“I see them,” Bob said. “One-fifty meters.”

  “Eyes on target,” Josh confirmed. “Lots.”

  A clump of figures came into view. At least twenty, thirty of them. Roland clenched his teeth as his enhanced Perception let him see their stat boxes.

  Ratling (Beastkin)

  Weak Lesser Minion, F-Grade

  Health 12 Endurance 12 Mana 9

  Ratling Marauder (Beastkin)

  Minion, F-Grade

  Health 24 Endurance 16 Mana 12

  About half were the weak kind that Roland had first encountered, but the rest were a tougher variety. They carried the same trash weapons from his first encounter: knives made with chunks of glass, shields made from hubcaps, tire irons tipped with pigeon skulls, and more.

  “Go after the Marauders first if you can,” Roland said, looking through the SFAR’s sights. “Engaging.”

  The floating text boxes helped him select a target; he put the red dot on a Marauder’s chest and squeezed the trigger. The kick of the heavier rifle felt like a light push against the leather jacket.

  The round struck the Marauder in the collarbone; the rat-man’s momentum pitched it face-down onto the dirt road, health bar dropping to zero before it hit the ground. Another rat behind the first target squealed as the .308 bullet, barely slowed down after going through its buddy, tore off one of its arms at the elbow.

  As he shifted aim to another rat, he heard the lighter reports of the AR-15s as Josh and Bob serviced their own targets.

  A hundred and fifty meters sounded like a long distance – over half again the length of a football field – but in modern combat it was basically point-blank range, and it didn’t give shooters a long time to engage targets. A running man could cover that distance in twenty-five seconds or less. The Ratlings’ stubby legs made them a tad slower, but not enough to matter.

  Roland fired three more times in five seconds, the time it took him to acquire a new target and pull the trigger. Two more Marauders and one basic rat went down; his precise aim got a kill with every shot. He paused to get a look at the bigger picture.

  Bob and Josh had dropped one or two rats apiece and wounded a couple more after shooting ten or fifteen times, which was pretty good under combat conditions.

  As he watched, one of the leading Marauders slapped itself in the chest as if it was trying to hit a bug that had bitten it; a second later, it collapsed limply. The 5.56 AR-15 rounds didn’t pack the punch the SFAR did but were enough to kill even the non-feeble minions.

  It wasn’t going to be enough, though.

  Roland did a quick count. After killing ten or so of the critters, over thirty Ratlings remained; they weren’t going to drop more than a third of their number before they arrived and overran their position. He took out three more as the leading rats reached the torn-down gates.

  He set the rifle down. Time to get up close and personal.

  “I’m going in,” he said. “Keep shooting, don’t worry about me.”

  The AR-15’s rounds were not going to kill him or even hurt him much, and he needed to cull the rats’ numbers before they reached the classless party.

  Roland summoned his naginata as he ran. More shots rang out behind him, and for a wonder none of them hit him. He oriented himself towards the largest clump of critters and triggered his Skill.

  Reaper’s Dash!

  His ghostly form flew through the rats, killing anyone in range. The Deadly Onslaught feat and the jacket’s bonus let him do fifty-seven points of damage per rat as he phased forward, instant death for these minions. That single dash killed more of them than his rifle marksmanship.

  The only problem was the three second cooldown at the end.

  He emerged some distance past the gate, in the middle of the road, rats everywhere around him, some twitching in the throes of death, the rest alive and pissed off. They came at him from every direction, screeching madly.

  His naginata swung in a deadly pattern, killing or maiming any Ratling it struck. Roland kept moving, using the weapon’s momentum and intricate, graceful footwork to dance through the crowd in a spinning pattern, never staying in one spot long enough to get swarmed.

  A nearby crack let him know a rifle bullet had gone past his head a little too close for comfort. He saw a tiny splash of toxic mud splash where the missed round hit. His friends’ shooting was getting faster, more frantic. Roland couldn’t stop the whole horde; plenty of rats had made it past him and continued toward the mound.

  Roland didn’t have the basic toolkit of a good tank: without a taunt, he lacked the ability to force the enemy to focus on him. Seeing that they couldn’t beat him, the rats began to avoid him and head after enemies they could hurt.

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  Reaper’s Dash reset and he used it to return to the landfill, wiping out another three or four rats along the way. He glanced at the mound as he casually kicked another Ratling in the back, the spirit spike he’d created on the toe of his boot killing it instantly.

  Josh was switching magazines and swearing nonstop. Bob didn’t try to reload the AR-15. Instead, he stood up and started blasting away with his Kel-Tec shotgun at the first rats to climb the mound.

  Off to one side, Barton dropped his Taser – a twitching Ratling showed that he had scored a hit – and picked up the spear he had left lying next to him.

  He screamed “Please! Please!” for no apparent reason as he held onto the weapon and took a step forward, then another. Behind him, Dahlia used her own Taser and dropped a machete-wielding rat a moment before Wendy put two bullets into it.

  Roland ran toward the mound, cutting down Ratlings as he went. A metal spike wielded like a spear pierced his Pants of the Wandering Monk and tore into his calf for three points of damage. The Marauder that managed that feat didn’t live long enough to feel any satisfaction; Roland slammed the butt of his naginata into its skull, crushing it.

  “Please!” Barton shouted again as he charged down the hill; his spear took a Ratling in the gut and stuck all the way to its crosspiece. The screeching rat fell on its back.

  Barton’s momentum kept him going. He pole-vaulted over the now dead rat. Roland used Uncanny Charge and caught the screaming guy before he smashed into the ground and probably broke his neck.

  His superhuman Dexterity allowed him to twist in mid-air and land on his back, cushioning Barton with his body. It wasn’t pleasant, but Roland could take the impact.

