Master of Puppets: A LitRPG Adventure, page 1
MASTER OF PUPPETS
©2024 ERIC UGLAND
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Thank you for reading Master of Puppets
Groups
LitRPG
Chapter
One
Asurvival instructor once told me there was no way to be prepared for everything. That life was a balance of risk avoidance and preparation.
But I always thought life was a balance of risk avoidance and dedicated preparation, that it was possible to survive anything if you prepared for it.
There’s a grandeur to the outdoors that nothing man-made could ever match, a size disparity. Lying on the ridge with my eye to the scope, I watched an elk munch his way across the field seven hundred yards to the east. It was out of season… but then again, he was on my land. And we were far enough out that it was likely no one would know.
There wasn’t much wind, just a hint from the north. Only enough to cool me off on this perfect April day. I knew I could hit him right through the heart.
But I didn’t need him. I was stocked to the gills with meat—my freezers at home were at their limit. I wasn’t about to kill the majestic creature just for the thrill of the hunt. I’m not even sure I’d say I actually enjoyed hunting. I just recognized the importance of it for my survival.
Still, it felt good to know there was abundant wildlife on my land. Enough that I’d been able to spare several creatures on the hike from my new-to-me cabin to the river and back.
The only real issue I’d found on the property was the river, because calling it a river was remarkably generous. It had barely any flow, and I’d yet to find any spots deeper than a few inches. It was more of a brook, or maybe even a creek. I hoped that, in non-drought times, it would be more riverlike, but since there were good wells at the cabin as well as quite a few springs around the property, I wasn’t too concerned about water. I just wanted more aquaculture opportunities. I did see a few fish and even spotted a crayfish darting under a log, so I had that to look forward to once I got a trap in there.
I got to my feet and shouldered my rifle, feeling the heavy weight of my great grandfather’s double-barreled elephant gun. While certainly overkill for most anything you’d find in the Wind River Mountains, it was a comfort to me—an heirloom that I’d learned to handload rounds for and the first rounds I’d ever wild-catted. And to be fair, grizzlies were known to traverse the area. But I had a can of bear spray on my left hip and a Ruger Super Alaskan .454 Casull on my right. Dedicated preparation.
Down the ridge, then up the mountain, about ten minutes away from the cabin, I found myself in the midst of one of the most idyllic moments of my life. I stood in a cluster of freshwater springs tucked into a large copse of mature aspens, high fluffy clouds rolling lazily along the upper atmosphere winds.
Then my phone rang.
Of course.
The harsh artificial melody of the Ballad of Gilligan broke the serene tranquility, sending the frogs darting into the water and the bluebirds flitting off to safer branches.
I sighed.
Work.
“Special Agent Roosevelt,” I answered.
“I know it’s your vacation,” my boss said, “and I know you earned this time off-grid—”
“Not really off-grid if I have to keep my phone on me.”
“I appreciate you agreeing to do that. Now, you know I wouldn’t be calling without a real good reason.”
“All the same, AIC Coates, I don’t know you that well.”
“Then take it as my word and my bond that I would not bother you if I didn’t have a good reason. We got something on the Bertonelli case, but—”
“You aren’t sure what.”
“Exactly. So we’re sending files to you now, everything we got and—”
“No computer, no fax. I told you that my phone was—”
“Someone is bringing them to you. That’s how much I need you, Del. An agent is driving six hours to bring damn paper to you, okay?”
I sighed, hoping I’d come up with something to weasel out of helping her. I liked my work, but this wasn’t work time. It was more important than work. It was—
My thoughts were interrupted by a cloud of dust rising up over the cabin—a sure sign of someone driving up the gravel road.
“You already sent them, yeah?” I asked.
“I knew you might try and talk me out of it. Should be there in minutes, based on when I spoke to the agent. Thank you for doing this, Special Agent Roosevelt. The Bureau will remember your help.”
“Of course,” I said, and then I hung up before she could talk more. She thought she could dangle potential future advancement like a carrot to get me to do favors for her because she was on the fast track out of the field and back behind the policy desks at the bureau. But I was Secret Service, on loan to the FBI, and I had no desire to leave the desk I’d just found myself at.
Grumbling to myself, I began the hike up the hill to the cabin, feeling like this more-important work of mine was being unjustly interrupted. I was here, at my new property, for the first time, already behind in getting everything prepared for the end of the world as we know it.
TEOTWAWKI.
And it wasn’t a matter of if, but when.
Chapter
Two
Istood on the porch, having beaten the government-issue Tahoe to my cabin by maybe a minute. I was covered in dust, and I still had my guns visible.
The SUV stopped, and out ste
“Hiya Del,” she said.
“I, um—” I stammered, not at all prepared to see Lindsey at that moment. “Hello. Welcome, I guess…”
“Got some presents for you.”
She hauled a file box out of the passenger’s seat and carried it up the steps to meet me at the front porch.
“Nice place,” she said, eyeing the hole in the porch where I’d gotten my leg stuck the first night.
“Unique fixer-upper opportunity,” I said.
“You get a deal on it from Kazinski?”
“Nah, this one’s much too high-tech for him. It’s got running water and a septic system.”
“Ooh, five-star luxuries.”
“Enough for me for now,” I said, opening the door for her.
Most other women, or men even, I’d have offered to take the box in, but Queen often bristled when others, especially men, tried to do things for her. Since she was the only woman on the FBI’s tactical team, I understood she felt a constant need to prove herself. She had an independent streak I admired.
She went inside, her head moving as she took in the surroundings, as if she were already drawing a tactical map in her head. The interior was… not my style. Dated was being kind. It had been finished on a budget in the mid-sixties, and it didn’t seem like a single thing had survived to the present day unscathed or lacking shoddy repairs.
