Telling my story was tough, and it didn’t help having ten people crowd around me and listen intently. There was a lot of stuff I would have been perfectly happy not ever thinking about again and dragging up some of the horrors in front of this intimidating group wasn’t what I wanted to do the day after I got back. I knew when I decided to tell all that it would be hard, but it was even more difficult than I imagined. I guess I had unconsciously blocked out some stuff.

I painted a grim picture, to be sure, if the looks of my audience were anything to go by. At first they assailed me with incredulous and challenging, if not just plain disbelieving, questions. I expected resistance, though, so when they got dismissive of my claims I edged a kitchen knife and remorselessly and effortlessly sliced a huge gash through the wall of the trailer. I admit, I relished their looks of stupidity immensely.

Besides, I had living, animated skeletons on my side, what more do I need?

It wasn’t until I broke through the healthy skepticism that what I was saying really kicked in and they started asking the real questions. The colonel in particular seemed to have the best grasp of the situation, asking for clarifications on the existence of skills and classes. He, at least, was familiar with games in general. Many of the questions I didn’t have good answers to.

Are the magical skills dependent on having a class? Or can skills be gotten without one?

What are the prerequisites on obtaining classes? Prerequisites on even interacting with the system?

Are skills needed to kill, maim, or neutralize, are can conventional methods be used?

Is the system an interested party in all this or a dispassionate third party existence, whether sentient or not?

…

I didn’t know and I told them so. If I had to guess, I’d say the system was a third party existence. It didn’t seem to favor the mage or I, besides giving me this class. That said, the mage seemed to understand the system better than I.

As my tale went on, the questions became less frequent and the faces became more grave. And as I was talking, the subtle truth that had been there, nagging at the corner of my mind ever since I first saw the inscrutable grey spheres on the TV, but that I had refused to entertain, was slowly burdening me like a crane dropping its payload. The realization scared me.

For all the military might the US Army could drop onto the stage, they won’t be able to stop this without my participation.

…

Or they can just send the nukes in. I like that plan, just throw a nuke into the sphere a let it blow, that’ll surely kill everything inside and destroy the core. Perhaps there’s a chance of a nuclear fallout, but only the tiny bit that gets dragged back around the core, assuming that it even behaves the same as mine.

So, I’m sticking with the nuclear option, no curse is going to stop that.

...

I finished my story by telling them how I killed off the mage and destroyed the core, inadvertently bringing back the surrounding area and the pursuing skeletons with me. In the end, I decided against telling them I still had the remains of the core.

There was a heavy silence when I was done. Many of the people were writing down data on their tablets or notepads. The way they were looking at me had changed drastically during the story and I’m not sure what I was seeing now. Pity? Fear? Respect? Disbelief? I wasn’t sure, maybe all the above.

I grabbed the water bottle off the table, I don’t like uncomfortable silences.

The colonel broke in, leaning back in his creaking chair with a frown. “Tell me more about the curse that came each day.”

I chugged the last of the water bottle, my throat feeling a little horse from the non-stop talking. After that I shrugged. “Thankfully, a loud notification sounded each night when it came because if I slept through it, I would have died each time. I wasn't able to learn much about it, whether it was part of the setting like the bacteria was or if it was something the mage specifically cast on me, but I presume it was the former. All it said was that I would die in five minutes if I didn’t remove it. It became much less of a problem as my mana reserves grew, becoming just an annoyance by the end. At least it gave me time to cleanse the area around me each night to hold off the infection.”

“You had to, uh, cleanse it, each time, though?”

I simply nodded and added, “The infections were a much bigger problem, I couldn’t even take a deep breath without getting infected. It acted like a debuff, really, slowly me down and consuming time and resources. The zombies were walking bioweapons, I’m lucky the temple was sterilized, otherwise I fear I might have brought the infection back here with me. I about panicked when I thought of that at first and I cleansed everything I could get my hands on.”

“How do you know that you didn’t bring any with you?” one of the adjuncts said, wiping her short black hair out of her eyes, a very worried look on her face.

I gave her a joyless chuckle, “If I did bring some back with me, you’d all be dead already.”

I expected her to flinch or pale at my response, but I was disappointed that she took it without any reaction. Good for her.

