James A. Hunter
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Backrooms 2: Kiosk Kingdom - Chapter 50
🕑 Added 2025-01-03 02:36:15 +0000 UTCFifty – Ice Cream for All
With the Super Slammer of Shielding back in my pocket, Croc and I piled into my newest Horror—the monstrously disgusting ice cream truck, which the mimic had insisted I take with us. Not for the first time, I was glad I’d listened to the dog.
“You’re just going to turn the key over to start the engine,” I instructed Croc, gesturing toward the ignition. “Use the wheel to steer. The pedal on the right is for gas, the pedal on the left is the break. You got it?”
“Yeah, I think so,” Croc replied slipping into the driver’s seat. The mimic’s body morphed as it moved, its legs extending so it could reach the pedals while its paws formed into blue rubber hands. Even a few months ago, the sight would’ve been deeply unnerving, but after everything I’d seen, it felt perfectly natural and normal. “Quick question, though, Dan? Once I start the engine, won’t the ice cream jingle song come on?”
“Yep,” I replied grimly.
“But won’t that bring out all the Timmys and Tammys? Because it seems like calling them all to us could be a bad idea. Maybe it just slipped your mind, but Ed told us that all the Sunnysider kids turn into those kannibal things in the light of the full moon and the moon happens to be very full at the moment.” Croc stared up through the window. “And bleeding,” the dog added, “which seems rather ominous, given the circumstances.”
“I didn’t forget, bud,” I replied. “It’s all a part of the plan.”
“Can I be honest with you, Dan?” Croc asked. “This seems like a really bad plan,” the mimic finished before I could say anything.
“You’re not wrong,” I said, trying to hide the slight quiver of fear in my voice. If this went wrong—and there were a thousand ways this could go wrong—we were going die extremely horrific deaths. “Sometimes, though, the only ideas left are the bad ones. Now start the engine. We need to go pick up Ed and Woodstock.”
“Whatever you say, Dan,” the dog replied in reluctant acceptance of our terrible fate. “Our lives are in your hands.”
The mimic was right, though I tried to ignore the weight of that terrible responsibility. For better or worse, whatever happened now was on my head.
“Once we get Ed, you have three jobs,” I said, counting on my fingers. “One, do not stop for any reason. Not unless I specially tell you too. Two, for the love of sweet baby Jesus, do not let the kannibal kids catch us if you can help it.” I paused and took a deep breath. “And three, try to circle around the HOA kaiju. We need to be close enough so I can hit it with ranged spells. Understand?”
“I don’t like it, not one bit of it, but I understand it,” Croc replied, before turning the key over.
The truck roared to life, its headlights igniting like dual torches that carved through the inky night.
Instantly the ice-cream jingle blared like a siren, loud enough to be heard even over the cry of Pink Floyd. Croc applied a little pressure to the gas pedal and the truck staggered then sputtered forward. The ride started out rough and jerky but quickly evened out. While Croc steered the truck toward Ed and Woodstock—currently duking it out with more shambling Sunnysiders—I raised one hand and activated Hydro Blast, carving a rectangular hole in the truck’s ceiling, just large enough for me to crawl through.
That done, I opened my Spatial Storage and pulled free one of the Stick and Cling Relics I’d earned from the toddler massacre, then quickly swapped it for Existential Dread. As good as Existential Dread was, it wouldn’t do anything against the Sunnysiders and even less than nothing against the titanic HOA kaiju. Plus, I needed Stick and Cling for this next part to work. With a heave, I pulled myself through the hole in the roof and onto the top of the truck.
The last time I attempted van surfing was as a teenager, inspired by Michael J. Fox’s antics in the 1985 classic Teen Wolf. I’d broken my arm and ended up with a concession for my trouble. It also marked one of the rare occasions when my dad had well and truly whooped my ass. Normally, he didn’t believe in corporal punishment, but there were a few notable exceptions during my childhood—and that ill-fated van ride was one of them.
This time it’d be different, though. At least, that’s what I told myself.
