The Rifleman - Bk1 - Ch.1

Chapter One

Details

“Does this look like technology from the Second World War to you?” Todd sneered as he plucked Wesley’s iPhone from his pocket.

“It certainly does not!” Andy’s sycophantic voice was as grating as nails on a chalkboard. 

“Sorry, I forgot I had it,” Wes lied. He had just been hoping no one would notice. Who included the Medic in the lineup anyway? Inspections were for troops, right?

“Look, Wes,” Todd said in a fake kind tone. “This is a proper recreation society, not some Ren-Fair bullshit. Details matter, you get me?”

“Sure, sure,” Wes nodded. Details matter? They were standing in a soggy field in the ass end of England and pretending to be in Normandy, France. Apparently, that detail didn’t matter, so who cared if he had his phone to scroll on in between fake injuries?

“What was that?” Todd asked, tapping his bars meaningfully.

“Sorry, Sir,” Wes said, gritting his teeth to avoid saying anything further.

“Todd quit being an asshole,” Matt called from the corner. He was actually in charge of this group of idiots, Wes included. When he had first gotten the job offer, it sounded pretty good. An ‘intensive training period’ was followed by a job traveling around the world, putting on battlefield recreations for fairs, festivals, and even a few movie and TV spots. For an out-of-work actor dodging debt letters, it had sounded perfect.

The pay wasn’t great, but it included travel, board, and food. He had done more for less, so he signed up. He really should have wondered why there was a spot open in the first place.

“Wes, go dump the phone in your bag,” Matt called. “Oh, and grab me a rifle from the armory tent, will you? An M1 Garand. The clients want to have a gander.”

“Sure, Matt,” Wes said, ducking out of line and walking away as fast as possible.

“That’s Major to you!” Todd called after him.

Intensive training was something Wes had come across before. It was normally nothing more than a few days swinging a sword, riding a horse, or similar while spending every night getting drunk and sleeping with as many cast members as possible. 

That was practically tradition.

Wes was horrified to find that this group was not kidding. They actually meant training. He had spent weeks running up hills in a pack, marching, and learning to shoot ‘like a real infantryman,’ as if it mattered. That was when he met Todd. 

Oh, how he hated Todd. The man had no chill at all.

Some men are born to lead; some have leadership thrust upon them. Others, like Todd, would suck off a leper to get even a smidgeon of power. To make matters worse, he was the one in charge of training. In addition to leading training runs, Todd was in charge of the rifles. 

So, despite the skill he quickly showed with a rifle, Wes had chosen to be a Medic. The group needed another one, so it got the okay from Matt. From that day on, Todd decided to make Wes’ life miserable.

At least medic training had been fun, if terrifying. The fact that it was so short did not help. No matter how long he lived, Wes would always swear there was no need for the videos.

No one needed to see that. 

He winced every time he saw a medic running through the battlefield in war moves now. Poor bastards. 

Wes ducked into the supply tent. It was a joke, really. It was where they put their bags, spare uniforms, and the big bastard cage that held their weapons. Each and everyone was a real weapon, complete with blank cartridges.

“Oh, look, it’s unlocked again,” Wesley said with a tight-lipped smile. “I guess attention to detail doesn’t include locking up the weapons.” 

He grabbed one of the M1 Garand rifles, a semi-auto rifle used by the Americans in the Second World War, and a couple of the en bloc clips just in case they wanted a demonstration. The eight bullet clips were a thing of beauty. Perfectly designed. They were almost enough to make him put up with Todd. 

Almost.

He pushed the clips into his ammo pouch and slung the rifle over his shoulder. Now, how to mess with Todd?

Wesley scanned the room, seeing the weapon lockup keys lying on the folding table at the back. After a few quick seconds of work, they were lying in plain sight on the rack where he had gotten the rifle.

He then closed and padlocked the cage. It was childish, but he was completely okay with that.

Play stupid games, win stupid prizes, and all that.

Wesley J. Lancaster admired his work with a grin, snapped off a salute, turned smartly on his heel, and pushed through the tent flap.

He stopped the second he exited the tent, feeling the canvas falling closed behind him. His foot splashed down into water, and he swore. He hadn’t seen a puddle–

The field was missing. His other foot landed in the small river he found himself standing in, and he tried to back up, finding more water.

Spinning around in panic, Wes discovered he was short exactly one tent to go with the missing field. In their place, he found a small river trickling and bubbling merrily through a sunlit gorge lined with rocks and the occasional patch of weird blue moss. 

“What the fuck?” Wes whispered to himself as he watched the sun shining off the water before words began to scroll across the rocks next to him.

///////////////

You have been Drafted!

The Pantheon of the Endless welcomes you to their game world!

You have been randomly selected as a…

Non-Player Character.

