next to that was his baseball bat. Logan let out a breath of relief at the sight.

“Well now. I can’t say I was expecting this,” said Keith, eyeing the distance between Logan and his weapon on the counter. “You have brass balls to come back, son. Quite the balls indeed. Now, what’s your goal here?”

“What did you do to the couple who lives here?” Logan asked, already knowing the answer, but wanting to hear it spoken out loud anyway. Inching closer, he watched the man’s hands closely.

“How do you know it was a couple? Did you know them?”

Past tense phrasing. Logan spread his legs wide apart, resolve filling him. In addition to getting him hooked on zombie movies, Lara had also gotten him addicted to heavy-hitter True Crime documentaries. It had started on one particular memorable night, when he came over to her house right after she signed the divorce papers, trying to be a supportive brother. A supportive brother meant agreeing to watch whatever she wanted. When she’d pulled up a True Crime documentary, he hadn’t been impressed to start, but once they started, he found it difficult to stop, binging episode after episode.

He'd learned a lot, but the one thing that had stood out was the way to spot a murderer. Unintended tells. Unconsciously referring to a loved one or another person in the past tense when they were supposedly still alive was a major red flag.

“What did you do with them?” Logan repeated, his voice hard.

Keith snorted. “What do you think?” At Logan’s expression, his mouth twisted. “Don’t give me that look! I’m not the bad guy here, fucker. We wouldn’t be doing this unless we had to. You think we want to be out here killing a bunch of wrinkled old people? It’s the System that made us do it. You need to look at the world differently! The way I see it, it’s survival of the fittest. No reason to waste resources on people like that.”

“They were people, just like you. They had the same value. Survival of the fittest is bullshit. You’re a murderer.”

Keith scowled. “Fuck that,” he said, spittle flying. “Change your perspective! They’re cattle. Not people. We’re surviving. Come off your moral high horse. If you don’t start thinking of these people as XP fodder, you won’t make it. One percent! Only one percent are walking out of this alive in a year. These people will never make it. Why waste the opportunity?”

Keith took a deep breath and seemed to try to calm himself down, running a hand through his speckled gray hair before shooting Logan a speculative look. “But I can see you’re not fodder. You’ll never be cattle. You’re strong. We could use a man like you. My son and I are doing all right, but I’ve heard others are already forming gangs. We need new bodies. What do you say?”

Logan’s eyes narrowed. That was some perspective. Just because Keith didn’t think these people would be able to grow powerful, they were free pickings?

“I’ll pass,” he snapped. “And what you just said is complete bullshit. You’re trying to justify your own actions with warped logic. Look at it however you want. You’re still a murderer.” Logan tightened his grip on the rope. “You need to be stopped.”

“Is that so.” Dropping his voice, he mumbled to himself. “Well, you can’t say I didn’t give you a chance.” Keith gave Logan a once-over, judgment in his eyes as he lingered on the rope in his hand, squinting at his missing finger and seeming to deem him a lesser threat before he reached for his handgun.

Logan acted.

The Cursed Length of Rope would either be worth its name, or it would get him killed. Logan flicked his wrist, throwing it like a whip.

The thing came alive.

The rope became rigid, and the other end wiggled like a worm, seeking a target.

It moved so fast it was a blur.

Logan got a distinct sense of glee as it slithered through the air like a snake, the end slashing and reaching for Keith.

Keith shouted, startled, and tried to dart out of its reach. “What the—” He didn’t even get a chance to finish his sentence; the rope was that fast.

It latched onto Keith, wrapped around his neck in a coil and tightened like a worm. Logan had forgotten about the acid feature. Secretions soaked into Keith’s skin, fine mist evaporating in the air. The skin around the rope turned red, then started to blister, bubbles forming underneath the epidermal layer.

And it kept eating.

It seeped into the hypodermis, his bottom layer of skin, and then kept eating, deep, deep into his flesh. Keith’s eyes bulged, his face turning red as he franticly tried to claw the rope away from his neck. The sound he let out was part terror and part plea, the rope transforming him from a man full of bravado into a completely different person. He’d lost all thought for Logan or his weapon, all his attention on trying to escape.

“Holy shit…” whispered Logan.