…

Maybe she thought I was exaggerating or just outright lying? That’s for them to determine, I guess.

Q and A lasted another hour as I attempted to answer tougher and tougher questions, most of which I did not have any, much less good, answers for.

As they say, the more you know, the more you realize how much you don’t know.

No decisions were made, it was only a fact finding mission after all. When the debriefing was officially over I asked to see the detained skeleton they had, assuming it was near. After a shrewd glance, the colonel gave me a nod.

“Keith said he’d like to talk with you anyway.” the colonel said casually, turning to his adjunct.

…

Who is this Keith?

As I got escorted to the detention trailer a few hundred feet away, I wondered if any prisoner of war codes apply to the skeletons. Would they be considered human or treated as dangerous animals?

Interestingly enough, it turned out it was a question Keith had for me.

Keith was a funny guy, a man in his forties with long blond hair pulled back into a ponytail and large thick glasses. He wasn’t wearing the white lab coat like I expected, but he had the excited eyes a crazy scientist would need. I liked him immediately and his enthusiasm was infectious.

After a brief introduction, his first question was simple.

“Is this guy intelligent enough to communicate with us?” Keith guestured excitedly, his hand indicating the skeleton locked away.

I looked over at the locked up pile of bones.

They had disarmed and confined the skeleton in a small, reinforced room with a glass like wall letting us stare into the depths. A portable cell, I should say. The skeletons never displayed anything like super human strength, so it looked secure enough for me. For the most part, the skeletons appeared exactly as they looked, murderous walking bones as brittle and harmless as they could be seen without their knives.

Before the army decided to go all mad scientist on it, I guess they wanted to know if it was communicable.

After staring at the detained skeleton, missing one arm and looking for all the world, depressed and lonely, I answered Keith slowly, “I never thought of them like that. They certainly can be sneaky bastards, constantly jumping out at me, trying to kill me, but I don’t think they can talk.”

Keith gave me a quizzical, non-judgemental look. “You never tried to negotiate with them?”

For some reason, the question made me angry. I just nodded at him, staring at the lone skeleton.

“A pity, then. From what I can tell so far, they seem to have a sense of self awareness. At least this one does.”

Self awareness? I shake my head at the words.

“I’ve never considered them more than just a …” I search for the right words, “virus, or computer program. Like a machine, or robot. They are just programmed to do what they are created to do, I saw them literally get summoned out of thin air. They are not alive.”

Keith actually chuckled at my last words. “You’ll get no argument from me on that, all of my testing indicate that there is no living tissue, they really are just bones. He should be lying there in a heap, not sitting up. There is nothing on any instrument whatsoever that can tell me why it's moving. I guess it really is magic.” He gave another lifeless chuckle.

Magic, huh?

“I guess you’ll just have to invent a new device that can detect mana,” I said, scratching my chin, “I know it exists here, I can feel it.”

Keith eyes bulged out at my words and he stepped closer to me, asking quickly, “You can sense the magic?”

…

Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything. Keith is freaking me out now, I think I just stepped on the path toward being strapped down and injected with needles.

“Just inside my body,” I say, taking a step back and feeling a cold sweat on my back. Wanting to distract him, I add quickly, “I know the skeletons communicate with each other somehow, they act too coordinated otherwise.”

Keith snapped back to the skeleton, pulled up a tablet furiously, “You really think so? Have you heard the skeletons make any sounds?”

“One of them, yes. It was a leader type skeleton, he would roar at me. This one here,” I said, pointing at the sad sack of bones, “was just a peon. These types were sneaky bastards, my first night there two of them snuck into my room and tried to kill me.”

“There was a hierarchy?” Keith inquired, his eyes bright again. “That indicates a lot, you know!”

I wondered if his interest lay in the social study of these beings. Not my cup of tea.

Still wanting to distract Keith, I gave him as much as info I could, including the zombies too. If nothing else, my words seem to encourage Keith that communication would be possible with the skeletons. After all, they showed strategic decision making skills and could communicate with each other on some level, if only through hand gestures.

“We need to get the other skeletons in the lake,” Keith said passionately, “and see how they interact with each other! It could be a clue to figuring out how to talk to these things!”

Do the skeletons have some sort of culture? This guy seems interested to find out. Somebody has to, I guess.

I didn’t respond, but considered the immobile skeleton before me.

