Abyssal border wall protocol: ch 7 (rough draft) (Patreon)

Chapter 7: Home Improvement

I actually slept through dawn and only woke when the wash of full morning system managed sun blazed through the windows.

For one breath, I forgot.

That was the worst part. My room looked like my room. Posters on the wall. Old dresser with the busted second drawer. Laundry basket in the corner that Mom had told me to empty for three years. The smell of dust, old sheets, and boyhood that had never moved out even when I had.

Then the ache hit.

My shoulders felt like someone had packed them with gravel and regret. My hands were stiff claws. Splinters burned in three fingers. My back complained when I tried to sit up, then complained louder when I did.

“Morning,” I croaked.

No answer.

No Mom making coffee.

No Alison yelling at cartoons.

No Liz knocking on the window because using the door was too normal for her.

Right.

End of the world.

I rubbed both hands down my face and checked the clock.

07:08.

I stared at it.

“Oh, shit.”

I was out of bed before the panic had room to grow roots. My boots hit the floor. My knees almost betrayed me. I grabbed the doorframe and sucked in a breath through my teeth.

The house was too bright, washed in that fake daylight that came without warmth. It shoved itself through the curtains and painted everything in pale gold, like the System had bought sunlight from a discount store and forgot the soul.

I stumbled into the kitchen, drank water from a jug until my stomach hurt, then ate peaches straight from the can with two fingers because spoons were for people with time and dignity.

“Mom, Alison, Liz,” I said toward the ceiling, mouth full of canned peach. “I’m awake. Overslept. Not dead. Just stupid.”

I swallowed.

“Okay, maybe not stupid. Tired. Very tired. My official medical diagnosis is apocalypse yard work.”

The words helped. Not much, but enough to keep me from thinking about eight slugs appearing in less than three hours.

Eight.

The number gnawed at my stomach, making it feel like I was falling, but only for a moment. I had a plan, and it would work.

Four had been manageable. Two had died to arrows. Two had died to the trenches and stakes. 17 arrows total, 6 hunting-tip arrows, 11 practice-tip arrows.

I stepped outside. The backyard looked worse in daylight.

What had once been Mom’s yard, Liz’s yard, our shared childhood kingdom, had become a torn-up pre-battlefield. Trenches carved brown scars through the grass. Piles of dirt rose in even berms. Branches, half-cut into stakes, creek saplings, cinder blocks, rope, scrap metal, nails, and tools lay where I had left them the day before.

“Yeah,” I said. “Home improvement.”

River and Strider lifted their heads from the side yard. Both looked at me with the deep judgment only horses and old church ladies can manage.

“I know. I slept in.”

River huffed.

“Not taking criticism from livestock today.”

I fed them oats, checked their water, and brushed them down in fast strokes. Calming Presence settled into my voice and hands, the skill warming that quiet place behind my ribs where animal fear made more sense now. Strider’s muscles eased under my palm. River bumped my shoulder, almost knocking me sideways.

“Good girl,” I said, rubbing her neck. “You two are going up the road before noon. No slug wrestling for the horses.”

The word noon snapped me back.

I checked the clock again.

07:34.

“Right. Work.”

I went to the pile of creek saplings and picked up the hatchet.

The first chop bit deep. True Bite guided the edge without turning my hands into puppets. It was still me swinging. Still my arms, my sweat, my blisters. But the axe found the right angle, the right line, the right bite in the wood. The limb was chopped off clean.

I set a rhythm.

Chop. Turn. Chop. Strip.

Good branches went into the stake pile. Bad branches went into the scrap pile. The thickest pieces became killing stakes. The thinner pieces became tangles. I sharpened ends until the yard smelled of raw green wood and wet sap. The scent filled my nose with too much detail, bitter cambium, mud, horse sweat, old smoke from yesterday’s fire, and my own sour fear under my shirt.

My Sense Star loved it all. My brain did not.

“Mind Star,” I muttered, splitting another end into a crude point. “Best purchase I ever made, right after the clock and not dying.”

