Zombie Rebirth

The first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was the brilliant lights of the screen. The words ‘YOU WIN’ were back lit by fireworks, and the ceiling all around was lit by cleverly hidden lights that echoed the fireworks perfectly. It was like one of those RGB gamer’s wet dreams, or an epileptic’s seizure-inducing nightmare. I blinked a few times to get rid of the dazzle and stars. My notifications were going crazy in the side of my vision until I dismissed them. The game was blaring out triumphant fanfare, nearly overwhelming me. I found the cash-out button and slapped it, then stood and paced while waiting for my chips to appear.

Even though the machine was excessively loud, there was the unmistakable sound of large chips dropping into a catch. I looked and saw chip after chip drop into the catch, each an eye-pleasing brushed-steel with ‘1000’ on the side. My jaw dropped.

“How much did I bet? How much did I win?”

It finally stopped after dropping eleven of the chips. My inner loot goblin rubbed his greedy hands together. I smiled, forgetting all the stress of the past… however long. I had no idea how the games affected me, or messed with time. I could have been in that fight for an hour, or two minutes in real-time. It had felt like thirty minutes in game.

I reached out with both hands to gather the chips, which is when I discovered I still had something tucked into my left hand. I slowly unclenched my fist, then immediately slammed it shut. I gathered the chips with my right, then put everything into my inventory, feeling the sliver disappear from my hand. I rushed away from the far-too-loud game. It was acting like I’d won a jackpot.

I finally made my way over to the golem. Instead of stopping me, this time it opened the rope and ushered me through without a word. I nodded, unsure of what else to do, and walked through the doorway. It faded to black, and I was treated to a loading screen. That was incredibly weird. Loading screens generally broke immersion in video games. How in the hell did I have a loading screen in real life? Were they still working on the dungeon?

I wanted to tap my foot, but couldn’t feel it in the black, endless limbo I waited in. Instead, I opened my status to examine how far I had come.

Name: Alabaster Blackwood

Race: Half-dead Human-Zombie

Faction: Blackwood Company

Job: Half-dead

Age: 20

Renown level: Unknown

Renown: 1169

Level: 8

XP: 39/140

HP: 1040/1040

HP regen per second: 0.34

MP: 300/300

MP regen per second: 0.05

Stamina: 700/700

Stamina regen: 0.21

Strength: 54*

Agility: 35*

Constitution: 52*

Wisdom: 15*

Intelligence: 15*

Charisma: 15*

Luck: 16*

Free points: 0

Titles: Primordial Undead, Prime Undead, Star-born: Dragon, Noble II, Prime Realtor, Royalty, Capable, Titan

Skills: Unarmed Combat

Abilities: Earthen Bulwark I

Spells: None

Notes: English, Zombie Common

My stats were… wild. I had gone up two whole levels by beating the Kraken, which was pretty cool. I earned XP by beating a boss with a legendary weapon. Honestly, that wasn’t that hard. Sure, the fight was hard, but getting the weapon was pretty easy. Only ten tokens, and I had found six in the marina. Maybe the game was still getting balanced?

I was about to close my stats page when I caught something else. I had a new title. I pulled it up.

Title: Titan

You cleared a dungeon floor without using any skills!

+1 to all stats, +1 to constitution

“Wait,” I spoke aloud, at least, I felt like I did. I didn’t hear anything. “I got a free stat point for everything, and two for constitution, just for clearing the level without using my ability?”

I could just hear Basil grumbling in the back of my mind. “So lucky, whine, whine, whine.”

I snorted, knowing he would blow his top at the fact I had gained another title. At this rate, I felt like they were being handed to me. That was when the world started to fade into view. I blinked, feeling fuzziness on my face. It was like I had a film of sleep on my eyes. It finally went away after blinking a few more times, and I found myself exiting an elevator.

“Wait, didn’t I walk into a stairwell?” I thought back, and all I could remember was seeing stairs. They were like twenty feet away, in my memory. It was possible, however, that I had missed an elevator door just off to the side.

“Whatever. I’m here, wherever here is.”

I looked around, noting that this floor was more subdued. It didn’t quite look like a residential floor. I wasn’t going to find rooms. However, it was like the back rooms of the hotel- sterile white walls, steel doors, florescent lighting. It was where the staff walked, not the guests. Something was off, yet again.

“Where am I supposed to go?”

As if that was the signal, a door opened down the hall. Suddenly, the hallway was filled with music, and a man with extraordinarily stiff bearing walked out. Wearing a well tailored suit that screamed high-end uniform; he had pale, almost paper-white skin and no hair. He had to be near nine feet tall, based on how far he crouched through the door. When he stood in the hallway, however, he looked almost normal. His limbs were long, but not excessively so; at least, not proportionally. The door closed, cutting the sound out, and he visibly sagged. With an exaggerated sigh, he leaned against the wall and covered his eyes with one long, three-fingered hand.

I walked closer, hesitant to bother the man. He was the first person other than the bouncer I had seen in the casino. I was completely mixed on what to do.

“Are you going to say anything?”

His voice was rich, deeper than I expected from such a thin man. He had seized the initiative.

“Uh, hi. I think I’m lost.”

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

“Yeah,” I said with a nod. “I am gathering that. I used the hallway behind the bouncer on the casino floor and woke up here.”

The man wiped his hand down his face in a clear sign of frustration. “I mean you’re not supposed to be in the casino yet. We’re not done setting up yet. We’re supposed to have another two-and-a-half months.”

