Chapter 1
December in North Philly. Three blocks from clocking out and I heard the little fuck before I saw him. Ms Patterson's little bastard of a Jack Russell. It would bark until you turned your back then go for an Achilles.
Twenty years on this route, I knew every pothole, every loose step, every demon dog that thought my ankles were chew toys.
This one was special though. Napoleon complex in a ten-pound fur suit. Eye contact was key with these demons letting them know you weren't afraid.
I stared him down while grabbing the pepper spray from my belt, not to use it, just to show the little shit I meant business.
"Yeah, I see you too, asshole," I muttered, sliding the stack of Christmas catalogs through the slot. The dog gave me one last death glare and trotted back to whatever hole it crawled out of.
Probably planning my demise for tomorrow.
Back in the day, I could've punted that dog over the fence and kept walking. Now? Now I was negotiating with a Jack Russell like it was my landlord.
The mailbag felt heavier with every step. Not just the weight though December mail was always brutal, all those catalogs for shit people couldn't afford.
Three more houses. Wilson with his broken mailbox that cut your hand if you weren't careful. Mrs. Chen who always waved from her window like I was doing her a personal favor instead of my job.
And then Ms. Kravitz, who'd probably find a way to complain about getting her mail too efficiently.
The depot smelled like burnt coffee and broken dreams. Few other carriers shuffling around like extras in a zombie movie. Nobody talked much at the end of shift. What was there to say?
We all knew the score.
I yanked open my locker. Twenty years of this shit, and what did I have to show for it? A knee that hated me, an apartment that looked like a crime scene, and a supervisor who thought "aggressively competent" was somehow a bad thing.
Found the Michael Bolton tour shirt crumpled at the bottom. Soul Provider tour, 1989. Louise bought it for me as a joke for my birthday.
Back when she thought my taste in music was charming instead of embarrassing.
Don't judge. Soul Provider is a banger of an album. It's Mike's Illmatic, his Thriller it's his m.A.A.d city, yeah I said it. Fight me.
I peeled off the postal uniform, skin still damp with December sweat and twenty years of disappointment.
The Bolton shirt was clean but not as clean as my Air Force Ones. I looked damn good for a 4...
"Davies!"
Morrison appeared like a bad rash, clipboard in hand, and an anger only middle management could keep up fulltime. Chewing on his pen like an old cowboy with a cigar.
"Yeah, boss?"
"Got another complaint about you. Mrs. Henderson says you're being 'suspiciously professional' with her packages."
I stared at him. "Come again?"
"Says you put them where she can actually reach them instead of chucking them at her door. Finds it unsettling."
"So doing my job right is... wrong?"
Morrison shrugged like this made perfect sense. "Corporate wants us to manage expectations. Can't have people thinking we care."
"Right. I'll make sure to half-ass it properly tomorrow."
"That's the spirit. See you Monday." He walked off still chomping away at the BiC pen.
I grabbed my jacket and headed out into the cold. December air hit like a slap, mixing exhaust fumes with somebody's grandmother cooking something that actually smelled good.
The walk home took me past the usual spots - Chinese store with glass thick enough to stop a bazooka, corner boys posted up like they were protecting something more valuable than a drug corner.
"Yo, Unc!"
I looked over. Three kids in hoodies that hung off them like tents. Been seeing them on this corner for months. Part of the neighborhood ecosystem now.
"What up," I called back, not stopping.
"You good, man? You looking rough."
Unc. When the hell did I become Unc? Used to be "postman." Now I was the old head they worried about out of basic human decency.
The liquor store on Germantown Ave had bulletproof glass so thick you had to shout your order. I needed that vodka. Simple as that.
The door chimed as I walked in.
"Popov. The big one," I barked at the cashier. Dude looked half asleep. Thick glasses on his acne scarred face, and an obvious disdain for anyone that interrupted his dozing. He was reaching for it when the door chimed.
Kid walked in wearing an oversized Sixers jersey. Iverson throwback. Probably seventeen. Fresh fade, nervous energy.
I saw the bulge in his waistband before he even pulled it. Smith & Wesson .38 Special, nickel plated. Every corner boy's starter piece.
His hand was shaking when he pointed it at the cashier. "Empty the register! Now!"
The cashier didn't move, he was behind thick bulletproof glass. Probably his third robbery this month. This kid was not too bright. Then the kid swung the gun toward me. "You too! Wallet!"
I looked at the kid. He was terrified. Probably from one of the projects off Diamond Street. Could've been me at fourteen years old, showing off for the boys trying to get weed money and cigars.
Could've been RJ if he'd lived to see high school. Just a stupid kid too dumb to understand the consequences that came with an armed robbery.
"Listen," I said. "You don't want to do this."
"Shut up, old head!"
"I'm serious. Whoever put you up to this, it ain't worth it." I took a step forward, hands up. Dumb move. "Just bounce. Toss that piece and go home."
"I said shut up!"
I kept moving. Thought maybe I could talk him down. Save him from this. But I was too quick, and he was too nervous.
The gun went off.