“Unique is right,” she said, setting the box down on the kitchen table, a hunk of Formica on three spindly metal legs and one stick-nail combo.
“Is this for me?” I asked, already pulling the top off the box and seeing the piles of papers, books, and case-specific ephemera inside.
“Yep. Everything we currently have on the Bertonellis. New stuff on top, old stuff—”
“On bottom, got it. If you’re thirsty, feel free to help yourself to anything in the fridge. Lemonade is fresh; I made it from my own lemons. Beer if you—”
“Coors?” she called out, head in the fridge and butt presented rather perfectly in what I had to imagine were too-tight tactical pants.
I blinked twice and forced my attention back on the numbers arrayed in front of me.
“Something something, Rocky Mountains,” I said quickly.
“Figured you for someone with an obscure microbrew no one had heard of but used, like, ancient yeast from the pyramids or something.”
I noticed she had the pitcher of lemonade out and was already opening doors to find a glass.
“Excellent selection of fast food collectibles in the cabinet by the sink,” I said, “and Coors was on sale down-mountain.”
“Ah,” she said, perusing the previous owner’s impressive collection of novelty glassware. “Any of these not filled with toxic levels of lead?”
“Doubtful. That’s why I use the mugs. Drying rack, by the sink.”
She got her lemonade and then sat next to me, setting a mug for me by the file.
“Thanks,” I muttered.
We sat in silence for a moment while I read.
“If I ask a question, is that going to throw you off?” she asked.
“A bit.”
“What’s the story with this place?”
“Someone built it in the ‘50s, lived in it off and on until the ‘80s. Disappeared. Taxes mounted up, so the government seized it and auctioned it off.”
“And you bought it?”
“Won the auction, yeah. Cabin and some land.”
“I didn’t, um, well, I hadn’t pegged you as the, um, outdoorsy type?”
“Oh?”
“More the all-inclusive-resort type. Or the educational cruise.”
I looked over the paper I held to meet her gaze.
She had a painfully cute, playful smile on her face. Teasing, maybe?
I felt my heart skip a beat. She was really pretty, but I reminded myself that I didn’t know her yet, not really. I knew what she was like at work from the few lunches we’d shared and the coffee break talks. Conversation with her was easy, but it was always under the guise of work. But that smile—maybe it wasn’t crazy to want to get to know her outside of the office.
Either way, I liked looking at her.
“Not really my thing,” I replied.
“And this is?”
“Yeah, kind of a dream home for me. Lots of land, middle of nowhere, natural springs, river, hunting—”
“Place to hole up when the dead rise from their graves?”
“Probably not quite ideal for zombies,” I said. “Need better shutters for the windows, maybe a good chain link fence at the base of the mountain. Suit of armor—”
“Wait, you don’t have a suit of armor?”
I paused, wondering if I should tell her the truth—
“You do!” she said, sitting up straight and nearly spilling her lemonade.
“It’s not here,” I said.
“But you have one?”
“Sort of. I have a shark suit made out of stainless steel.”
“Like chain mail.”
“Exactly, but for shark diving.”
“You go shark diving?”
“No.”
“So…”
“Just in case.”
“A shark suit just in case one came wandering into the 16th street mall?”
“I haven’t always lived in Denver.”
“Right, I forgot you got here just before me.”
“It was on clearance, in my size, and I figured a zombie couldn’t bite through it. Or a bear. Or a rabid animal—”
“Or a shark.”
“Exactly. Do you have a suit of armor?”
“Of course.”
“What do you mean of course? You were just making fun—”
“I never. Mine is plate, though.”
“You have a set of plate armor?”
“Doesn’t every girl?”
“I doubt it.”
“Well, I like being a knight rescuing dude-sels in distress.”
“Noted,” I said, smiling at her.
She smiled back, but I noticed her cheeks were bright red.
“I also like Renaissance fairs,” she added suddenly.
“That’s cool,” I replied. “I’ve never been.”
“You should go! I could… um, I know of some good ones.”
“I bet, and—” I stopped mid-sentence. The momentary distraction seemed to have given my brain enough room to think, and I realized what I was looking at. “They’re printing money somewhere.”
“What?”
“The Bertonellis are printing money. The movement patterns don’t make sense otherwise because… the truck’s weights are off. Somewhere in between Walsenburg and…”
“Apache City?”
“Exactly.”
She already had her phone out, looking at a map.
I got up and circled around to look as well.
“There,” I said, pointing at the airfield right off I-25.
“Spanish Peaks,” she said.
“Has to be. They’re flying in there, loading the trucks right off the onramp. I’d bet my pension on it.”
“Makes sense. I just need to call in into Coates, and she’ll—”
She turned toward me. Our faces were less than an inch apart.
I could feel the heat from her cheeks.
For a moment, nothing happened, and then she gave me a very quick kiss.
I froze.
She popped up from the chair and was out of the cabin in a heartbeat, already on the phone.
I remained for a moment, still leaning over, trying to process what’d just happened.
Then, because I couldn’t process it, I sorted the papers back into their appropriate places, slipped the folders into the box, and put the top on, tapping it twice because, well, it seemed like the thing to do.
Lindsey Queen came back in, face flush.
“I, um.” She stammered. “Coates is already getting the raid together. She said you could come—”
I shook my head. “Not really my thing.”
“I know.”
“But you should go.”
“I am. I mean, I will. But, um, I was talking to, um “—she paused, and I swear her cheeks got a little redder—“that is, Donna said, I mean, Agent-in-Charge Coates and I had a conversation—I mean, obviously—and she, um, okayed, that is, if you and I were to, um, have a thing after work. It would be okay with Donna. Agent-in—”
