Abyssal Border Wall Protocol: Ch 8 (Rough Draft) (Patreon)

Chapter 8: Yard Work and Curb Appeal

It took thirty minutes to recover, just sitting before I got up and went inside to get water and a snack. I poured hydrogen peroxide over the cut on my right calf, then alcohol for good measure; who knew what kind of cooties those slug monsters had. I bandaged it with some gauze. The cut had already stopped bleeding, and if this had been before, my mom would have taken me to get stitches. There was no way that was going to happen right now, so I just hoped it would heal fine.

I thought it would, as the star in recovery was already doing a lot to make me feel better. Instead of feeling completely spent as I had before the star, now I felt like I had just had a long session at the gym. A little wobbly and a little like jello, but not dead tired.

The star in body was already helping. I felt more solid, stronger, and like I was going to get a second wind at any moment.

I drank more water and sat on the couch with the first aid kit open between my feet. The house was quiet except for the groan of old boards and the far-off sound of the creek in the back. That creek had once been a river, an ocean, a swamp full of zombies, a moat around a castle, and a portal to all kinds of childhood nonsense Liz and I made up when the world still had the decency to make sense.

Now it was a spawn point for real monsters created or, more aptly, brought by the system.

“Great,” I said, pulling the tape tight around the bandage on my calf. “Childhood imagination was now real.”

My calf throbbed, but not the way it should have. The Recovery Star had turned the pain from a screaming red alarm into something smaller, something I could put in a box and set on a shelf. It still hurt. I was not some comic book hero, and the System had not blessed me with the power to ignore gashes in my leg. But the bleeding had stopped. The skin around the cut had pulled tight. The heat of healing moved under the bandage like I had a warm cloth wrapped around the wound.

The Body Star was strange.

Everything felt like me, but with the volume turned up on solidity in my physical body. When I stood, my weight settled through my legs with more confidence. When I picked up the water jug, it came up easier than it should have, by the metric of doing the same action the day before. It was not weightless, not even close, as it still had mass and I still had to use my arms, but my arms answered with more than they had yesterday, more strength.

I flexed one hand. The knuckles popped. “Okay,” I said. “Not going to complain about that.”

I opened my status page.

Abyssal Border Warrior Status Page:

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

XP Pool: 95.Level: 0.Star Rank: 4 Stars out of 10.Border Title: Drafted.

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

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

Ninety-five XP, it looked like a fortune, but I knew it was barely a drop in the ocean of XP I would need to free Liz. To free anyone. Ninety-five XP was enough for messages, transfers, maybe some kind of emergency purchase if I found one. It was not enough for another Star, nor was it enough to fix the world or free anyone.

But it was something, and Mom and Liz had nothing unless I gave them something. I pulled up the tower search menu.

Kathleen Barnes.

Elizabeth McKnight.

My thumb hovered there, or whatever counted as a thumb when I was selecting things with my mind. The System made that part feel natural, which was creepy in a way I did not have time to dwell on. Ninety-five XP. One Star was one hundred. If I kept it, one more slug tomorrow would get me enough for another upgrade. Motion, maybe. Or Will. Or more Body. There were arguments for all of them, and I could hear them stacking up in my head, neat and useful.

Then I thought of Mom and Alison in their room. I thought of Liz in that grey cell with no window.

“Shit,” I said. “Right.”

I selected Mom first.

XP transfer: Kathleen Barnes.Amount: 45 XP.Transfer fee: 1 XP.

Confirm?

“Yes.”

XP transfer complete.

Then Liz.

XP transfer: Elizabeth McKnight.Amount: 45 XP.Transfer fee: 1 XP.

Confirm?

“Yes.”

XP transfer complete.

XP Pool: 3.

I stared at the three. 3 XP. From ninety-five to three in two breaths. “That,” I said to the ceiling, “is what we call responsible financial ruin.”

No one answered.

Which was good, because if the System had said Statement accepted, I might have tried to fight the ceiling.

I sat there for a moment, feeling both lighter and dumber. Lighter because Mom and Liz had options now. Dumber because I had sixteen slugs coming tomorrow and enough XP to send a text that said, help.

No, not even that.

Text cost: 1 XP per 10 words.

Help would be affordable. Dying would cost extra.

A message icon lit up.