The rope swelled, as if it were sucking in Keith’s life force, its width thickening to twice its normal size. A fleeting thought of absolute giddiness drifted into Logan’s mind, as if the rope were communicating its pleasure and wanted to thank him for the opportunity.

Logan watched with sick fascination and unreality as the secretions continued smoking. Blood poured down Keith’s neck and torso. It was like that scene from Alienwhen the acid ate through the ship’s hull.

The rope kept tightening as it ate away, cutting deeper into muscles and what had to be Keith’s airway. His eyes bulged, a deluge of blood soaking the floor. With one last slick, sick sound, his head separated from his neck, the rope cutting clean through.

Ding!

[You have defeated Keith Rodway! Extra experience granted for defeating an enemy above your level! Triple experience granted for defeating a member of your own species!]

[You have leveled up!]

[You have leveled up!]

The feeling of euphoria he normally experienced during a level increase didn’t even register. Logan could only gape.

There was a scene of carnage in front of him. It felt as if he were watching it remotely through a TV screen. He suspected he was in shock. Deep shock.

His throat dry, Logan leaned down and picked up the end of the rope. As soon as he touched it, it wiggled, spraying drops of blood like a sponge until it had shrunk to its regular width and taken on its worn, brown fibre look.

It was inert again, a regular rope. No hint of feelings or intelligence drifted into Logan’s thoughts. No glee, no satisfaction. Nothing. Yet Logan knew it was much more than that now.

A gasp made him look up.

The other man stood in the entrance of the kitchen with his face washed of color. His army fatigues had deep, dark stains on the front of his shirt, a musty odor like rotting meat wafting from his body that overpowered the smells in the kitchen. His black combat boots were glistening with fluid, and Logan could clearly see a trail of red footprints leading from the hallway.

That fucker had just come back from getting rid of the bodies.

Logan scanned him with [Idiot’s Inspect].

[Shane Rodway: Level 7. A human being.]

Shane’s mouth opened soundlessly, shock stark on his features. He seemed paralyzed with inaction, the scene freezing him in place. Gradually, he swallowed and dragged his gaze away before he gave Logan a narrow-eyed look.

His eyes were grey and hard. Dead eyes. “You did this?” he demanded.

Logan nodded.

His mouth twisted. “You must be a monster, warped by the System. We would have given you a good death, a quick death. This?” He gestured to Keith’s mangled, sizzling body. His severed neck was still smoking, drops of acid eating into the kitchen floor. His head had landed eyes up, staring sightlessly at the ceiling. “My father didn’t deserve this. We were just trying to survive.”

Oh, that was rich. There was nothing like being lectured by a murderer. “And did the people who lived here deserve their fate? Did the others you killed?”

The man sneered. “I’m sure you did things you weren’t proud of to protect you and yours. But this? I hope you burn in hell.”

Shane reached for the firearm on his thigh holster so quickly that Logan hardly had time to react.

But what could he do? Dodge a bullet? In reflex, he raised the rope, holding it up like a shield. A demented cackle sounded in his head, the Cursed Length of Rope giddy with joy as it swelled in size once again, fattening twice, thrice—so thick it was as if he were holding a pipe. As the bullet tore through the air, the rope cracked like electricity and moved just as fast. It sucked the bullet into its fibres, fibres that had transformed into red interwoven guts rather than rope.

Holy shit, this thing could eat bullets!

Shane’s eyes widened before narrowing in resolve. He fired again, bullet after bullet. Each one followed the same fate until he kept trying to pull the trigger on an empty gun, the click click click evidence of his franticness. With a thud, he dropped the gun to the floor and then rushed for the shotgun leaning against the counter, but Logan was faster.

With a flick of his wrist, he threw the Cursed Length of Rope, aiming for Shane’s wrist. It looped around his arm right below the elbow like looping around a tree trunk, end over end, continually wrapping. Logan used it as a leash to yank Shane’s hand away from the shotgun, pulling until he was forced forward. Before the acid made serious damage, Logan tugged on the rope, intending to unwrap it and unloop the man’s wrist.

It… the damn… fuck! Logan was sure he was making funny faces as he made contortions, jerking his wrist, pulling on the rope, everything he could to command it back, but no matter what he tried, it refused to budge.