I opened my mouth, then closed it. I repeated the action twice more as I tried to think of what to say.

“Relax. It’s not your fault. Follow me.” He stood to his full height, making me feel like a toddler in his presence. He walked away from the door he had emerged from. I tossed it a look, then followed after him. I didn’t know what else to do.

“What’s in there?”

He looked over his shoulder and down at the door. “That’s the high-rollers room. It’s not available yet, because it’s still under construction.”

“I heard music,” I said.

“That’s the construction crew. Why do you think I was so irritated when I walked out? They think they know best, and refuse to listen to me.”

“Right… uh, who are you?”

“I’m the manager of the high-roller floor.”

I stopped where I was. He didn’t look like much, but neither did I, and I killed a freaking hundred-foot-tall Kraken.

“Relax. I am not going to fight you. We’re going to get you through this floor so you can be someone else’s headache.”

“Where are we going, then?”

He jerked his head, never stopping his long stride down the hallway. “My office.”

I looked at everything as we walked, not that there was much to look at. It was all industrial drab-gray-white. He took a turn, then another. We walked through a laundry room with dozens of machines all rumbling away. Two more hallways, a lunch room, another hallway, and finally we walked into a cramped office. It was lined with bookshelves filled with of all sorts of books. I saw volumes on management, maintenance, gaming regulations, even a few on counseling. The desk was centered in the room, with barely a foot of clearance on the sides, and just enough room to move the chair to sit in it.

The man, who still had not introduced himself beyond announcing he was the manager, stepped clear over the desk. It was honestly kind of impressive. He folded himself into the chair, then indicated for me to take the one available seat. It was one of those plastic-and-steel jobs you see in schools when they ran out of regular chairs.

“Uh, thanks.” I sat down, wincing as the plastic somehow slammed into my tailbone, despite sitting gently. “How do these things always do that?”

The man smiled wryly. “I would replace it, but that’s not in the budget.”

I looked around. “I like your library, though. I’ve got to be honest. This place feels… real.”

The man tilted his head quizzically. “It is real.”

“No, I mean, like, real life.”

He nodded. “This is real life. Just because it’s a dungeon doesn’t mean we aren’t real people. We just have some protections granted by the system. I am the floor boss, which means in a few months’ time you would normally fight me. We’re skipping that for today. But when I die, I’ll just wake up a little later with a headache in here, memories intact. Unfortunately, I’m still only level twenty, so I can’t pull out any crazy moves. And I’m not allowed to predict fighting styles. I have to give the challengers a chance.”

He leaned over and opened a drawer out of my line of sight. I heard the clinking of glass, and a moment later he produced a crystal decanter filled with an amber liquid. He put it down, then placed two equally gorgeous glasses next to it. Finally, he slid the drawer closed and sighed.

“I am not in the mood to fight. Not to mention the arena isn’t ready. My weapons are on back-order. The dogs haven’t finished training…” he trailed off, then sighed again.

“There’s so much to do before we open, and here you are.”

I nodded. I was completely out of my element. Here I was, casually chatting with the boss of the floor, who was twelve freaking levels higher than me. He could probably accidentally kill me by swatting me on the side of my head. He eyed me critically, then pulled the stopper and poured two fingers into each glass. He put the stopper back, and even from across the desk I could smell the oaky, sweet, smoky flavor of the whiskey. I didn’t like whiskey as a rule, and this stuff made my mouth water. I wanted to try it. He gently picked up the rocks glass and placed it in front of me. I saw his hand up close and was so, so glad I wasn’t going to fight him. His knuckles were criss-crossed with hundreds of scars that made a thick calloused layer. He probably wouldn’t even feel it if he punched concrete.

“Thanks,” I said quietly. I picked up the glass. He watched me closely, and I felt very judged. I didn’t know what to do, so I acted like a sommelier I had seen one time in a movie. I swirled the glass and inhaled the rich aroma, instantly feeling a heady rush.

“Whoa.”

He smiled then and lifted his glass to sniff as well. “Whoa, indeed.”

I put the glass to my lips and tipped the barest taste into my mouth. It was a veritable explosion of flavor. It hit my tongue and practically evaporated into rich wood smoke. It was hands down the best alcohol I had ever tasted.

“Sorry I didn’t bust out the good stuff,” the manager said. I carefully placed the glass down and then snorted a laugh.

“Not the good stuff? This tastes better than anything I’ve ever had. And I snuck some Johnny Walker Black one time. God, that beating was bad. But so worth it. I don’t even like whiskey, it was that good. This is better.”

He laughed in turn. “Good, this wasn’t wasted on you.”

“Thank you,” I said again, this time really meaning it. “Uh, what do I call you?”

“My name, in my language, is–” and then he broke into a guttural speech that sounded like a jammed disposal. I winced. He smiled, this time with a bit of sadness. “Not many speak my language anymore. In your tongue, I would be…” he paused to think. “Douma.”

I nodded, taking another tiny sip of the whiskey. “If you don’t mind my asking, what… uh, what are you?”

Douma shook his head. “That’s usually a rude question, but you are newly integrated. Missing the tutorial, no doubt. I’ll let it go, this time. I am a Qhuvois,” he said it like ‘koovwa,’ with an accent that almost sounded French. “You would likely know what my people were, if I still had my wings.”

I looked at him, noticing small lines along his bald head. He smiled again, and my head began to ache. Then he opened his eyes. And he opened his eyes. And he opened his eyes.