A soft ding sounded.

Skill increased:Woodcraft: Level 5, Novice.

Technique Unlocked: Rough Hewing

Technique description: Improves the use of hatchets, knives, chisels, and saws when shaping raw wood into usable forms. Reduces wasted motion during crafting and construction.

The skill was a blessing, as now, when I used the knife or hatchet to shape the stake end, I could feel the system working, making the cut cleaner and more uniform. It was also much faster. I don’t think I could have finished all the stakes without it.

“Okay,” I said, holding up one stake. “So now I can make ugly sticks with professional confidence.”

I sawed the smaller trees into lengths, splitting some of the larger ones in two down the middle. After an hour, I made dozens of stakes. My trap-making skill told me the length each needed to be, about the length of my forearm. Enough to drive into the earth and leave three to six inches sticking up.

They would not prevent the slugs from gliding over them but would be large enough to tear into their bodies. At least that’s what I hoped for.

I carried the first bundle to the trench near the creek.

The trench from yesterday had worked. It wasn’t deep enough to stop them, but the slugs didn’t understand holes or stakes or basic self-preservation. They slid in, impaled themselves, thrashed, and then died.

Beautiful.

Horrible.

Useful.

I drove the first stake into the uphill side of the trench with a mallet. Thunk. The sound cracked through the yard. I drove another beside it, angled inward. Then another. Then another. The pattern took shape in my head as Trap Making and Woodcraft held hands and gave birth to the most efficient geometric pattern of death they could come up with.

“Look at that,” I said, sweat dripping down my neck. “My skills are making friends.”

Thunk.

Thunk.

Thunk.

The stakes became a row of broken teeth.

I stepped back and pictured the slug sliding over the trench edge, body folding, weight pushing forward, soft black underside dragging across the sharpened points.

I moved down the creek line, then across the V-shaped trench leading toward the porch. The work became a loop. Carry stakes. Drive stakes. Pack dirt. Check the angle. Move. My arms burned. My palms felt split open even where they weren’t. Sweat ran into my eyes and stung.

The System chimed again after I finished another section.

Skill increased:Trap Making: Level 3, Novice.

“Oh, come on,” I said, looking over the yard. “I turned two backyards into the world’s saddest castle defense system, and that’s only worth one level?”

No answer.

“The System is anti-labor. Got it.”

I went back to work.

By 09:32, the creek trench was bristling. The apple tree trench had stakes across the main slide path. I added scrap metal near the narrow places, burying jagged edges under loose dirt and leaves where a slug might push over.

I had a few longer, thicker parts of the trees that I had made javelin-sized and was going to use to throw from the roof. I had no idea how to make arrows, at least not yet, but could see that becoming a thing in the future, so I would save as many as I could in the interim.

The large V sections took a long time to fill in, but all my skills worked in concert to at least let me add enough spikes to most of the trenches so they would hopefully kill the slugs.

By the time I finished the stakes, it was 10:55. I had less than an hour to finalize my design and get ready. I got Dad's old ladder and climbed up onto the roof. Up there, I placed four of the javelin spears, my bow and arrows, along with the naginata and Old Bess. That was where I would make my stand.

I went inside, drank water, and opened a can of beans. Cold beans slid down my throat like punishment, but my body needed fuel, and the apocalypse had not provided a breakfast buffet.

“System, status,” I said between bites.

Abyssal Border Warrior Status Page:

Name: Justin Barnes.Age: 20.Race: Human.

XP Pool: 55.Level: 0.Star Rank: 2 Stars out of 10.Border Title: Drafted: grants system access.

Health: 100 percent.Mana: 0.Mana regeneration: 0.

Aspects:Body: 0Recovery: 0Motion: 0Sense: 1Mind: 1Will: 0Mana: 0

Warrior Dispensation: None.

Skills:

Archery: Level 5, Novice.Technique: Power Increase 1.Technique description: Shots fired from a bow have more power.