Message received: Elizabeth McKnight.

My chest tightened, and I opened it.

Elizabeth to Justin:Figured out room. 100 XP open personal crafting room. 1000 XP Joint Resource Commons. Crafting resources: 10 XP. Love you.

Message cost paid by sender: 2 XP.

I read it again. Then again.

One hundred and one thousand XP.

The number sat there, bright orange and stupid.

“One thousand,” I said.

Three slugs worth of XP had felt like a lot yesterday. Eight slugs today had almost tossed me off the roof and lost me a leg. Tomorrow’s sixteen would be worth four hundred and eighty if every single one died and I did not end up as black dust or something worse.

Four hundred and eighty.

Not enough.

Thirty-two the next day would be nine hundred and sixty.

A side of danger with math homework.

I leaned back against the couch and looked toward the ceiling. “Liz, I love you too. I saw the message. One thousand XP. I’ll get it.”

I paused.

“I don’t know how without doing something stupid, so that’s probably what I’ll have to do.”

Another chime came before I could spiral.

Message received: Kathleen Barnes.

This message had a small play symbol beside it.

One-way audio and visual message.Duration: 3 seconds.

I selected play.

For one second, it was her face. Her eyes were red. Her hair was pulled back in the messy bun she used when she was stressed and trying not to show it. Alison was tucked against her side, waving with both hands, eyes too wide, mouth trying to smile.

The image moved, panning around the room. It looked like she was moving a camera with her hands.

A living room. Small couch. Low table. A little kitchen with cabinets. Two doors, maybe bedrooms. A window with warm light beyond it, the outside; they had a window.

Mom’s voice came over the image. “We’re okay. We have an upgraded room, as I already have kids. Need 100 XP to unlock crafting room, then another 1000 to unlock the resource commons area, not sure what that is. Can't get hurt; we have food and water, and can watch you and others. Love you.” She spoke fast, real fast, getting her credits' worth out of the video and audio message.

The video ended. I sat there with my mouth open. I played it again. Mom’s face. Alison waving. Living room. Kitchen. Two doors. Window.

The fourth time, I stopped before the end because my eyes were burning, and I was not in the mood to cry; that would not keep me alive.

“They’re okay,” I said. My voice cracked on okay.

I rubbed at my face. “They’re okay. Right, she did that so I would not worry… Right, need to worry about myself.”

Mom had spent thirty XP on that. Three seconds at ten XP per second. Thirty XP for a video so I could see her face and know Alison was alive. Thirty XP from the forty-five I had sent her.

“Mom,” I said, looking up. “I love you, that really put me at ease… it’ll make it easier to focus, thank you. Love you both.” I blew a kiss up to the sky. I still had no idea where they could see me from, but I figured it was the thought that counted.

I laughed once. It came out rough. “Ha… Alison, if you can hear me, I love you, Butterfly Mush. I saw you wave. Good wave. Ten out of ten.”

I got up because sitting still was not going to get the yard ready for tomorrow. My leg felt better; it was a gash but not to the bone. It stung when I moved but was not debilitating.

I spent the rest of the day repairing.

The backyard looked worse from the ground than it had from the chair. Trenches cut across the grass in thick brown lines. Stakes were snapped, bent, twisted, or missing. One cinder block had cracked in half. The gutter hung off the front like the house had given up and let its tongue fall out. Black stains marked the dirt where the slugs had died. The System took the bodies, but it did not take all of the wet streaks they left behind.

“Lazy trash service,” I said. “Takes the corpse, leaves the blood, or juice, whatever the hell it is.”

I started with the front yard. That was where I would stand tomorrow just outside my trench line. No roof for me anymore, no way was I getting trapped.

The roof had worked for eight because eight had been a number I could understand. Sixteen was not that. Sixteen meant they would come from too many angles. Sixteen meant the roof would pin me in place or one might spawn up there. That was a big nope.

Tomorrow, I needed to be bait. That thought did not feel great.

I stood at the tip of the V-shaped trench I had dug the day before. The two lines of the V angled outward from that point— one toward the side of the house, one toward the driveway and the front ditch. Beyond them, more trenches and stake beds fanned out in layers. Together they forced a path through the yard. Not a perfect path. Nothing about my setup was perfect. But if I stood near the tip, the slugs would crawl toward me and funnel through the gauntlet to get there.

