Chapter 5: Octopus’s Garden

Thomas looked down at his receipt one more time and snorted with disgust. $49.99 before tax for a pair of pants from Ross. Ross.

He thought the president said the price of all goods and services would be frozen “for the duration.” Apparently, that didn’t extend to stores that were one step above thrift.

Well, whatever. A quarter of his money from the mana crystals was already gone, but at least he wasn’t walking around in shredded pants.

And there was more dungeon loot to look forward to.

The octopus dungeon was located between one of the big casinos on the Nevada side, on the strip of land between the casinos and the lakeside beach. It was a flattish spot full of sandy soil and scrubby pine trees. Walking up to it, Thomas saw a line of wannabe divers already waiting to get in.

A few had thought ahead and brought lawn chairs. A group of teenagers sat in a loose circle with phones out, not speaking to each other.

Thomas joined the back of the line behind a woman carrying what looked like a halberd. She had ripped the sleeves off her shirt, and the muscles on her arms rivaled his own. She had no interest in speaking to him, every line of her body silently yelling ‘Go away.’ With muscles like that, he wasn’t about to press his luck.

The long line wasn’t the only difference from the demon chicken dungeon. This one was guarded by a lot more National Guard. In fact, it looked like they had set up a tent at the exit and were hustling people through it as they came out.

Hopefully, they’re not shaking them down for their loot, Thomas thought.

The sounds of raised voices and angry shouts came from the front of the line. Thomas, along with everyone else, craned to see.

An older man stood at the front, and… wow. He liked guns.

There were at least four that Thomas could count, sitting in holsters on both hips and both thighs. Then the man turned, and Thomas revised his count up to six as he spied two rifles slung across his back. Gun guy also had a pistol strapped to his ankle.

All those were just the visible guns. The man wore a bulky jacket, and Thomas suspected there were even more underneath. He had come loaded for bear… or at least octopus. Too bad that wouldn’t do him any good in the dungeon.

“I’ve done my extensive research,” the man said, jabbing a finger at the chest of the nearest soldier who stood between him and the dungeon entrance.

“Sir—”

“It is my constitutional right to bear these arms, and that means into this goddamn dungeon.”

“The dungeon,” the soldier said carefully, “does not care about the U.S. Constitution.”

“Well, it should. It’s on U.S. land, isn’t it?”

Another soldier spoke up. He seemed to be about the man’s age and had no room for nonsense.

“Here’s the reality,” he said, clipped and professional. “Gunpowder does not combust inside the dungeons. No, I don’t know why. But the fact is, your firearms are inert the moment you cross out of the safe room.” He paused. “I don’t make the rules. Believe me, if I did, things would be run a lot differently.”

“I’ll figure it out once I’m inside,” the gun guy insisted. “And you can’t stop me.”

The nearby digital clock clicked over to a fresh ten minutes. The soldiers exchanged a look.

“Let him through,” called a voice from beyond the tent flap, not bothering to hide his amusement. “Maybe he can use those guns as bludgeoning weapons.”

A ripple of laughter moved through the nearest section of the line. The gun-happy man reddened but didn’t look at them.

Meanwhile, the senior soldier’s face did something complicated before settling back into professional neutrality. He stepped aside, as did the rest of his guard.

The gun man gave a triumphant smirk, as if he’d won something, and stepped into the dungeon’s entrance. This one was a roiling blue and white.

The line moved forward, but something struck Thomas immediately. The National Guardsmen weren’t just cataloging who went in, who didn’t come out, and what loot people wanted to declare. They were making sure no one followed in after divers. They maintained the integrity of each instance.

The National Guard guy at the first dungeon had said, “There are no cameras, and in a dungeon, no one can hear you scream.”

Okay. Maybe he should be glad to see the army maintaining order.

To take his mind off those thoughts, Thomas counted places in line. There were ten parties ahead of him, as far as he could tell. Just over an hour and a half wait to reach the front.

He should have brought a lawn chair.

To kill time, he grabbed his phone and started paging through the news. The riots in Oakland had escalated. It looked like there was a territorial dispute between two gangs over a level two dungeon, and it had pulled in the real army, not just the National Guard.

Chicago was worse. And Houston was worse than Chicago, depending on what source you believed.