Aim: Level 5, Novice.Technique: Focused Shot 1.Technique description: While shooting or throwing, target tracking and focus are easier.

Blunt Weapons: Level 1, Novice.Technique: None unlocked yet.

Animal Handling: Level 5, Novice.Technique: Calming Presence.Technique description: Soothing voice, posture, and touch carry more weight with frightened animals.

Digging: Level 11, Novitiate.Technique: Clean Cut Earth.Technique description: Dirt cuts cleaner and holds shape with less collapse.

Technique: Earth Haul.Technique description: Loose soil, clay, gravel, and cut earth can be lifted, shifted, and thrown with less wasted effort.

Monster Reading: Level 1, Novice.Technique: None unlocked yet.

Trap Making: Level 3, Novice.Technique: None unlocked yet.

Axe Wielding: Level 5, Novice.Technique: True Bite.Technique description: Axe strikes gain improved edge alignment, bite depth, and force transfer.

Woodcraft: Level 5, Novice.Technique: Rough Hewing.Technique description: Improves shaping raw wood into usable forms with simple tools.

I stared at the XP.

Fifty-five.

Not enough for another Star.

Eight slugs would be 240 XP if I killed them all. That would put me at 295. Two more Stars, with almost enough left over to breathe.

If I lived, there was always that part hanging over my head, if I lived.

I closed the status page and looked toward the ceiling.

“Mom, Alison, Liz. I’m still at fifty-five XP. If this works, I’ll have enough for two more Stars. Maybe Motion and Body. Or Motion and Recovery. I don’t know yet.”

I scraped the last beans out with two fingers.

I checked the clock.

11:22.

I needed to move the horses.

River and Strider watched me as I approached, with the tools and loaded them back into the cart. I could smell their unease now, hot and sharp. The yard had too much of my fear in it. Too much fresh-cut wood. Too much torn earth. Animals knew when places changed.

“Come on,” I said, taking River’s lead rope. “Let’s get you two away from the murder garden.”

I led them up the road to the tree near the driveway marker, farther than yesterday, and tied them with enough slack to move if they spooked. I left water in two buckets and feed in shallow pans. River nudged the grain, but Strider kept staring toward the house.

“Yeah,” I said, rubbing the white blaze on his face. “There is going to be a fight; at some point we are going to have to see if there is any war horses in you, but not today.”

Calming Presence ran through my voice, warm and steady.

“You two stay here. I’ll come back. No matter how much screaming you hear, stay here.”

Skill Increased:

Animal Handling, level 6, Novice.

Strider blew air through his nose.

“Good talk,” I said as I jogged back to the house, though jog was generous. My legs felt like overcooked noodles wrapped around bone. The yard came into view, and for one second, from the road, I saw it the way a stranger might.

Two ordinary houses. A shared yard. A creek. A broken childhood fort. And between them, trenches, stakes, scrap metal, dirt walls, and one guy with a bow and some homemade spears.

I spent the rest of the time hauling cinder blocks up onto the roof, four of them; I might be able to chuck them at one of the slugs. Would it kill them? I had no idea, but dropping rocks from high places was one of the oldest traps known to man, so it was worth a shot.

11:55.

Five minutes till the spawns. I crouched on the roof, hatchet on my belt and Old Bess next to my feet. The cinderblocks and javelins were next to me, and I held the bow, quiver on my back.

“Right ready as I’ll ever be…” I said as the countdown started.

3…

2…

1…

The world shifted. It was not a sound. Not at first.

It was pressure. A wrinkle in the air, like reality had been grabbed by two invisible hands and twisted. My Sense Star caught the moment before my eyes did. The roof under my boots felt too sharp. The air tasted like copper and cold pond water. The hairs on my arms rose.

Then the slugs appeared. The first four came where the System said they would, in the same place they had the day before.

Two by the creek trench, black bodies dropping into the torn-up grass beside the old fort.

One near the apple trees, right where yesterday’s had crawled over Mom’s herb garden.

One at the side of the house.

