CHAPTER SIXTY

On the following day a bright bursting sun welcomed the dwarf to the trail, Waspig buzzing. But such a sight melted fast into mist the further up the dwarf rode. The two arrived at the village ruins much faster than the day previous, Waspig a less curious ride. Snowflakes danced on its fur and the dwarf’s beard, and the intensifying of the flurry ushered the two indoors, finding themselves within the same location as that which the zombie had dwelled. Nervously the dwarf examined rooms the same as they’d been, the zombie’s lair saved last. The unlocked knob gave way and the dwarf smelled a worsening of the air. Far behind him at the entrance of the building--the dwarf decided apartments--rested Waspig. Above him, a ceiling held intact, but its second floor lay a poor mystery; below, wood. Around, walls still decorated were a surprise; this room had yet been plundered. He crept in, aware of the slipping light as the door behind sagged close. But with so little furniture, the dwarf did at least not anticipate another attack. He stepped back to open the door and the planks under his feet gave way plunging the dwarf through four more floors of wood, culminating in a waterlogged basement of basements.

“HEALTH LOW”

The dwarf groaned. Would he have died if not for the shallow puddle? His back throbbed and complained of the immediate stress delivered, and he could argue nothing in his defense--why had he explored so carelessly? Why be separated from Waspig? Was this all a consequence of his carelessness towards life as a result of ‘SAVING’? Amid his relentless reflecting came metered splashing and moaning. The dwarf’s breath returned to his lungs enough to force the rest of his pained body into motion, and he flipped over and plunged his beard without thought. Rising, the moans behind transitioned to angered grunts, and the dwarf without control of his limbs panicked. It wasn’t a matter of death. Having ‘SAVED’ just before the ride, it would not be long to arrive back at the same snow topped town. But the imagined suffering and agony of a death by the undead’s hands jolted adrenaline into his sudden functioning arms and legs, and they worked together in unison to swim his back against a corner. Blinking rapidly, the dwarf desperately forced an adjusting to the pitch black within. But with water so absorbent of the dominant color around, the dwarf saw only darkness. The zombie gurgled ahead.

The door three stories above pounded and reverberated. Though no successful smashing could be overheard, the noise inadvertently drew the zombie away from the silent dwarf and towards the holes he left behind. Struggling, Waspig’s effort nonetheless inspired in the dwarf’s heart gratitude. Eyes shut, he focused his hands and produced between them a long length of golden glittering rope. What the dwarf held shined so brightly the damp room’s silhouettes spelled out its origin: storage. And behind crates and floating barrels lay stairs. Though the door far above continued to receive poundings from Waspig, the dwarf regained the zombie’s fickle attention with his sudden light.

Arms shot up and out. The rotting figure staggered forwards. The dwarf stomped ahead and, soggy sandals in and out the filthy water, he whipped his rope across the zombie’s face. It blasted backwards and the dwarf followed this attack with another, sending the mystical light fast against the undead repeatedly until its pulverized head gave way to limpness. It bobbed in the water lifelessly, and the dwarf, hands free of the dissipating gold, advanced to and up the stairs.

“ONE-HANDED SKILL XP GAINED”

“ONE-HANDED SKILL INCREASED TO 2”

Two floors remaining, the dwarf was startled at the round table in the center of what appeared to be another storage room--much smaller, a single rune mounted on low ceiling illuminating what appeared to once have cards played atop. The dwarf only guessed, but a likely gambled locket box left atop the table revealed a beaming piece of crystal. He opened his cowskin pouch and replaced a mushroom pancake with treasure. Some coins were also scooped and stolen. With no threats on the level, the dwarf continued across the room past empty crates and collapsed shelving and up the next set of stairs. WIth less than ten steps to climb a zombie tripped into sight and began rolling down. The dwarf threw himself off the side and collapsed atop the card table, it crushing under his weight and shaking loose the glowing etched rock from above atop the dwarf’s bald dome.