“Gauntlet,” I said, testing the word. “That sounds better than mud holes full of sticks.”

I walked the trench lines and let Kill Channel settle behind my eyes, intuition guiding my repair to improve my slug-impaling garden.

The technique did not show blue lines or magic arrows or any of that game stuff. It was more useful and more frustrating than that. It made my head understand pressure. The house was pressure. The berms were pressure. The stakes were punishment. The gaps were invitations. The slugs would not think, not the way a person thought, but they wanted the shortest path to me. If I made the shortest path to me pass through harm, then that was their problem.

Which was great, because I had a lot of problems to hand out to these slugs, and with the rest of the day I was going to make this yard into even more of a nightmare from a kids trap making fever dream.

I pulled broken stakes and replaced them. I cut new ones from the pile of creek wood, chopping down new trees when I needed. The hatchet fit my hand better now, or my hand fit the hatchet better. True Bite made each chop sink into the wood with less wasted motion and effort. Rough Hewing helped strip the ends into points with fewer swings of the hatchet. The skills just made everything faster.

Thunk.

Thunk.

Thunk.

The mallet drove each stake into the inner slope of the ditch. I angled them toward the place a slug body would glide across it as it tried to crawl up and out. Too flat, and the body would slide over. Too steep, and the point might snap. There was a middle ground. Trap Making knew what it was, and as the skill increased, so did I. Woodcraft helped shape all the spears and spikes, and I think make them stronger.

My skills were starting to talk to each other, to work together to reinforce what I was doing, becoming more natural to me. I could see how aspects would play a role in survival but how skills would be crucial as well.

“Congratulations, Justin,” I said, driving another stake. “Your resume now includes apocalypse landscaper.”

I widened the front ditch and deepened the middle. Not too deep. A deep trench might stop them but stopping them was not the point. I wanted them crawling. I wanted them dragging their heavy black bodies over wood and scrap, and through every mean little idea I could put in their way if one got stuck and died after ten minutes of bleeding into the dirt, fine. I had all day as long as they did not reach me.

That was the difference. I did not need to kill them fast. I needed to not get killed. That was a very different job.

By late afternoon, the front ditch was wider and deeper with more stakes, as this would be my last line of traps before the slugs reached me. I stacked cinder blocks near where I would stand as well as three bundles of javelins. Each had five in them, and I staggered them so if I had to retreat, I would find another bundle waiting.

If a slug got out of the ditch and made it through the spikes onto the clear grass, I would throw. Until then, I would wait and see just how many of the slugs my traps would kill.

“Let the yard work for you, not against you.” It sounded like something from a bad motivational poster in a hardware store. Still, it helped.

I checked the leaderboard before dusk. I should not have, but of course I did; how could I not wonder what the cost of the apocalypse was going to be? There are some doors the human mind tells itself not to open, and then the hand reaches out and opens them anyway because curiosity has never had any respect for good sense.

Abyssal Border Wall Leaderboard:Reality Iteration: Earth Prime Alpha 437-T-369.Border Zone: 0.5 Training Boundary.

Total Integrated Male Warrior Population: 4,168,827,919.Active Abyssal Border Warriors: 2,819,905,315.Dead Abyssal Border Warriors: 1,348,922,604.

I stared at the number.

One billion, three hundred forty-eight million, nine hundred twenty-two thousand, six hundred and four dead.

The active and dead numbers still added up to the starting total, which was nice in the way a clean receipt is nice after someone burns your house down. The System could balance the books. Great. Wonderful. Civilization was bleeding out across the dirt, sand, and pavement of our drafted civilization, but at least the accounting department had retained professional standards.

My stomach tightened. Almost a third of the men were gone.

Dead.

Men who had been at work. Men who had been asleep. Men who had been old, young, sick, strong, mean, kind, drunk, scared, brave, stupid, alone. Fathers. Brothers. Husbands. Sons. Boys … I froze.

“System, what happened to the male children?” I hated I even had to ask, but the thought of some scared eight-year-old facing one of the slugs made my stomach turn.

System Help answer:

Integration age: any male protector who was under the age of eighteen was housed with their maternal mother, or female guardian, in the 0.01 tower iteration, until they turned eighteen, when they would be transferred to the level one combat zone of the abyssal border wall.