Why had this skeleton left the lake to begin with, what was it looking for? Was the group just lost and confused like I was, or did they have a broader plan?

...

I don’t know.

Once I was done with Keith, I was taken back to my house where they had some paperwork for me to sign that cleared up some of the details of my cooperation here. I was to be a contracted consultant for them, the ol’ 1099.. This included granting me temporary clearance to the sensitive data here as well as a type of non-disclosure agreement regarding the military secrets. It was my secret to tell them actually, but I didn’t point out that detail.

They told me they contacted my family already and informed them of the classified nature of this as well. Basically, if they told anyone, anything, there would be trouble. Lots of trouble.

Their compensation package was generous, to say the least, so I didn’t begrudge them taking over my house in the end. The stupid vault thing was here anyway, but I’m glad they chose to keep me as a friend.

Still, I carefully inspected the conditions as best as I could, paying particular attention to my rights and my property. I wish I brought a Lawyer.

…

It seems they want me to agree to give up all the items I brought back from the otherworld for good. They can keep the vault and the armor, but I am not letting go of that spear. That’s just not going to fly.

So I kicked up a fuss, namely refusing to sign anything until that issue was resolved.

Yeah, that’s my spear.

The paperpushers didn’t appreciate that, one guy shamelessly declaring I should forfeit all my rights to anything here as my patriotic duty. Apparently, they “needed” it, for study.

I told that guy to shove it.

The colonel ended up getting involved, not asking any questions but directly taking the offending article, modifying and initialling it himself before sliding it back to me without a word and taking off again, like a whirlwind.

…

Busy guy.

I took up the parchment gingerly and read over the new verbiage. It now read in no uncertain terms that I owned the spear and was only lending it to the US Army for study and I had full rights to claim it back and would receive it within forty-eight hours of written notice. Also should the spear be lost, damaged, or destroyed while it's in the possession of the US Army it would result in a significant amount of remuneration.

…

Nice.

Basically, I was satisfied and the slimy skrewball was aghast and indignant. With a malicious grin I signed with a flourish and handed the document back.

Though, I suppose with this kind of compromise off the colonel’s part it suggests a level of direness I’m not comfortable with entertaining.

A few follow up questions and documents later and they let me go for the night. They gave me a nice new phone too, with strict instructions to keep it on me at all times and not to use it for personal use.

My first work phone, Yay.

They set me up in a hotel that night, after I had taken a bunch of dirty clothes with me. I did have work at the office tomorrow, afterall.

In the hotel, I took the opportunity to call John from the hotel room. Mom had written down for me all the numbers I needed until I could replace my phone, including my twin’s.

After ringing a couple times, he picked up.

“Hello?”

Hearing his voice, I felt a warmth spread through me, like the feeling of the cleansing skill. He is my closest friend after all.

“John, it’s me, Greg.”

“Bro! I heard from Mom, how are you doing!”

He seems oddly happy. What did Mom tell him?

“Fine,” I say automatically, “All things concerning. Look, John, what did Mom tell you?”

There was a pause on the other end, before an upbeat response, “Just that you saved the world, what else could I expect from you?”

I roll my eyes and answer with a sigh, “Don’t thank me yet, it’s far from over.” John didn't respond to that so I just continued, rubbing my forehead, “Did Mom tell you about Pesos? I wanted to say-”

“It’s fine,” John interrupts quickly, “it's fine, don’t beat yourself up about it, okay? Its fine.”

Whew, that’s nice. What a load off my back.

“Still, I’m sorry, I just wanted to say that. I’m sorry I couldn’t save her.”

There was silence again before John said back, “Hey, Pesos was a good dog, but she was starting to get old. If the price for your safe return was her life, then that’s more than fair, Greg. Like I said, don’t beat yourself up about it.”

“How much do you know?”

I hear John sigh on the other end, “not much, the gag order came down rather quickly, so I got only the sparse details.”

“Yeah,” I reply dryly, “I just signed a bunch of papers too, felt like I signed my first born away. I can’t talk about it either. Not until it’s over at least.”

“Yeah,” John replys halfheartedly. Then it’s quiet between us.

“How was Utah?” I ask, filling up the silence.