“Oh, good,” I muttered. “Consistency. Love that in a nightmare.”

Then the new four arrived. One near the side of the house. Two there now.

Shit.

One near the far apple tree, down farther along the trench line.

One in the middle of the backyard, sitting in the open grass like a big fat black, well, slug.

The last one appeared in the front yard. I sucked in a breath through my teeth. That wasn't good; it had a clear line to the front door and the ladder with no traps between it and me. I was on the roof, and there was no way those things could climb, but I was pinned in.

The two by the creek moved first. Their bodies slid toward the trench, six tentacles rising from each back and tasting the air. Their mouths opened, ringed teeth flexing, wet and pale inside all that black slime. They didn’t scream yet. They just came on, inch by inch, dragging their bodies over the grass toward the house.

The first creek slug tipped over the trench edge. Its front half folded down, and the body behind it pushed. Stakes punched into its underside. Black ichor spat across the dirt. The slug screamed then, that wet, ripping squeal that made me shiver.

It thrashed. Tentacles whipped the air. One slapped against a stake and wrapped around it, pulling the wood sideways, but the point stayed buried in the mud.

The second creek slug followed it.

“Dumb leaving,” I whispered, remembering Liz’s message. “Build traps.”

The second slug slid over the edge and impaled itself on three stakes. One went right into the mouth, splitting the pale ring of teeth apart.

XP Gained: 30 XP.

XP Gained: 30 XP.

The black bodies convulsed, then started dissolving into smoke and dust.

“Thank you, Liz.”

A soft ding hit my ear.

Skill increased:Trap Making: Level 4, Novice.

“No time,” I said, eyes snapping to the side of the house.

The two side slugs were the problem.

They had spawned close together, both boxed between the house wall and the trench I had dug after the near-face-slapping incident yesterday. One had already pushed into the shallow pit covered with leaves and scrap metal. The metal caved under its weight with a horrible squeal, and the slug dropped partway in. Its tentacles whipped up, snapping at the siding hard enough to strip off the old vinyl.

The other was not trapped. It was crawling along the edge of the house, following the wall.

I grabbed the first cinderblock.

It was heavy. Stupid heavy. Roof-throwing-cinderblocks was a sport I had never trained for, and the System had not handed me a convenient Cinderblock Murder Skill. My fingers hooked into the holes, and I waddled two steps toward the roof edge like a drunk crab.

The trapped slug writhed below. I lifted. My back and shoulders screamed.

I threw the block.

It fell twenty feet and smashed down on the trapped slug’s head-mouth-thing with a wet crunch that traveled up through the air and made my spine shudder.

The slug screamed, then the sound cut off and the black smoke started.

XP Gained: 30 XP.

Skill Gained:Improvised Weapons: Level 1, Novice.

The second side slug turned toward the noise. Its tentacles rose. Its body bunched near the head.

Monster Reading kicked me in the brain.

Move.

I ducked back as its two front tentacles snapped over the roof edge as it lunged where my face had been a half-second before. One hit the shingles with a crack and tore a strip loose. Little black droplets sprayed across the gutter from where it cut itself on the aluminum.

“Fudge, fudge, fudge.”

I grabbed one of the javelins.

It was rough. A straight creek sapling shaved down with one ugly point and the bark stripped where my hand would grip. Not a real spear. Not a real javelin.

It was a sharp stick that had ambitions of becoming a spear one day when it grew up.

I shifted my grip, took two steps toward the edge, and threw.

It went high over the slug but clipped a tentacle and spun off into the grass.

“Shit,” I said, jumping back as it lunged up again.

The slug screamed and reached higher, feelers scraping against the gutter.

“Okay. Great. Good warm-up. Liz, if you saw that, no you didn’t.” I grabbed the second javelin.

Focused Shot activated, not perfect for throwing, but it helped. My star in Sense did overtime and helped more. The slug bunched again near the head before it tried to reach. I could see the fold now, the tightening of black flesh before the strike.

I threw.