“Shit, okay not as bad, so maybe they had a month or a few days before… not as bad as it could have been, at least the kids would have a chance. But starting out of the tutorial…” It was not as bad as it could have been but was still not great.

And I was standing in my front yard checking my rank like this was the worst fantasy football league ever created.

I opened Monsters Killed.

Leaderboard Category: Monsters Killed.Justin Barnes: 16 confirmed monster terminations.Current Rank: 34,706,881 out of 2,819,905,315.

Sixteen.

That was my slug yesterday, two the next day, four after that, eight today, and Old Man Tom’s rock thing. Hank’s monster still did not count under my kills, even though I had gotten the XP after Hank died.

The System could tell the moral difference between a kill and a payout, which was a strange place to draw the line after abducting a species.

I opened XP Gained.

Leaderboard Category: XP Gained.Justin Barnes: 540 total XP gained.Current Rank: 17,912,440 out of 2,819,905,315.

I blinked at that. Top eighteen million. Out of nearly three billion living men.

“That sounds impressive,” I said. “Right up until you remember the entry fee is murder slugs and trauma.” I closed the leaderboard.

Night came in the strange wave of darkness that made the old world feel dead all over again. The light bled out of the yard. The trenches turned black. The stakes became shadows. Above, the multiverse opened like a wound full of stars, galaxies and oddities trapped in glass.

I looked up for a while. Liz would have loved it. Hated it. Wanted to measure it. Wanted to name things. Wanted to argue with the System about classifications until it gave her a better answer.

Mom would pray or meditate. Alison would ask if the universe bubbles could pop.

I went inside.

The house smelled like dirt, sweat, beans, old wood, and smoke. The rooms were dark without power, lit by the small candle on the coffee table. Shadows moved across the wall when the flame bent. I checked the front door, then laughed because the front door would not stop anything coming tomorrow.

I still checked it.

Some habits are stupid. Some stupid habits keep you human.

I ate peaches, peanut butter, and cold beans. I drank water until my stomach felt like a sloshing bucket. Then I sat on the couch with the bow across my lap and Old Bessy near my foot.

I opened the system menu to check my status page and saw two new options available.

System menu:

Countdown: 18:02:08

Leader Board.

Female Progenitor content.

Abyssal Border Warrior Status page.

Map. (locked).

System help.

Tower shop.

“Hmm, female progenitor content, and tower shop.” I checked the shop first.

There were two sections one for system tower goods and skills and a progenitor-crafted section. I pulled up the progenitor crafted section first, and a grid window with small pictures of items popped up. I could filter it or search for a specific item, and everything cost XP. An item description would appear when I selected an item, as well as information about the item's creator.

“This must be the crafting stuff Mom and Liz were talking about,” I said. Picking something at random.

Tower Shop Item:Trisha’s wet panties.Item Class: Crude.Quality: Standard.Description: Hand-sewn panties soaked in the personal—

I closed the item before the sentence could finish.

“Nope,” I said. “No. Absolutely not. Really, what the hell, already…” I chose something else.

I selected another item, this time avoiding anything under the adult filter.

Tower Shop Item:Crude Standard Bedsheet Rope.Creator: Maribel Horne.Item Class: Crude.Quality: Standard.Description: A torn bedsheet twisted and knotted into a short rope. Knots placed at both ends and center for grip.Cost: 10 XP.

That was more like it.

A bad rope was still a rope. A rope could tie something down, drag something, hang something from a branch, or maybe save someone’s life. Ten XP, though, was too expensive for what looked like laundry.

“Okay, items made by the women in the tower, good to know. Right, let's look at system items and skills.” I said, switching the menu.

System shop:

Items and resources.

Skills.

The items and resources were much like the progenitor section, little windows that I could filter and sort by any metric I could think of. Most of the items were basic, like bolts of cloth, bars of metal, herbs for potions, basic potions, simple foods, armor, and the like, that could all be bought for XP.

The skill section was eye-opening, with millions upon millions of skills that could all be purchased for XP. I selected a few to compare.

Skill:

Sword Master, level 1, Novice. Cost: 800 XP

Water Manipulation, level 1, Novice. Cost: 1000 XP. Locked.

