Chapter 30: Gifts Of The Minibar

Bizarrely, the first room we opened with the master keys was clean. I couldn’t believe it, this close to those things, but I guess they didn’t like clean rooms. And it was locked. Not that a locked door would have stopped them for long.

The first thing Fred did was head over to the minibar, atop a mini-fridge, break open the lock using his sword as a crowbar, and twist off the cap of a blue bottle, drinking it. Then, he grabbed another, drank it. Then, another, but he stopped, looked around, “Uhm, anyone want a drink?”

Dylan and Bent continued stripping the fighter’s corpse in the other room. It was easier, they thought, to just strip it there. Before I’d left, Dylan seemed skilled at the task, moving without hesitation, undoing the various pieces of armor. There was zero chance he’d have known how to do so back on the ship. He’d have figured it out eventually, but certainly not been skilled in it, as he was now.

In the new room, Marci thumbed the bathroom, saying, “Me and Ave are going to clean up this weapon we found.”

Ave looked at Fred, back at Marci, to Fred again, nodding, “I, too, would like a drink.”

“First,” Marci took her by the arm, “into the bathroom. Then, drink. Yes?”

Ave took a deep breath. “Yes.” They went into the bathroom. I could hear water running shortly.

That just left me. “Yeah, Fred, pass me one. Any single serving whiskey there?” I sat down on another chair, closer to the window, across from Fred, who’d taken an office chair in front of a desk.

He held up a brown bottle. “This one says cognac.”

“That works.” I took it from him and sipped. It tasted like blackberries and leather. Fine leather, mind you, not that cheap trog armor I was wearing, though I wouldn’t recommend the stuff to a friend. After that fight and despite the taste, drinking it felt heavenly, my arms lighter, and I sat on a nearby chair. “You know, I could use a shower. We might have to open up another room if the girls have messed up this one too much.”

“We’re just going to be fighting a bunch more baddies soon. You said we’re going up to destroy the altar.”

“Yeah, true. No point in waiting. They’re probably preparing even now. Assuming, that is, an intelligent person or creature set all these altars up. Pass me another.”

“The same?”

“No.”

“Here you go.”

When I twisted off the cap, I checked, and he did, indeed, pass me the same bottle. Well, more liquid leather, I guess. I took this one slower.

There was a loud smashing sound from the bathroom, like someone had taken a sledgehammer to a marble counter.

Fred smiled. “Sure doesn’t sound like cleaning to me.”

“Not at all. That’s more like breaking.”

“Or perhaps smashing.”

Another crashing sound, followed by a thud. “Definitely smashing. Testing it you think?”

“Yeah.” Fred’s little bottle was empty, and he set it atop the nearby counter. “Seeing what that skull can do.”

“What’re you drinking?”

Picking up a new bottle, he looked at the label, “Whiskey.” Then, he twisted off the lid and upturned it into his mouth. “Not bad.”

“I’m getting the feeling that you don’t actually care what you’re drinking.”

“Not at the moment, no.” He stared off into space for a moment. “Not after that.”

After a short while, Marci walked out, saying, “You’ll never guess what it is!”

From my chair, I said, “I’m thinking a club of some sort, with a mean, post-apocalyptic skull on the top.”

“Nope! The skull is not a part of the weapon. It was just stuck on top.”

“Huh?”

Avery entered the room, her forearms and hands completely clean, but blood, red and brown tissue, and grey bits everywhere else, and she was carrying a bar of gleaming metal almost as long as a sword, with a metal hammerhead atop it, square on one side, fat needle tapered to a sharp point on the other. “Check this beauty out!” She passed it to me.

Even with both hands, the weight was unexpected, pulling my arms down. “Holy, this is heavy!” Up close, the metal was made of layers upon layers, like Damascus steal. The head wasn’t fitted on but extended naturally from the shaft, it was forged as a single piece. “This is remarkable, Ave. And beautiful. And heavy! I can’t believe you can lift it.” I passed it back to her.

She picked it up with her right hand, as if it weighed no more than a coffee cup. “Heavy is good for hammers, Boss.”

“I hope that can damage the undead, like my sword.”

“What’s that? My hammers worked fine on the zombies.”

“It’s the other creatures,” Fred said, between emptying the little bottles into his mouth. “My sword did nothing to them. I stabbed straight through it, and it took me down.”

“Hey!” Dylan shouted from the doorway, “What do you think?” He had on a plate mail chest piece, with plate armor buckled to his arms and legs, and gauntlets on each hand. Not a full suit, but the next best thing. I couldn’t tell if the metal was rusty, but it was caked with dirt and dried blood.