The bullet punched through my lung. I went down hard on the dirty floor. The kid's eyes went wide. Gun clattered across the linoleum. It burned. Even my breaths burned.
"Run," I tried to say, but it came out as a wheeze. Every breath pulled in less air. Blood filled my lungs, drowning me from the inside. He stood frozen. Mouth open wide.
The cashier was already on his phone. I pointed at the door, choked out "GO, THROW THE GUN!" Tasted copper. Felt wet blood bubbles popping in my chest. The kid finally bolted out onto Germantown, after picking up the piece he'd dropped after shooting me. I hoped he made it, knucklehead kid.
Couldn't pull in air. I lay there staring at the security camera, making these wet sucking sounds I'd never heard before.
Then I saw RJ. Clear as day. Six years old, grinning after his first bike ride without training wheels. "Dad! I did it! Did you see?"
I saw it, buddy. I saw everything.
Eight years gone. This was it. Bleeding out in a North Philly liquor store in a Michael Bolton shirt and fresh Forces. My blood spreading across the floor like spilled paint.
The world went white.
[Soulbound Identified]
[Survival Trigger: Protective Impulse]
[PERK UNLOCKED: EDGE OF GRAVE STRENGTH]
The first thing that came back, before sight or coherent thought, was smell. And it was an assault.
For a moment, my addled mind thought, this is it. This is hell. And it just smells like a truck stop bathroom on I-95. Figures. How wasn't I dead? I looked down. My shirt was still bloody but there was no hole. "What the fuck." I died. I'm dead.
Then I breathed deeply again, immediately wishing I hadn't.
What the fuck is this, a cave?
The ground wasn't concrete. It was slimy, yielding under my Forces with a sickening squelch, and it had a faint, green glow that pulsed like a slow heartbeat. I lifted my foot. My Nikes, crispy white with red trim came up with a sticky, snot-dragging schloooorp. A wave of pure anger washed over me. They were covered in green goo. Criminal to walk in this shit with new Nikes. And I doubted hell had a shoe store anywhere close.
I noticed the first figure in the gunk too late. The caves were dimly lit by small torches that decorated them, but there wasn't enough light to see them until I was on top of them. I almost tripped over it, catching myself against the stone wall. Holy fuck, I'd almost fallen into the green shit. Maybe I'd woken up with luck starting to fuck with me again. Been awhile, bitch, how ya been?
Then I noticed what I'd almost tripped over. A person. No. An alien. A fucking green, tattooed, brown leather bikini wearing, old Martian lady. Her throat was almost completely cut through. I could see her actual spine. It was all that had resisted whatever force had almost decapitated her. And there were more. Old grey-haired ones, and small ones. Children. Oh fuck you universe, haven't I seen enough dead kids in my life? But to be fair to whatever cosmic force ran things upstairs... my life had ended minutes ago in that liquor store.
Bodies everywhere meant I had to move. One squelching, disgusting step at a time. The sound was obscene. Slap-squish-suck. Then I heard them. Voices, far off, getting closer. Laughing. Not good laughter. The kind of sharp-edged laugh that says you're the punchline, and the punchline involves pain. Beneath the laugh, a scrape. Metal on stone.
My heart, which really should have stopped for good about five minutes ago, was now beating way too fast. And then I saw them. Four figures in hooded cloaks, standing in a semi circle, backs mostly to me. Real Renaissance fair rejects.
They had little dainty caps, leather boots. One even had leggings. Their posture, casual, arrogant, screamed unearned confidence.
They were focused on something small in the middle. A little green girl, no more than three feet tall, skinny arms, holding two nasty-looking daggers that glinted faintly.
Her eyes, when she flickered a glance towards the goons, were yellow and ferocious, darting between the four men with disturbing, calculating intensity. Not crying. Assessing.
A tiny green killing machine. She wore a necklace of what looked disturbingly like human teeth, small and sharp.
Four of 'em. Their backs turned. Tactically stupid. The kind of lazy bullshit that gets you shanked. And something inside me, the part that always hated bullies, the part I thought had died, stirred.
A tiny, stubborn ember. These four assholes were about to kill a child. A green, knife wielding child, but a child. I couldn't save him. But maybe I could save her.
Fuck It.
"Yo!" My voice cracked, pathetic and reedy. They turned, slowly, annoyed. Four pairs of unfriendly eyes looked at me.
"What up, boys? Somebody order a pizza?" The words just fell out, a reflexive shield of Ron-Davies-brand stupidity.
One of them, a big guy with a patchy, greasy beard, smirked. He looked me up and down – fat guy in a ruined Michael Bolton t-shirt, Nikes covered in glowing snot.
He glanced at his friend, a wiry, weasel-faced dude with a nasty, puckered scar bisecting his left eyebrow. The look was universal: Look at this fucking clown.
Then the wiry one moved. No warning. No monologue. Just a sudden, brutal burst of motion, blade aimed at my gut.
But years of reading bad situations on mail routes kicked in. I caught his wrist as the blade came forward, grabbing his other hand before he could use it. He was stronger than he looked.