The javelin dropped point-first and punched into the milky eye at the top of its mouth ring… It helped that the things were the size of dinner plates. The wood drove deep, all the way down to where the shaved grip began.

The slug convulsed.

It slammed into the wall. “Don’t you break Mom’s house, you ugly sack of SHI… sauger.”

I grabbed the second cinderblock and threw it over the edge of the roof.

It hit the javelin shaft and drove it deeper.

XP Gained: 30 XP.

The side yard went still except for black dust drifting up the wall.

Skill increased:Improvised Weapons: Level 2, Novice.

Skill Gained:Throwing Weapons: Level 1, Novice.

My hands were shaking. Four dead. Four left.

The apple tree slug from yesterday’s pattern had reached the trench. It slid in, caught one stake, ripped it out with a tentacle, then slid deeper. Two more stakes tore into its underside. It thrashed hard enough to fling mud across the grass.

The new apple tree slug came from behind it, behind the first trench line. It crawled along the edge instead of going straight in.

“Oh, you are smarter,” I said. “I hate that.”

The trapped apple slug kept thrashing. The other one followed the berm, mouth opening and closing, teeth flexing like it could smell the safer path.

No.

Not safer.

I leaned over the roof, bow in hand now, and drew.

Power Increase filled the shot with that strange pressure. Focused Shot narrowed the world to the slug’s milky eye. The bowstring bit into my fingers.

I almost loosed.

Then the moving apple slug slid over the hidden scrap metal near the trench gap.

The thin metal edge bowed, sprang up, and tore into the underside. It wasn’t a clean kill. Not even close. But the slug recoiled, turned the wrong direction, and slid right into the stake line.

“Yes,” I hissed.

The stakes caught it along the side. It screamed and rolled, which just made more points dig in.

The first apple slug died then, body collapsing into black dust.

XP Gained: 30 XP.

A heartbeat later, the second followed.

XP Gained: 30 XP.

Skill increased:Trap Making: Level 5, Novice.

Technique unlocked: Kill Channel.Technique description: Improves placement of simple hazards that guide hostile movement into damaging terrain. Enhances instinctive awareness of approach lanes, funnel points, and trap overlap when using natural or improvised materials.

The technique downloaded into my brain while I was still crouched on the roof. For one second, the whole yard became lines.

Not real lines. Not glowing blue game stuff. Just knowing. The trenches had direction. The stakes had optimal paths of injury. The dirt berms exerted pressure, guiding the monsters like the banks of a river. The gaps in my traps showed themselves, holes in my defenses where a slug might make it through.

“Oh,” I breathed. “That would have been nice an hour ago.”

Six dead. Two left. Middle yard and front yard.

The middle yard slug was halfway to the porch and the apex of the V trench spike trap.

The stakes took it low in the slug gut as it slithered near the porch.

It thrashed, body lifting, tentacles snapping in every direction. One tentacle struck a stake and broke it. Another slapped dirt out of the berm. It was hurt, not dead.

I drew on it.

“Hold still, you wet garbage bag.”

Focused Shot narrowed everything. The eye. The mouth. The fold of flesh. I aimed for the mouth, but just as I was about to release, the slug jerked sideways and drove itself deeper into the stake bed.

The System chimed.

XP Gained: 30 XP.

The arrow stayed on the string. I let out the breath I had been holding. Seven dead. The front yard slug screamed, screech… yeah, that was it: a screeching wail.

I turned.

It had almost reached the front door, and the ladder. I set the bow down and grabbed the last two javelins.

The roof slope was not designed for heroic spear-throwing. My boots slipped on the shingles as I moved toward the front. I dropped to one knee near the peak and looked down over the gutter.

The slug was below, moving across the front lawn. Black body. Wet grass. Six tentacles. Mouth open.

Too far for a cinderblock. Close enough for a throw, maybe. Maybe was a terrible word in this situation.

I took the first javelin in my right hand. My palm was slick with sweat, so I wiped it on my pants. The point wobbled.