“Dylan!” Marci put her hands over her mouth.

“What’s that?”

“You didn’t clean it!” She headed over to him, taking him by the arm, “There’s a bathroom right here. Let’s get that off you, then wash it off.”

As they headed for the bathroom, Dylan asked, “Did you wash yours? I thought you just put it on?”

“The sink is right here and the soap dispenser is full . . .”

Bent watched them go, then sat down on one of two beds in the room, the one closest to us. “Oh, is that what you found, Ave? A new war hammer. Very nice, suits you. Hey, Fred, pass me a bottle. Loot, liquor, XP. Not a bad life.”

***

Dylan jumped out of the bathroom, arms raised, with a chest plate, shoulder scales, forearm and lower leg plates all strapped on, gauntlets covering his wrists. “Taa-daa! What do you think of my new threads?” It was not shiny, like incorrect Arthurian tales, but a darkened patina, lots of little cuts and dents. Still, it was much better than the trashy leather armor he was wearing before. That I was still wearing.

Fred lifted a little glass in a toast, “You look like a medieval football player. But deadly.”

“It looks pretty good on you, Dylan,” said Bentley. “You’re a real fighter, now.”

“I’m glad you found some better armor. That’ll help a lot,” I said. We were gearing up. What a strange thought. I focused on what to say next. “Alright, guys, listen up! First things first, potion count.”

“You want another drink?” he asked, going into the minibar for another.

“No thanks, Fred. Everyone, how many potions do we have left? I’m out.”

“Me too,” said Marci, “but I have that one cure disease potion.”

“Ok.”

Ave said, “I have one left.”

“I used up mine,” said Bentley. “Dylan?”

“I’ve got one.”

“And you, Fred?”

He passed Ave a little bottle, then pulled out the last remaining ones, “Nope. All out.” He smiled, holding a five bottles in his hand, “Just these.”

“We only have two left, then. People,” I tried to be stern, looking at Fred, Ave, then everyone else in turn, “we have to be careful. We cannot go running off into danger. We no longer have a margin for error. Two potions is only two serious injuries. And we are fighting monsters in here. I want to see tight formations. We move and fight as a team. Got it?”

“Yeah, Boss.”

“Yes.”

Marci gave me a half smile, “Of course.”

“Will do, Boss.”

Bent spoke last, “Certainly.”

“Good. Alright, we’re going for the next altar soon. We know it’s on the top floor. First, as we move through barriers of any kind, or hallways, let me search for traps. They’re deadly here.”

Ave looked at the ground, shuffling her feet. Fred patted her on the shoulder.

“No blame, ok? No one is being blamed for anything. Second, when the fight happens, we try to stick together. If we see those monsters, only my sword seems to harm them and Bent’s fire. So, Fred and Ave, you guys will have to take any other kind of monster – stay away from these guys! We can’t afford you going down. If there aren’t other monsters, we’ll harass these. Ave, you keep them at bay with your hammers, I’ll try to stab them. Bent will use fire when possible.

“If we see other monsters,” I gestured at Bentley for this, “we’re expecting a wizard at the third altar-”

“-a necromancer,” he corrected me.

“Right. Probably very dangerous, can probably cast spells like you and Marci. Maybe even better as he’s been here longer. So, we’ll take him out first, then deal with whatever undead he has protecting him. Everyone got it?”

“Yes, Boss,” said Fred and Ave. The others nodded.

“Third, how do you want to do this? Up the stairs or the elevator shaft?”

“I vote stairs,” said Fred. “More XP that way.”

“And,” said Ave, “we can take out zombies easily now.”

“Which way is he least expecting? The necromancer?” asked Marci.

“Uh, well. If it were me,” said Bent, “I’d trap the shit out of the elevator shaft. Think about it, that’s where his – have we decided it’s a he now? – weakest point is. No guards in there. So, the stairway might be easier.”

Marci said, “Unless there are worse monsters guarding the higher we go.”

“True.”

“I don’t like traps,” said Ave.

Fred folded his arms, “Me either. They’re super not fair.”

“And,” said Marci, “we only have one trapper. And we can’t guarantee you’ll get every single one of them. The stairway might be safer.”

“I’m just worried about you guys,” I looked at Fred, Ave and Dylan, “wearing out by the time we get to the top.”

“I won’t wear out, Boss. Got all this booze to burn off now.”

“And I want to try out my new hammer.” She looked at it with a gaze better given to lovers and ran her hand down its shaft.

“Dylan?”

“I’m feeling much better. I also vote stairs.”

“Well,” I smiled, “looks like we have a plan.”