“HEALTH LOW”

Brainless undead lunging, the dwarf roared above Waspig’s beatings and bashed the rune against its skull. It dropped to the ground and the dwarf continued until the rune was caked in rotted gore. The dwarf himself collapsed and breathed unsteady. He hadn’t taken a look at the crates and barrels back down a level, he realized. He wished for a vial of red. The figure next to him began to rise and the dwarf, rolling to the side, brought his hands together and revealed holy threads. He bound the zombie, watched its flesh sing, and traveled downstairs past the lifeless bobbing corpse. One barrel, miraculously, possessed a potion--it was blue. And it being too big, the dwarf passed on its taking. But he considered returning another time for when blue would inevitably come to be needed, and this led the dwarf to remember the nearly crushed bottled health under the eyes of ferals. There were two bottles, in fact, and the dwarf chewed his tongue remembering his collapsing of their tunnel. There was another way in, but the dwarf needed to escape the series of basements first. Worse, he needed a health potion now.

Up slowly the submerged floor and past that with the crushed card table, the shambling dwarf, amid ceaseless Waspig, found no undead. It agreed with him, given none chased his howl. But this didn’t mean safety, he argued. Bloodied rune in hand, empty in the other, no vial of red found, the dwarf investigated. This floor appeared to be toilets with no piping and wide tubs for bathing. Wallpaper had either peeled or crisped, and miniature creatures longer than mice but stouter than rats scurried fast from one hole in the wall to the other. More shelves laid atop planks, and the dwarf glanced at their contents to find nothing in particular. Only one floor remained, but the dwarf rested a hand against stone and sucked deep breaths. Even the disgusting air he tasted nourished his body all the same, and the dwarf was desperate. So desperate, in fact, he descended back down to the table and retrieved the flattened mushroom loaf, unwrapping and stuffing its contents down his mouth. He laid down beside the hole and involuntarily nodded off...

Awake, drool felt wet on the dwarf’s feet. He at first assumed Waspig. But the door thumped as if in response, and the dwarf became painfully aware of nibbling. His gaze adjusted and he beheld a zombie feasting on his flesh. The dwarf screamed, kicking its head clean off. The body snapped menacingly towards the dwarf quickly advancing away. But with every other step came agony. Blood smeared against the planks tread clumsily, dwarf for the stairs. He tried to climb and slipped and slid. The headless undead took hold of the dwarf then and lifted him high in the air, smashing him against the wall repeatedly. No reverberation emitted; they were far below the surface. The dwarf struggled to produce anything holy. His brain so frantic, his lower half screaming, he could focus on nothing. The zombie tossed the dwarf through the air and he fell down his own hole, crashing into the thin water. The dwarf, shocked, only slowly became aware of his drowning. But he did not rise his beard away.

“HEALTH LOW”

The dwarf knew what pulp taught: zombies infected. How his childhood comics and stories came to predict future threats, the dwarf could not reason. His mind could in fact do very little. Oxygen stopped in its supply and the dwarf’s body attempted to regain control, ultimately powerless in the face of the dwarf’s will. But his eyes bulged and his heart raced, and though the dwarf attempted to console his suicide with the comfort of returning, the dwarf wondered of comfort at all. Bubbles rushed out from his soon loudly emitting maw, and he went limp.

Four stories beneath an abandoned ruin in a snow topped town of many, the dwarf lay dead.

“LOADING... LOADED.”...

After arriving to the apartments in little time, the dwarf dragged a damaged bedframe from its home to the once locked door. The dwarf stacked all he could find, even entering neighboring buildings for their potential weights. In the end a great pile of trash and rubbish stood between the dwarf and the door and, by extension, the undead.

Perhaps the dwarf would inform Mallow and make it his issue. The dwarf went home and slept the rest of the afternoon and night away. Waking just once, the dwarf screamed at slime dripping onto his feet until realizing the hooved, antenna headed culprit.