Wesley leaned forward and swiped at the words; they smeared slightly like chalk on a board for a moment before reforming.

Class assignment is proceeding…

Compatible classes discovered…

Healer (Medical Supplies Detected) 30% Match

Ranger (Ranged Weapon Detected) 60% Match

Explorer (Supply Pack Detected) 20% Match

Rogue (Knife Detected) 5% Match

Assignment threshold not reached.

Scanning Cultural History….

Wesley’s head exploded in pain, and he heard screaming… eventually realizing it was his own.

Creating class from cultural history…

Class created: Rifleman!

Class assigned.

Totem system enabled.

Wesley scrabbled at his chest, tearing open his shirt and pulling up the white vest underneath to see a large black circle appearing on his chest as it burned and ached. It felt similar to when he let a friend use an empty tattoo gun on him for a bet. Only this time, it lasted a lot longer.

When the pain finally passed, he saw the thick, dark circle on his chest. It was almost a half-inch thick, empty in the middle, and the skin around it was red, fading even as he watched.

Totem System Integrated.

Tier One (0%) attained.

Skill system enabled.

Class skill assigned - Reload (0%)

Reload:

Summon a full clip for your chosen rifle.

“Ow, fuck, get off!” Wesley waved his right hand wildly as the pain started again, this time on his right palm. When it was done, he saw a perfect tattoo of an en bloc clip in the dead center. “What the hell?”

Class skill assigned - Minor Heal (0%)

Minor Heal:

Heal a small amount of damage.

This time, the pain was on his right shoulder, and even through the shirt, he could feel it was in the shape of a cross. A red cross if he was a betting man. 

This time, Wesley just grit his teeth and waited for the pain to pass. Complaining hadn’t helped before, so why keep going?

Choose One Skill:

Flare:

Summon a small ball of light and heat.

Track:

Reveal the hidden signs of a target.

Hide:

Become difficult to see as long as you remain still.

Lasts until broken or movement resumes.

Sprint:

Triple movement speed for a short period.

Thirty seconds remaining…

29…

28…

Wesley swore and thought as fast as he could. Sprint was good, right? He had dim memories of someone saying that movement buffs were always good in games. Did he want to run a lot? 

Not really. Running was what you did when you fucked up. Fucking up in whatever the hell this was would probably mean death no matter how fast he ran.

Hide? Same problem, just earlier in the fuck up process. Handy, sure, but as his only option? Terrible.

Track seemed to be about hunting. Oh god, he might have to hunt his own food! Wesley was not exactly a natural hunter. Killing was for necessity, self-defense, or similar. Intentionally finding something to kill? No thanks.

Which only left one option.

“Flare,” Wesley said quickly, just a second left on the timer. A short, sharp pain on his right pinky ended with a small orb of flame tattooed just below the knuckle.

Skills assigned.

Initiating Influence system…

Complete.

Influence: 2

Good Luck.

“Good luck?” Wesley yelled at the rock. “That’s it? Good fucking luck?”

A distant howl sounded.

“Okay, shut up, Lancaster,” He told himself. “Breathe. Think.”

First, he stopped standing in the water like an idiot. Who knew what was in there with him? 

He stood on a rock, dripping water from his soaked pants as he tried to clear his head. Any hope this was a dream, prank, or anything like that had gone the moment tattoos started burning themselves into his body. More than that, he could feel them. Each one was full, powered, and ready. Wes even knew how to trigger them, even if he didn’t know how he knew how to trigger them.

That meant whatever this was, it was very real.

He was a Rifleman, and he was carrying a rifle loaded with blanks.

That was his first task. He flicked the clip latch and tucked the blanks into his pouch with the others. Next, he activated Reload, a full clip appearing in his hands. He pushed it in place, seeing the bolt snap forward and into ready position.

A loaded rifle was a bit of a relief, and he found himself holding it tightly as he carefully made his way down the gorge. 

The stones were pretty easy to navigate, but the high sides made him nervous. Anything could be up there. Worse than that, he had discovered something halfway down the gorge. A line ran through the walls, rocks, plants, and even the moss. It was straight as an arrow and disappeared up the other side. He poked at it with his bayonet knife, finding it completely sealed and free of traps. Still, his ass clenched as he leaped over the line, waiting for something to spring out and kill him.

He stopped again a few feet further on, looking at the moss. It was not just blue… it was strange in so many ways. Up close, it almost looked like a cluster of miniaturized ferns that seemed to reach out to his hand. It was deeply creepy.

It didn’t take a genius to figure out not to touch it.

Besides the line and the moss, everything else looked like it could be from just about anywhere on Earth. But he knew he wasn’t, and for one very good reason.

It smelled wrong.

Wesley wasn’t the most detailed or observant of people, but even his stunted instincts were telling him the air smelled wrong. Not poisoned, tainted, or anything like that. It smelled… alien. It was nothing that Wes could put his finger on; it just was.  