I activated Stick and Cling, burning through a scant few points of Stamina, and my feet instantly stuck to the metal rooftop just as the ability advertised. The first real test of the skill’s effectiveness happened when Croc jumped the curb, careened onto the sidewalk, and smashed into a Sunnysider Kevin idling on the lawn with a dumb look plastered across his equally dumb face.
The ice cream truck jittered and swayed, but my feet didn’t budge so much as an inch—nor would they unless I actively willed them to move.
Croc ran down another pair of Sunnysiders—one Mailbox-Hands Kevin and a Tentacle Haired Kathy—and screeched to a stop ten feet away from where Ed and Woodstock were fighting for their lives. Although Ed was the same level as me, it was obvious that the bulk of his powers lay in illusion-based magic and mental mind-fuckery and not in physical combat. His left arm was spewing out thick columns of flame, while he fired the Colt with his free hand.
Neither attack was very effective.
The Sunnysiders soaked up the bullets like sponges and the flames were only a minor inconvenience at most.
I lifted both Kevin and Kathy into the air with my mind, then I flung them away with a thought. With no fear of hurting Ed or his bird, I activated StainSlayer Maelstrom and conjured a hurricane of industrial grade super bleach right on top of the rest of the amassed monstrosities. Between Mana Optimization and the five new levels I’d added, the spell dealt a catastrophic amount of damage. Sunnysiders shrieked and wailed, falling away from Ed as the bleach storm ripped through skin and chewed through meat.
I used a strand of telekinetic energy to slide the doors open as the truck came to a rumbling stop.
“Get in losers,” I called out, “we’re saving the world.”
Ed gave one last glance at the Sunnysiders writhing in pain on the ground, then darted into the truck with his parrot in tow.
“Are you stupid or suicidal?” Ed called up to me through the hole in the roof as he slid the door shut. “That ice cream jingle is going to bring every goddamned kannibal kid inside of ten miles down on us like an avalanche.”
“I’m planning on it,” I called back down. “But don’t you worry about them. Croc’s our wheel man, and I’m the gunner.”
“So what’s my job?” he asked.
“Two-fold,” I said, eyes locked on the horizon.
A dark horde surged toward us from the direction of the cornfields. They were still too far away to make out the finer details, but the horned monsters were unmistakable. Without hesitation, I tossed one of the Walkies down to the man looking up at me.
“Your first job is to walk Jakob through running the disruptor sequence,” I said. “You think you can handle that?”
Ed was quiet for a second, “It’ll be tricky, but I think I can manage,” he finally said. “And the other thing?” he asked.
“You and Woodstock are my A-gunners. You’re gonna feed me ammo.” I squatted down and glanced into the truck’s cab. “You see that freezer right there?” I pointed to the cooler in the corner. “That contains the meat flavored ice cream the Kannibal Kids like so much.”
“I know damn well what it is,” Ed snapped. “That’s what’s gonna get us all killed.”
“Not unless we use it,” I said. “Turn the Kannibal Kids into weapons. You said it yourself, those little freakshows love them some ice cream. Enough to kill for it. Let’s see if we can’t get them to kill that thing for us.” I jerked my head toward the HOA kaiju, still rampaging madly as it tried frantically to dislodge the others. “Far as I can tell, the cooler never runs out. It’s like a bottomless pit of fucked up meat-flavor goop. I just need you and Woodstock to make sure that I don’t run dry.”
“That’s the most batshit crazy thing I’ve ever heard, kemo sabe,” Ed replied. “Might even be crazy enough to work. And if not? Well, it’ll be a funny story someday—assuming we survive, which we probably won’t.” He paused and frowned. “Fuck it. I’m in,” he declared, before pulling open the cooler and fishing out several colorful ice cream pints filled with rotten meat goop. Instead of trying to physically juggle all the awkward containers, I let them float around me on strands of mental power.
“Croc,” I called down, “time to get this show on the road, we’ve got company.”
And we did.
Directly behind us, dozens of gaunt, horned Kannibal Kids were already pouring onto the street, racing toward us like hungry homing missiles. A tag appeared above the leader of the feral pack.