John replies with the usual enthusiasm, describing their trip. The hiking and what not. They even had some cute pictures of their newborn in a backpack carrier on top of the hill range at sunset. As crazy as always.

Eventually he says everything he can about the trip and I ask all the right questions. At the end of the conversation I ask about Shelley, making sure she is okay for the night.

“Oh, yeah,” he says, “No problem. We got her bed all set up, she should be arriving soon, actually.”

I know its more problematic than he is letting on, but he wouldn’t ever say that.

“I should have my house back, eventually,” I say. I have no idea when though, the papers didn’t specify. There was even a clause about them potentially purchasing the thing from me. If they do end up taking the stone vault away they had better build me a new room there.

“Yeah, that’s fine. The world’s going crazy, so what’s a little inconvenience?”

I don’t know what to say to that so I just grunt in acknowledgement.

“Hey, listen,” John adds, his voice turning serious, “Mom’s worried about you.”

I scoff at that. “Mom’s always worried about me.”

“True, but she’s so worried, I’m worried about you. What you’ve been through, Greg, that’s serious stuff. She knows you left out a lot, Shelley told her some.”

That little traitor. See if I ever feed you again.

“I know you had reasons for keeping it out, but we both know you are the type to bottle up your feelings. Mom asked me to keep tabs on you.”

I don’t know how to take that. I look away and say, “Its not that bad, I can handle it.”

“... just promise me you’ll let me know if it gets worse, you hear me?”

I feel a little anger suddenly rise up. What does he know? What could he possibly say if I actually tried to talk about it? Seriously?

I grit my teeth and don’t say anything. Then I take a deep breath and try to let it go.

He’s trying to be a loving and supportive brother. I can tell he’s thinking about our cousin who committed suicide. I am now, too.

After a moment, I say, “I’ll let you know, John. Thanks for caring.”

“You betcha!” he says happily, probably relieved I took his words so well. “You just keep safe, Greg, and let the army figure this out.”

“Ha!” I say, “Considering my healing skills, I’m the safest person on the planet right now!”

There was a pause on the other end until I hear a confused, “What?”

…

Crap! I guess Mom didn’t tell him that part. Blast, I’m already violating my agreements!

I try to laugh it off, “Oh, nothing, bro. Listen you have a good night, I’ve got to go.”

After a suspicious goodbye, we hang up for the night. And I sit on my bed in thought.

…

What are the chances my phone is not tapped? Probably nil.

...

Crap, I hope they don’t hold this against me.

I lay down on the bed with a groan, reflecting on the day. Did I do it all right? Did I mess anything up? Should I have done things differently?

...

Am I monumentally screwed over now?

…

I don’t know. I suppose that, one way or another, the information I knew needed to be disclosed. Being upfront and honest about it rather than being found out after a bunch of people died is a big plus in my favor.

…

Let the army figure it out, that’s what John said. My mom said something similar this morning too, but I can’t stop thinking about it. The US army is the most powerful military force in the world. A single tank, a bomb, a blackhawk helicopter, if I had had any kind of modern tech (and new how to use it) the instance dungeon would have been a walk in the park. The colonel was correct, their antiquated weapons were nothing in front of the force of our military might.

If I were the army, I’d just send a nuke into the sphere and let it do its thing. And even if it didn’t work, the army is full of smart, highly qualified people, people who surely know more and better than me. I’m just a billing clerk at a trucking company.

Like John said, let the army figure it out.

…

…

But will it really be so easy?

No, it won’t be, and I’m the one who made the argument. Magic, we have no defense against it. If the other spheres are anything like the one I was in, anybody sent in will be dead in five minutes.

…

As I lay back in my soft springy bed, the obvious conclusion hovers over me like a haunting spirit.

I’m going to have to go back in.

…

Hopefully I can get a Ak-47 or something. Or just a huge tank. I can see the temple crumbling beneath the firepower already.

...

Pray for the nukes, I guess. Just blow the damned spheres off the face of the earth. Sounds reasonable to me.

Looking around my room, the pale bland walls and bedding seem alien, hostile, and foreign to me. I much prefer the fold out couch in my parent’s basement, it lets me feel like things are more normal than they really are.

That said, its a billion times better than any bed in the instance, so I can’t complain too much.

I didn’t sleep well that night either, restless dreams chased me around and I woke up constantly, wondering what the hell was going on.