Throwing Weapons was only level one. Which meant the System had given me the grand and majestic power of chucking things with a slight modicum of awareness.

I threw.

The javelin fell hard and struck the slug’s back, but the angle was wrong. It carved through skin and bounced out, spinning across the grass.

Black blood sprayed.

The slug screamed, turned toward the house, and its tentacles lashed up.

One hit the gutter.

The gutter ripped free with a metallic shriek and swung down.

“Mom is going to kill me if the slugs don’t.”

I grabbed the last javelin. The slug bunched. Monster Reading screamed at my instincts without words.

I threw myself flat.

Tentacles snapped over the roof edge. One caught my boot heel and yanked.

For one horrible second, the world tilted.

My stomach shot into my throat.

The tentacle tightened around my heel, slick and strong, trying to drag me off the roof.

“Oh, fuck no!”

I kicked with my other foot. Once. Twice. The tentacle held.

I reached for the hatchet at my belt.

My fingers found the handle, and I pulled it up.

I swung down. The hatchet bit into black flesh. True Bite made the cut sink cleanly into the tentacle. The tentacle snapped back, half-severed, spraying black ichor across my pants and yanking me off the roof.

The slug screamed.

Skill increased:Axe Wielding: Level 6, Novice.

“Not now!” I hit the ground hard and rolled, and rolled.

I tore the javelin out of the ground where it had landed, and threw it, no style, no grace, no form, just with everything I had. Just panic and gravity.

The javelin drove into the open mouth as black tentacles shot toward me.

I jumped backward, putting as much distance as I could from the flailing tentacle.

The slug convulsed.

It reared up, mouth ring stretched wide around the wood. The javelin had gone deep but not deep enough. The creature thrashed, tentacles whipping the front lawn, tearing grass into strips.

The first javelin was lying in the grass a few feet from me. I picked it up and timed the shot between the flailing appendages.

“Die,” I yelled. “Die, die, die.”

Focused Shot narrowed my view, and I threw.

For one breath, nothing happened as the second javelin became the neighbor of the first in its mouth.

Then the body collapsed, and black smoke drifted up.

XP Gained: 30 XP.

The front lawn went quiet.

My whole body shook.

A soft chime came.

Skill increased:Throwing Weapons: Level 2, Novice.

Total XP: 295.

Eight.

I counted them again because my brain did not believe it.

Creek one. Creek two. Side one. Side two. Apple one. Apple two. Middle yard. Front yard.

Eight. Eight slugs dead. No screaming. No wet crawling. No tentacles scraping the wall. No horse panicking up the road.

Just the creek babbling, leaves shifting, and my own blood pounding in my ears.

Then the System chimed again.

Skill increased:Trap Making: Level 6, Novice.

“Oh, sweet, yay, I’m alive…” I whispered weakly. My calf was bleeding, and my pants were torn. I was sweaty and dirty.

When I got up, my knees almost folded. I caught myself against the siding, leaving a black smear on Mom’s house.

“Sorry.”

The yard stank.

Sap. Mud. black blood. Torn grass. The sharp stink of fear sweat. The slugs were gone, dissolved into dust, but the damage remained. Stakes broken. Cinder blocks cracked. Gutters torn down. Dirt thrown everywhere.

The backyard looked like a drunk beaver had gotten a hold of it.

I walked to the patio porch chair and collapsed.

The chair creaked under me. I leaned back, bow across my lap, hatchet still in my hand because my fingers refused to let go.

I breathed.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

For one minute, maybe two, maybe ten, I did nothing.

I just sat there in Mom’s ruined backyard, staring at the trenches and broken stakes and black stains of dirt and mess, breathing.

“Well, guess recovery and body are getting a star. I’m exhausted, no way I can keep going if I don’t…” I said, tilting my head back and closing my eyes.  

“System purchases two stars, and places one in Body and one in Recovery,” I said, waiting the half-second before the warm, tingling feeling of having the stars applied filled me.

Then I waited.