Chapter 670.1: These Freaks Are Coming Wave By Wave |
On the northern shore of the Baiyue Strait, northwest of French Fry Harbor, a one-meter-wide trench ran before a three-meter-tall earthen wall, its front lined with sharpened stakes forming a crude palisade. In the grass just beyond the barricade, bodies lay scattered in all directions. Most were the remains of mutant beasts, though a few were players who hadn’t reacted fast enough.
Staring at the corpses and the mud turned red with blood, Irene flicked off his rifle’s safety and said with a complicated expression, “I keep having this feeling…”
Beside him, the Elf Wang glanced over. “What feeling?”
Surveying the dense rainforest ahead, Irene frowned in thought. “… It’s like this land is alive.”
Blood-splattered tree shadows swayed under the blinding sun. From the darkness within came the soft whispering of insects, like monsters murmuring in the shade, and the thick jungle loomed like the monster’s open jaws.
It wasn’t the first time he had felt this way. The first time was when they went out looking for a water source…
…
Two hours earlier.
At dawn, more than 20 strength type players had already logged in, carrying axes and chainsaws as they headed northwest from camp to clear forest.
“Oooraaah!”
To the northwest of French Fry Harbor rose a hilly highland, an ideal vantage point overlooking the entire harbor and 10 kilometers of coastline. The area also had freshwater sources and deposits of common ruin-ore, making it strategically vital.
If they could secure that high ground, it would be a major boon to the settlement’s growth. Thus, the Player Council of French Fry Harbor unanimously voted to build a road leading up to the ridge for easier transport.
The clearing contract, worth 100,000 silver coins, was awarded to a merchant registered under the Merchant Guild, going by the name “Doggy Out.”
In Wasteland Online, the Merchant System paralleled the Corps System, a guild structure for non-combat or Lifestyle Profession players.
After winning the bid, the caravan leader immediately hired a group of muscle-bound strength types to hack into the northwestern woods. They hadn’t even worked half an hour before more than 30 mutant spiders burst out of the jungle, crashing head-on into the sweating laborers.
The spiders stood as tall as a man, their faces patterned like butterfly wings, spraying sticky silk that bound prey before tearing it apart with dagger-sized fangs.
“Holy, what the hell?!” The first player to make eye contact nearly disconnected from shock. Luckily, his nerves held, he swung his axe and smashed a spider’s head, splattering it with viscous fluid.
“Tsshhh!” the creature shrieked and stumbled back a few steps.
The player moved to finish it off, but before he could take a step, a jet of white silk from the side wrapped his face, yanking him sideways. A moment later, claws ripped open his flank.
Seeing their comrade’s state, another nearby player dropped his axe, yanked down his rifle, clicked off the safety, and shouted, “Contacted!”
Had they kept proper distance, a few dozen mutant spiders wouldn’t have stood a chance against such heavily armed fighters. But monsters in Wasteland Online never played fair, they never even gave a warning.
With dense brush everywhere, several strength types with axes and chainsaws barely glimpsed the spiders before being glued in the face with silk, instantly incapacitated.
Fortunately, they weren’t far from camp. Players patrolling nearby rushed to back them up. Gunfire drowned out the jungle’s chaos, tracer rounds tore through leaves and chitin mixed with green ichor.
Against automatic weapons, the spiders’ silk and fangs proved insufficient. The skirmish quickly became a massacre. After leaving behind a dozen corpses, the survivors from the creature population realized those two-legged creatures were trouble and fled back into the jungle.
The players tallied losses and loot, cut free the web-bound victims, and dragged the dead back to camp to be recycled.
Once the battle was cleaned up, everything seemed to return back to normal.
French Fry Harbor’s players resumed their routines of logging, fishing, grinding, and exploring.
But just as everyone thought the day’s troubles were over, less than two hours later, more than a dozen mangy, half-bald mutant leopards came charging out of nowhere.
There was no roar and no warning, just a blur of fangs and claws.
Once again, the victims were the Doggy Out merchant group and its hired laborers.
Their perception type scout had sensed danger moments beforehand, but it only gave them seconds to prepare.
Many workers had barely dropped their saws and axes before the beasts were already on them.
The leopards were far more lethal than the earlier spiders and casualties mounted fast. In barely 30 seconds, nearly 10 players were mauled to death. Only a few escaped.
Staring at the ruined logging site, their leader looked ready to cry. “Whoever designed this event has it out for me!”
Irene patted him sympathetically. “My condolences, brother.”
He and Elf Wang had been near the gate when the attack started and had rushed to help. Like before, once they left 10 player corpses behind, the leopards vanished back into the forest.
Irene couldn’t shake the sense that the mutant beasts were taking turns showing up just to die outside their camp.
“... Have you noticed,” he murmured, “these attacks keep coming in waves, and all of them are grouped neatly by species.”
Elf Wang’s expression twitched. “Good thing it’s waves and not one giant tide. If they all came together, we’re doomed.”
“Maybe. Anyway, let’s collect the carcasses.” Irene smiled, crouching to lift the slain leopard. “Come give me a hand. No sense letting the brothers die for nothing.”
“Got it!” Elf Wang slung his rifle, grabbed the beast’s hind legs, and helped carry it back toward camp, to the butcher’s stall near the west gate.
There, a player in a leather apron was sharpening a boning knife, arms caked in half-dried blood.
Old Wine Lamp. Word was, he had been a doctor in real life, though judging by his in-game profession, Irene suspected he was actually a veterinarian.
With the words “Lamp” and “Wine” in his name, he definitely sounded like an uncle seventy or so years old. He was probably an old vet.
Spotting them, Old Wine Lamp wiped his sweat and nodded toward the scale beside him. “Weigh it yourselves.”
“Alrighty!” Irene dropped the leopard onto the scale without much hesitation.
Elf Wang grinned, chatting as usual. “Business is good, huh, brother?”
The man chuckled. “Heh, just earning my keep.”
“You really a vet in real life?” Elf Wang pressed.
“I-? Pfft, hell no! I’m a doctor!” He glared at Elf Wang angrily.
Elf Wang smirked. “Yeah? Must get off work early then, you don’t do overtime?”
Old Wine waved dismissively. “Screw overtime. I quit days ago.”
“Quit? Why?”
He laughed. “What’s there to ask? My clinic barely made a wage, my boss hated me and I hated him. Here, I make over 100,000 a month easy. When I’ve got enough saved, I’ll open my own hospital!”
“Hot damn!” Elf Wang grinned in admiration.
As they bantered, Irene returned from the scale. “65 kilograms. How much you giving us?”
Old Wine Lamp did a quick mental calculation and sighed, “I’ll take a loss, how does 217 silver coins sound?”
Before could answer, Elf Wang said cheerfully, “Make it 220 so we can split it evenly!”
“Deal!”