of using the phone... I opened the phone call option and nearly squealed with joy—it was working! Only, damn, I had not a penny on me, or rather not a gold coin. I realized immediately what an idiot I was—911 was always free. I had to seize this unexpected chance. The call would be placed from my physical cell phone, even if it was turned off. I only hoped those twats didn't toss it somewhere along the way.
"Nine one one, what is your emergency?" asked a woman's voice with concern—how did they pull off this concern day in and day out? At any rate, to me, her voice was a divine revelation. I launched into describing my situation as succinctly as possible.
"The call has been traced, a patrol car will be on location in about four minutes. Please remain on the line." Easy listening music began playing in the virtual phone.
I got up off the ground and stretched, letting the breeze brush my face. You're done, Cheney, you ass! I thought to myself. Then I got comfortable, put my noob staff on my knees, and set to watching the earthquake-shaken village, its residents swarming like ants on a disturbed ant hill. Two sentries and five more men that had run up to help were desperately trying to put the gate door back in place, shouting and swearing all the while.
Perhaps now I wouldn't even need to quit my job. And I wouldn't need to hide any longer. What was happening with me in real life? A broken jaw, a concussion? At least I was alive—that mattered above all else.
It had been half an hour—what was taking them so long! They should have no trouble recognizing my maimed carcass with all the equipment the cops had nowadays. No need to look for documents—simply point a small device at the person, and a global computer immediately spits out all their info. Naturally, some people were frothing at the mouth about the country becoming a police state, but for many ordinary citizens the trade-off was worth their peace of mind.
I kept waiting. The demons had already put the gate back together and had moved on to the palisade. An enormous moon had crawled out onto the sky amid the faintly glimmering stars, and it got a bit chilly. Finally, the hold music stopped.
"Captain Greg Ward, San Fransisco police," spoke a tense male voice. "Introduce yourself."
"Roman Kozhevnikov," I had already given my name to the operator. "What is going on? When will my body be recovered?"
"You claim that Adam Walker Cheney's people abducted you in the neighborhood of Market Street," the cop ignored my questions, "delivered you to an unknown place where Cheney beat you, allegedly breaking your jaw. Then, you were placed in a game capsule linked to the Realm of Arkon. Do I have that right?"
"Yes! Now, tell me what's happening! Did you find me?" I yelled into the virtual phone.
"Currently we have six police squads in Mr. Cheney's country estate, as well as twelve ambulances," the officer's voice sounded weary. "In the basement, we have found fifty four dead bodies in game capsules: Cheney himself, his three bodyguards, and fifty more people, out of which so far thirty nine have been identified. One of the identified bodies is one Roman Kozhevnikov, citizen of the Russian Federation, born in 2006."
"Are you saying that I'm dead?" I muttered, dumbstruck. "But I... I'm talking to you right now!"
"I'm not saying anything, but we do have hundreds of similar cases in the Bay area alone, and thousands nationwide. Leave your contact information with the operator, and we'll be in touch. And now you must excuse me, I need to get back to work."
Easy listening music came back on, and I hung up. What friggin' contact information? Lamorna Village, Eastern Wastes, Jarus Province, Ashtar Dominion that's in Demon Grounds. Look for me by a gravestone at a local cemetery. You can't miss me—there are six stones in all. And, oh, I'm dead. So, you know, no rush. Talk soon! I took a deep breath. Cheney did mention that people had lost their minds from dying so much,