The next morning I shower and have my continental breakfast provided by the hotel. I answer the text from my ‘parole officer’ at the military, Jeffery. He was introduced to me as Lieutenant Jeffrey and he’s going to be keeping track of me during my work with the army, working as my liaison. I don’t mind too much, Jeffery seems like a normal guy given a completely reasonable job. At least he’s not calling me. I confirm my plans, I do plan on trying to go back to work at my trucking company in the billing office today. Already I looks loads better than just two days ago, but my shaved head will be a shock to the old ladies there. I’m not looking forward to answering their inquiries, but I want the routine. I’d like to pretend, for just a moment at least, that things are normal, thank you very much.

Lieutenant Jeffery made it clear that he was more than willing to call my office and get me out of work that day, but I declined.

My co-workers reaction when I stepped in were just what I expected, worse so actually, especially Sue who just can’t believe the changes to my physical appearance in just one weekend.

A shaved head is one thing. The malnourished look is another. Sue looks horrified and can hardly speak to me at all, probably wondering if she should even ask about it. What horrible drugs had I gotten into?

The non-stop astonishment from my co-workers are really messing with my groove here. I came for routine, not to be gawked at.

Even worse, the work on my desk feels like it's from a lifetime ago and I can barely recall any details about it. The files have my normal notes on them, perfectly understandable before but now hopelessly incoherent. Why on earth can’t I write clearer notes?

My confusion at my own work only increases Sue’s alarm and I can see her looking at me like I just decided to pick up hardcore drugs and gambling as my pastimes of choice.

…

Maybe I should have taken the day off.

Most of those troubles go away by mid-morning, they stop pestering me about what on earth happened to me and instead simmer and gossip amongst each other about the possibilities. Sue seems particularly adamant though, desperately trying to get me to talk about it. Fending her off is quite troublesome, I practically have to yell at her to leave me alone, which isn’t fair to the caring lady and only increases her anxiety.

Too bad, I am low on patience today. And this work is annoying, not relaxing at all.

...

The last issue dawned on me slowly during the afternoon as I considered my co-workers in a new light.

…

Who knew so many of them had so many medical issues?

Sue seems healthy, but Robin claims to have gluten intolerance. Three co-workers have had knee replacements in the last year, two from obesity, one from too much exercise. A third of my office is diabetic, one person is basically living off half a kidney and a mouthful of beans could kill her. One had heart surgery a year ago and is still in danger of it happening again but won’t quit his stressful job here because he has a mentally disabled child who needs the support. One’s wife has cancer and two other coworkers have had breast cancer in the last five years. One of the ladies has horrible scarring on her upper back that I have noticed from occasionally but never asked about.

And last and worst, the owner’s seventeen year old daughter who comes in from time to time had been suffering from painful headaches and jaw trouble for the last five years which she had blamed on her past braces. She’s just a kid though and no diagnosis had been found until this past month. Turns out, her jaw has been dislocated this entire time, grinding down her jaw bones and now even threatening to collapse her esophagus. She has permanent damage, no real cure, chronic pain, and is forced to wear a weird neck brace thing at night forever more.

...

Is this normal? Why are there so many ailing people in my office? Over half of them have got serious troubles. And that’s not to mention our actual workforce of drivers who haul household goods for a living. Since they use their bodies to make money, there is not a single one who hasn't had surgery for some major issue, heart, knee, back, you name it. One guy literally ripped his bicep this summer and his arm has been out of commission for months.

…

Is this what life really is? It’s no wonder the healthcare industry is so huge.

...

None of this is new information to me, but suddenly these realizations are daunting and scare the crap out of me. I’m kind of freaking out over here.

What would it look like to heal all these people? It would be chaos!

But there are so many people who I could help, people in real pain, people I care about. And it would be easy, too easy.

…

What the heck am I supposed to do?

I spent the rest of the afternoon entirely unproductive, my mind reeling. Eventually I decide on my tried and true method of dealing with paralyzing issues. Ignore it, maybe it will go away on its own!

The day ends and I try to hurry home. I can’t help but feel guilty.

I got a text from Jeffrey, Keith apparently wants to see me and discuss the skeletons some more. Good, maybe it will help me take my mind off my troubles.