New York… now that was strange. Hardly anything was coming out other than cutesy stories, like dungeon entrances appearing inside residential buildings and how people were dealing with it. A level one had materialized in someone’s bathroom, and the tenants had been arrested for trying to charge admission.

New Yorkers, Thomas thought, then kept scrolling to the international feed.

China had expanded mandatory dungeon participation to more areas of the country, with a gift registry. A few paragraphs down, an article mentioned that three U.S. senators and a congressman were already floating a dungeon certification program for “official dungeon licensing.”

You know what? Maybe I don’t want to read this.

Thomas locked his phone and pocketed it.

The line moved, and he spent most of the time people-watching and occasionally making small talk. It seemed most were like him, with a couple of dungeon runs under their belts. No one, it seemed, had decided to start the first dive with the octopus dungeon.

Well, except for the gun guy—and he hadn’t come back out yet.

“Hey, man,” said a voice behind him when Thomas was second from the front.

Thomas turned to see a guy in a too-heavy jacket for a summer day, with the twitchy energy of someone either currently or recently using something. His face looked hollowed, and the fat had melted away, but his paunchy stomach and arms said he ate well.

Before Thomas could say anything, the man spoke again.

“I’ll give you a white mana crystal to trade for your spot.”

“What?” Thomas asked.

“My party’s back there,” he said, jerking his chin. Three other people nodded. They had much the same look as the tweaker. “Here, see?” The man held out a crystal, and Thomas examined it. It was different from his own mana crystals. The swirling mist inside was thinner, like the difference between a faint haze and a thick fog.

Suddenly, he understood what Zach had said about ranks.

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

“No,” he said, steadier than he expected. “These are Grade E. Mana’s weak.”

The guy glanced back at his group, then at Thomas again, recalculating.

“Look, we’re five parties back. Less than an hour now since the clock’s about to tick over. It’s just a little wait.” He spread his hands. “Three whites and a blue for your spot. Come on.”

Why was this guy so desperate to get in? He seemed almost twitchy about it. The only thing Thomas could think of was that they wanted to do something inside where no one could see them. Weirdos.

“Five whites,” Thomas said. “I’ll get my blues from this dungeon.”

The man’s face broke open with relief. He made the trade quickly, as if he were afraid Thomas would change his mind. Thomas tucked the five crystals into his jacket pocket, annoyed that everyone in line had seen the exchange and now knew he had them. He’d have to declare these when he got out. Oh well.

He switched places with the group and settled in for another wait, catching a few glares he didn’t understand. The soldiers had witnessed the entire exchange and didn’t have a problem with it. One soldier caught his eye and offered a small shrug. Thomas shrugged back.

The line crawled forward. No one else approached him.

People exited the dungeon at uneven intervals. Some came out buzzing with relief and excitement. Some checked their bags immediately in that universal gesture of good loot. Others were quieter or, worse, had injuries. Nothing seemed fatal, though.

Neither the gun guy nor the twitchy group had emerged yet, though it might still be early for the latter.

Finally, it was his turn.

As Thomas stepped to the front, his eyes caught a sign someone had placed right by the entrance that the army hadn’t removed:

The Octopus’s Garden

The female National Guard woman at the entrance looked him up and down. “Party of one?”

“Just me, myself, and I,” Thomas confirmed.

“Name and date of birth.” Then, after he gave it, she said, “I assume you’ve dived before?” At his nod, she entered his information. “Upon exit, you are to immediately go to the tent for an examination.”

That caught him short. “Examination?”

“To make sure you didn’t bring out any hitchhikers,” she said. “Those octopuses are very good at camouflage.”

Well, that was unsettling.

The clock ticked over to ten minutes, and she stepped aside. “Have fun.”

Thomas stepped forward.

The safe room was an exact replica of the first one, including the bland walls. This time, he came prepared. He checked his maul, then reached into his backpack for weapons and brought out the drops from the first dungeon.

He attached a curved dagger to his belt using the sheath and slipped a penknife into his hoodie pocket. It would lie sideways, so even if the blade opened, it wouldn’t stab into his stomach. Hopefully.

His backpack was mostly empty—he had stashed the remaining crystals from the first dungeon in a Taco Bell bag among a few others in his car. He’d learned a long time ago the trick of hiding important things in trash. As long as he didn’t forget and throw them away, they were surprisingly safe.

Then he stepped forward, opened the door, and entered the Octopus’s Garden.