The army fatigue long-sleeved shirt around Shane’s lower arm started to steam, mist rising as the rope sent a feeling of smug satisfaction Logan’s way, smug that it could eat but also smug that it had resisted the command to return.

“Demon,” snarled the man. “Get this thing off me!”

The acid had soaked through the fabric and was now digging through skin and flesh. The same gory dance all over again.

“Cursed Length of Rope, come back!” Logan finally burst out, frustration making his voice hard.

Glee glee glee was sent back to Logan. Shane screamed as the rope swelled, the fibres soaking up his blood and flesh. Logan watched helplessly as the rope’s secretions buried deeper into his arm at the same time it continued to tighten. Until finally, with a wet plop, the rope severed the limb and it fell to the floor.

Damn.

The man screamed at the sight, staring in stunned disbelief, his eyes bloodshot and his face pale as he looked around wildly, his gaze landing on the shotgun leaning against the counter and finally narrowing in on his father’s discarded handgun on the kitchen counter.

“Don’t you dare!” Logan shouted. “I’ll use the rope again!”

Logan had no thoughts whatsoever of letting him go, but now, he had options. His bat, hell, even the gun. The asshole needed to die, but it didn’t mean Logan had to be cruel about it. The rope meant torture. Logan could afford to be magnanimous.

But Shane either didn’t believe Logan or rage had overtaken him. He grabbed the gun with his other hand, his severed limb spewing blood, mixing with the blood already littering the tiles.

Shane pointed the gun at him but also stepped into the pool of blood on the floor. It was slick like slime. Boots that were already soaked with blood, a wet floor, a distracted person? Shane couldn’t do anything but slip, his feet going out from under him. He landed on his back just as the weapon discharged, and a bullet slammed into the ceiling.

This was Logan’s chance.

Logan stepped on Shane’s wrist, pinning his arm and then jerking the gun out of his grip. He kicked it to the side and then quickly dropped the rope while he turned and lunged for his baseball bat. As soon as his fingers curled around the handle, that feeling of wrongness he'd felt since deploying the rope leached away, the simple, non-sociopathic weapon reassuring in his grip.

There was one problem.

As soon as Logan had stepped off Shane’s wrist, he'd manage to scramble to his feet while Logan's back was turned. Heart racing, Logan watched as Shane lurched for the shotgun, his feet slipping all over the place, blood spraying everywhere.

With a swing, a swing filled with frustration at this whole situation, Logan slammed his bat into the back of Shane’s head. As soon as he did, the result was inevitable. Nails and barb wire and a wooden bat backed by all the strength at his disposal? He crushed half Shane’s skull like a pumpkin. A splash of blood sprayed Logan’s shirt, brain matter and flesh sticking to his bat as he wrenched it away with a wet smack.

Shane made a gasping, gurgling noise, staring sightlessly, before the light faded from his eyes, and he slumped to the floor.

Ding!

[You have defeated Shane Rodway! Triple experience granted for defeating a member of your own species!]

Logan blinked, hardly comprehending the System message. Gradually, his white-hot rage faded, the reality of what had just occurred replacing his adrenaline with shock.

But he had no chance to even process what had happened before he became aware of a clicking, curious sound. It forced his attention away from the bodies, the shock of it making him think he was hallucinating, or on a bad trip. But no, that really…

It was a squirrel.

It had wandered inside through the open back patio door. Covered in grey fur, it was the size of a rat, its fluffy tail pointing straight up as it jumped forward, its tiny black talons digging into the floor. When it got sight of Logan, it hissed, but more as an afterthought, the majority of its attention on the gory remains on the kitchen floor. Jumping quicker, it plopped into the pool of blood and like a cat, started licking up the red guts with its bright orange, pointy tongue.

[Rabid Grey Squirrel: Level 2. A squirrel. It’s also rabid.]

It reminded him of the one that had killed Eleanor.

Oh fuck this shit.

Thoroughly disgusted, Logan swung his bat, the end snapping into the top of the squirrel’s head, the nails digging deep into its side. The squirrel screeched, franticly trying to get away, but Logan didn’t let it. He took one more swing, its body still stuck in the nails and bashed it—bat and squirrel—together, against the side of the kitchen counter.

Ding!

[You have defeated a Level Two Rabid Grey Squirrel!]