The thought reminded him of something else, and he reached for his belt nervously. His canteen sloshed, and he relaxed. If nothing else, he had at least got some water. With that thought in mind, he decided his first task once he got out of this gorge would be to check his pack to see what he actually had.

The packs were given to them as part of the wardrobe that morning. It was apparently supposed to be a reflection of the actual supplies troops carried, but he had never looked. 

At the time, he had smirked at the idea; now, his life might be relying on it.

Maybe Todd had a point about that detail thing…

Nope.

Not even in this situation would he admit that prick had a point.

///////////////

Rolling grasslands full of rocks, shrubs, and clustered trees greeted Wes when he finally stepped out of the gorge. Not wasting any time, he found a nice flat rock and opened his pack. Inside, he found a tin containing a knife, fork, spoon, flint, and striker. Next, he found a tarp, a faded blanket, a hand axe, a battered metal pot or bowl, and a folding spade. 

Under that, he found a set of weights.

“Authentic my ass!” Wesley growled as he chucked them out. No way he was hauling that stuff around for no reason. There were also three fake grenades, a notepad and pencil, and a poncho.

Searching the side pockets yielded some very unauthentic energy bars and jerky. 

Next, he searched his belt. Besides the blanks in his ammo pouch, his bayonet, and the rubber .45- only the officers carried the real ones- all he had was some rope, a canteen, and gloves.

Oh, he realized when he pushed it back on his head, and one helmet covered in webbing.

His last inventory was of the medical bag. It was even worse. He had a few bandages wrapped in oiled paper, a tourniquet, safety pins, some plasters, a bunch of fake meds he threw out, with all the other fakes in his gear.

“Could be worse, right?” Wesley asked himself tensely. He felt strangely calm, but he knew the panic was only a few thoughts away. The key was to keep moving forward, to set a goal, and to work toward it one step at a time.

Thinking too much about his situation would just leave him paralyzed with indecision. No choice was worse than the wrong choice.

So, he stood and looked around him, trying to find something, anything to work towards.

Then, in the distance, he saw a trail of smoke. Smoke meant people. At least, he hoped it did. Of course, people didn’t mean friendly…

“Make a choice,” He growled to himself. 

The smoke trail was something. Something was better than nothing.

With the decision made, he packed away his real gear, putting the handaxe in his belt, just in case, and took a gulp of water while he ate a ration bar.

With one last look at the fakes lying in the grass, Wesley pulled himself together and marched off toward the distant smoke.

Things moved on the grass plains ahead of him as he walked. When he first saw them, he crouched down, hiding behind a rock. Then, after a moment, he moved on. They didn’t seem aggressive to him. Each one looked like a deer of some form, although bigger than he was used to. Keeping his distance made it difficult to gauge their size, but he was guessing they were the size of a large moose. That was pretty formidable to someone carrying a .30-06 rifle that he wasn’t sure would actually survive firing. They were supposed to be well maintained, but how did you know until you actually fired it?

Each of the deer creatures had a single curved horn in the center of their heads that arced back over their necks and flared as it went. In short, they looked like rammers. He was desperately hoping not to find out in person.

Hence, he moved quickly and carefully, trying to avoid going too close to any of the deer or the trees where he might startle something.

“How the hell did they fight a war in this stuff?” Wes grumbled as he went along. 

There was no visible sun in the sky as far as he had been able to tell, just light that seemed to come from a spot of blank sky. Despite that, the temperature had risen since he started walking. Wes would be forced to go in the shade of the trees if it kept up like this. 

He stopped to take another drink, trying to conserve his water for as long as possible. He had no idea how clean or safe the water here was. Being eaten while crapping himself silly from a bad stomach bug was not the end he wanted.

He sat on a handy rock, wiping his forehead as he drank and chewed a piece of jerky. 

A herd of deer was moving across the land below the rise he sat on, and just for a moment, it was beautiful. Just a moment.

Then, a large form burst from the trees, screeching a high-pitched laughing noise as it charged. Even from here, Wes could see the thing was massive, easily larger than even the largest deer.

It was the shape that set his blood to ice in his veins: that, and the laugh.

“Hyena,” Wesley breathed, clutching his rifle tight as he looked around rapidly. They were pack animals, right? Where there was one?

A howl of pain pulled his eyes back to the deer. One was down, the massive jaws of the giant hyena crushing its rear leg even as he watched. No others emerged from the woods, but Welsey felt frozen in place. He was paralyzed by indecision, too afraid to move, too afraid to stay still. 

As the last of the deer fled, the hyena raised its head and sniffed.

Wes felt the wind blowing from behind him and paled. 

The eyes of the hyena locked with his and let out another high-pitched laughing call.