Sprinting, level 1, Novice. Cost: 150 XP.

The skills cost anywhere from 100 XP to over ten thousand for one; each would unlock the skill at the novice level. When I focused on a skill, I had the system pull a window up telling me how much XP was required to level the skill with XP. It varied, and I think it was based on the rarity of the skill and how hard it was to level.

“Right, let's see what the content is about,” I said, switching the menus.

A system message flashed before the screen appeared.

System message:

Male protector may view content created by female progenitors for free, though some content may be locked behind an XP cost. While viewing content, the male protector view will be disabled to ensure privacy; only when the screen is closed, or the menu option is changed, will the protector view be reestablished to your followers.

Follower count has now been added to the leaderboard.

“Okay…” I said as the screen shifted.

There were thousands of videos. No. Tens of thousands, millions of videos already.

Rows and rows of thumbnails filled the air in front of me. Some were simple. Women sitting on cots, talking into the invisible System screen. Some were crafting demonstrations. Some were cooking with whatever the tower provided. Some were messages to husbands, brothers, sons, or strangers. Some were crying appeals for help.

And some were naked.

The categories sat along the side.

Trending.Newest.Most Followed.Survival Logs.Crafting Tutorials.Protector Appeals.Progenitor Journals.Adult Content.Locked Content.Emergency Requests.

Emergency Requests had a red marker beside it.

I almost selected it. Then I stopped. My hand hovered in the air. There were too many. Too many faces. Too many voices. Too many women staring into the same invisible window, trying to reach someone who might be alive, might be dead, might care, might have enough XP to do anything to help them.

A woman in one thumbnail sat with her knees pulled to her chest, lips moving in a silent preview. Another held up a strip of cloth and demonstrated how to twist it into cord. Another had a bright smile that did not reach her eyes. Another had clearly understood the rules faster than everyone else and already had lighting, an angle, a persona, and a title card.

The apocalypse had not killed marketing, and one thing was clear: sex still sold.

I scrolled down.

Some women begged for followers because followers meant visibility. Visibility meant XP. XP meant food upgrades, crafting materials, better rooms, maybe access to other people.

Some women were selling comfort. Some were selling instructions. Some were selling hope. Some were selling the oldest assets humans had, themselves.

A thumbnail expanded when my eyes lingered too long.

A woman with dark hair sat on a thin bed in a grey room like Liz’s. Her hands shook in her lap, but her voice was steady.

“Day three. I figured out the sink produces clean water, but only from the left handle. The right handle gives nutrient solution if you ask the System for basic ration liquid. It tastes like wet cardboard had a baby with cough syrup, but it keeps you from getting dizzy. Do not waste XP on flavoring unless you already have crafting unlocked. It's an option if you're sick of the food cubes. Save for tools first.”

The preview ended.

I stared at the frozen image.

“That,” I said, “is useful.”

I selected the search bar and typed Liz’s name first.

Elizabeth McKnight.

No public content found.

Good.

I let out a breath I had not realized I was holding.

Then I thought about searching Mom for half a second, then realized she was a grown woman and could do whatever she wanted, and it was none of my business. No way was I going to open that can of worms.

It was clear that all the women in the content were older; some were eighteen, but it seemed the tower system did not allow anyone under the border guardian age to participate in the full tower economy.

I closed the search and returned to the main page.

I looked at the menu again. Follower count had been added to the leaderboard.

Follower Count: 11.Known Followers: 2.

Elizabeth McKnight.Kathleen Barnes.Unknown Followers: 9.

“Eleven,” I said.

I stared at the number for a second.

Mom and Liz made two.

Which meant nine women I did not know had somehow found me and decided that watching my yard-based slug extermination business was worth their time.

“Weird, but okay…” he said, a little more self-conscious now I knew others were watching.

The candle hissed, then I lay down in the dark on the couch. It was time to sleep.

“Love you, Liz. Goodnight, Mom and Butterfly Mush.”

Sleep did not come at once. It came in scraps. I saw slugs in every creak of the house. I heard tentacles in the branches outside. My calf itched under the bandage. My hands pulsed. My mind kept repeating the number.

Sixteen. Sixteen. Sixteen.

When sleep finally took me, it was not a peaceful fading or drifting off but under the insurmountable tied of inevitability.