"Now!" I grunted, holding his knife hand. Then I pulled his momentum into me and lowered my head. The connection was bone rattling.
That's when the little goblin girl exploded. My grabbing the attacker was her opening. A blur of pure violence. She launched herself at the guy behind him, daggers flashing.
The one I headbutted struggled, but I held on like my life depended on it. Which it did.
She was jumping off her first victim into the next. Like an Eddie Guerrero Frog Splash from the top rope. If the top rope was a guy falling backwards with a slit throat.
"My eye" But his cry was cut short as she brought her second hand down like a hammer on a chisel. This time she pulled the body down and used the momentum to tumble toward the third man in tights. He was trying to run, she came out of the tumble did a kind of a skip up his back then stuck both blades in his neck. He looked like Frankenstein's monster, except actually dead.
The man I had headbutted and hung onto stopped pushing, and pulled to run, knocking us both down.
I landed on top and knocked the wind out of us both. And then she slit his throat. Before I could think. His eyes held mine as his blood sprayed in a warm shower.
[LEVELUP!]
What followed was euphoria. Pure, shocking, obscene pleasure. Heat flooded me. The feeling receded slowly, leaving a pleasant hum under my skin. I lay there a minute, brain rebooting.
[TRAUMA THRESHOLD SURPASSED.SOULBOUND CORE ACTIVATED.]
"What the hell?" I muttered, blinking hard. Words were floating in my vision like some kind of heads-up display. "Soulbound? What kind of video game bullshit..."
[INITIAL ATTRIBUTE ENHANCEMENT AVAILABLE.]
More text. This was either a concussion or I was losing my mind. "Great. I'm having a psychotic break. In a cave. With a goblin."
[Attribute Point Available: Please Assign]
A new line of text appeared in my vision, stark and simple, waiting for my input.
[Strength (STR) | Constitution (CON) | Magicka (MAG)]
Three choices. Strength meant hitting harder. Magic was wizard shit. Constitution… taking hits better. Dad always said: better to throw one good punch.
"Strength," I thought.
[ATTRIBUTE POINT ASSIGNED:+1STRENGTH NEWSTAT:STR1.]
[SELECTION LOCKED.]
Warmth spread through my arms. Firmer.
My head still rang from the headbutt and my ribs ached where I'd landed on the bastard, but that warmth in my arms felt undeniably real. The rush drained away, but something stayed. A burn.
The good kind, the kind that meant work had been done. I looked at my hands. They felt… firmer. Less like dough, more like clay. I was covered in blood. The wiry guy's blood.
Then I heard it.
She was sliding a knife against a grindstone. The little goblin girl, sitting by a small fire. She was smiling at me, her teeth like tiny, serrated daggers. She had a necklace of human-looking teeth.
Her grin had 'ride or die' all over it. My stomach growled, loud as a lawnmower.
She smiled again, then reached into the ash beside her and pulled something out. A cooked human hand. Charred at the wrist. She held it up, an offering. Like a cat bringing you a dead bird. Bile rose in my throat. But then the smell hit me.
Brisket. Slow-cooked BBQ on top of the piss smell. The sick part? I didn't gag. My stomach rumbled. It just smelled like meat.
I understood cannibals a little more than I was comfortable with. It was just fuel. Not today. I wasn't that hungry.
Yet.
Then, a different burn, deep in my wrist. Blue light pulsed under my skin, forming letters.
[FACTION:MONSTER]
The mark burned. Monster Faction. Great. Property of the losing team. But a team.
The goblin girl saw it. Eyes wide. She stared at my arm. Pointed at my wrist, then her own. Raised her arm. Same mark, glowing like a friendship bracelet from hell.
Her expression changed. Recognition. She jabbed a finger at my chest, then hers, then circled the air. Us. A unit. A pack.
"Gang gang?" I muttered, half-joking.
She stopped. Looked at me, dead serious. Repeated it, voice guttural, burping. "Gang. Gang." Mimicry.
I tapped my chest. "Ron."
She tilted her head. "Ron."
She let rip a loud, rattling burp that sounded suspiciously like my name.
The moment didn't last. She grunted, jerked her head towards a dark opening, and moved. I followed. Past more bodies. Goblins. Children. Bile rose. A tiny goblin, clutching a wooden doll. Head bashed in. No. Don't go there. Don't think about hospitals. Don't think about toys gathering dust.
She stopped over a bigger goblin, in battered armor, and let out a sound I knew. A quiet, choked-off, guttural noise of pure loss. A single black tear traced a path through the grime on her cheek.
My own eyes burned. In a different room, the same sound from my own throat. The phone call. The nurse's tired voice. I knew her pain. The sound of a part of yourself being sawed off. I wanted to say something, but no words fill that hole. So I waited.
That's when the world started to shake. A deep, violent rumble. Dust rained down. A new smell hit, overpowering the piss-funk. Fresh grave and battery acid. Wrong. Terrifyingly wrong.
"MOVE!" I yelled, shoving her forward.
She took off. I followed.