  “My glasses!” Barton screamed, squirming wildly, tears streaming down his face beneath the glasses he still had on. “I lost my glasses!”

  “They’re right on your face,” Roland told him.

  “Oh,” he said, calming down. “I thought I lost them, when I, uh, when I...”

  Roland helped him to his feet, hearing two more shots, then silence. It was over.

  “When you charged into a horde of rats like some tough guy,” he finished for him, clapping Barton on the back. “You did real good, bro. Just try not to kill yourself by running too fast, next time.”

  He was scanning the field of battle as he spoke. There were dead bodies everywhere, but only a couple of Ratlings were moving; one was crawling feebly towards him, bleeding out, and the other was staring dumbly at the stump where its forearm had been shot off. As he stepped on the crawler’s head, a final shot rang out, and the one-armed rat fell back and lay still. Good rat.

  “Next time?” Barton whispered as he sat on the ground and used a piece of cloth to wipe furiously at his glasses. “Oh, God, there is going to be a next time, isn’t there?”

  Silence reigned after that. About thirty seconds after the last Ratling died, all the bodies glowed briefly and disappeared, leaving nothing behind. No loot bags for wave events, Roland guessed.

  Roland looked at the timer.

  Seven minutes, twenty-four seconds until the second wave.

  * * *

  Bob slid a fresh magazine into his AR and did the same for Josh’s weapon. Josh was busy hugging Wendy, who was crying quietly. Dahlia’s mascara-circled eyes were dry, but she had a shell-shocked expression; sweat had drawn lines down her powdered face.

  “Drink some water. If you need to use the bathroom, go down that way and do your business,” Roland told the party.

  “Good idea,” Barton said, going down one of Trash Hill’s slopes and unzipping his pants.

  “I want a gun,” Dahlia said. “I tased one of those things – twice! – and it didn’t go down.”

  “Their fur is thick. The taser probes didn’t go deep enough, probably,” Roland said. “But that’s a negatory on the gun. You could just as easily shoot one of us.”

  “Shit, shit, shit!” she cursed.

  She looked at the reloaded Taser in disgust for a moment before turning to the Bloodykee card on its side, running a black-painted nail on its glossy cardboard surface.

  Revolting Games hadn’t spared any expense in commissioning the art for the cards. The furry trademark violation was a perfect combination of creepy and cute, its fanged mouth grinning innocently while lightning formed up behind its raised tail, leaving little doubt about which orifice it was coming from. On the background, a dark tower stood against a cloudy black background that looked pretty similar to the fake sky over their heads.

  “I need your help,” Dahlia said before starting to speak in a rhythmic cadence, stretching some words until they rhymed. “Come on, Bloody. Kee. Bloodykee. Please help me. Send your lightning, kill, kill, kill.” She repeated the words as a full-fledged chant:

  “Bloody,

  Kee,

  Bloodykee.

  Please help me.

  Send your lightning,

  Kill, kill, kill.”

  Roland saw Dahlia’s Mana bar drop from thirty-two to fourteen. The Taser began to glow red, startling Dahlia into almost dropping it.

  “You just did something,” Roland told her. “Not sure what, but it was something.”

  He handed her a Common Mana potion while he Analyzed the weapon and then her. “Drink it up, that should get your Mana back to full. And grats.”

  She looked at him with hopeful suspicion. “Grats for what?”

  “You have blessed the weapon. Now it does three points of damage on top of the basic one point, and the debuffs are much stronger.”

  “I did?”

  “You also have gained a Skill,” Roland went on. “A Rare Ritual Skill. Blessing of Bloodykee. Adds three points of Blood Lightning damage per Skill level. Like I said, grats. You’re going to get some decent Titles as soon as you are inducted.”

  “Speaking of induction, why haven’t we gotten our Classes yet?” Bob asked.

  “I’m guessing we won’t get any rewards until the end of the challenge.”

  “Great. Just great.”

  “You get better titles and achievements that way.”

  “Fat lot of good they’ll do me if I’m dead,” Bob grumbled.

  Roland couldn’t help but sympathize with his cousin, but there was nothing he could do about it.

  “Hey, Bob,” Josh said.

  Wendy had gotten herself together and was reloading the magazine of her carbine.

  “Wish you were back in the Army?” Josh continued.

  “Would be nice, just to be able to call an air strike or two on the next bunch of rats.”

  “Yeah. Hey, why was the ground all white after Little Big Horn?”

  “Stop it,” Wendy hissed at him.

  “Hey, it’s a classic joke!”

  “It’s disgusting, it’s stupid, and it’s racist.”

  “We’re about to get killed and I’m getting tone policed by my own sister,” Josh complained.

  Wendy leaned over and smacked him on the back of the head.

  “Stop it,” she growled at him.

  “One-minute warning!” Roland shouted, cutting through all the crap.

  Barton came running back. He’d forgotten to zip up, but Roland didn’t bother telling him. Bob did, making Barton flush and stammer as he took care of it.

  Now that everyone had been fed, watered, and had a potty break, he addressed the group:

  “This time, I’m heading up the road to meet them there,” he told them. “Fire at will, don’t worry about me.”

  “You sure?” Josh asked.

  “Well, the SFAR might have enough punch to get through my armor, and it will hurt, but not badly. A head shot would, but I think you’d need a fifty-cal to get through my helmet. Plink away. I mean, don’t freaking target me, but concentrate on dropping targets and let me worry about stray shots.”

  “Freaking bulletproof,” Bob said. “When do we get to be bulletproof?”

  “Get a tank Class. The higher tier the better. Mage and Cleric types get force fields that will stop small arms too.”

  “Paladin,” Bob said. “Best of both worlds.”

  “Not the best damage output,” Barton countered.

  The rules argument could have gone for a long time, but the System announcement cut it short.

  Their minute was up.