Dweller 0.24740B – Kannibal Kid (Moon Cursed – Blighted) [Level 40]
Its level had spiked dramatically, jumping from 35 to 40, and now instead of being marked as Feral, it was labeled as Moon Cursed. At level forty, it wasn’t a match for the HOA kaiju, but it was a significantly bigger threat than we were, and there were a lot of the Moon Cursed Kannibal Kids.
The only question now was could they be coerced through bribery?
The wheels of the truck screeched, tires peeling out, then we lurched into motion once more and sped away from the encroaching army of ravenous children. Time to test out my theory. I lined up my first shot and sent a pint of rancid-meat ice cream blasting toward a golf-cart Kevin loitering aimlessly in a driveway. The pint smashed harmlessly into the Sunnysider, doing so little damage the centaur’s HP bar didn’t even appear. It was like throwing a snowball at an angry elephant.
That was fine though, because it created exactly the reaction I had hoped for.
Several of the fast-approaching Kannibal Kids immediately veered off course, no longer targeting us but instead beelining toward the ice-creamed covered Kevin. They dashed across lawns, leapt over idling mowers, and avoided other Sunnysiders entirely.
They were monsters on a mission.
The first of the approaching Kannibal Kids bounded onto a rooftop with unmatched grace, then leaped, landing on the ice cream splattered centaur like a falling asteroid of teeth and fangs. The looming, malformed monstrosity literally dropkicked the Kevin in the chest, punching a hole clean through the Sunnysider’s torso. Then its claws began to rip and tear, effortlessly shredding the Kevin as its huge jaws slurped up anything touched by the ice cream.
Two more Kannibal Kids arrived in short order and joined in on the feeding frenzy, ripping off the Kevin’s arms or pulling off the fleshy wheels affixed to its lower half. Before long, the three Kannibals were covered in what little remained of the poor Kevin. They didn’t stop there, however. It seemed they had a taste for blood now and they immediately turned their unquenchable appetites on whatever unfortunate Sunnysider happened to be nearby.
One Kannibal Kid ripped a Kathy’s head clean off her shoulders with one swipe of its talons, then promptly shoved what remained of her body into the vast gapping maw that took up most of the Dweller’s midsection. The Kathy’s body vanished at an astonishing rate, disappearing in a spray of red viscera.
I didn’t get any direct experience points for the kills, which was unfortunate but not unexpected, though I did earn an achievement for my efforts.
Research Achievement Unlocked!
Child Army
Why fight your enemies when you can get someone else to fight them for you? It’s genius! Instead of getting your own hands dirty, you’ve successfully managed to manipulate a bunch of bloodthirsty actual children—it’s even in the title, Kannibal Kids—into killing on your behalf. The line between Diplomacy and Draconian puppet master has always been a blurry one, but you definitely fall on the bastard side of the line. But hey, whatever works, I guess. 10/10 strategy, would raise a child army again.
Reward: 1,200 Experience Points, 1 x Mercenary Loot Token
I waved away the achievement and tried to ignore both the accusatory tone and the defamatory insinuations. This wasn’t my fault, damn it. I hadn’t asked for this, and it wasn’t like the youth of Sunnyside were sweet, innocent angels. They were eight-foot-tall hunger demons with horns and skull faces. Besides, they weren’t the ones dying. They were the ones doing the killing, which seemed slightly less fucked up.
And if this plan was going to work, I needed them to do a lot more killing and I needed to redirect them fast, because the horde was gaining on us at an alarming rate.
“Croc, you need to pick up the speed,” I called over the Walkie. “These things are fast as fuck. Head due north for a minute, then circle back toward the HOA, over.”
“I’ll do my best, Dan,” came a scratchy reply over the Walkie.
The truck growled as it picked up even more speed.
Meanwhile, I telekinetically lobbed two more pints of ice cream, smearing a Kathy and splattering a Kevin a good hundred feet away. I wanted to spread out my targets as much as possible to maximize chaos and slow down the pack of Kannibal Kids, at least a little.
As before, the ice cream landed with anticlimactic thuds followed, almost immediately, by more Moon Cursed horrors peeling off from the larger pack like hungry velociraptors. I hurled pint after pint, and the slaughter continued picking up steam as more and more Kannibal Kids joined the feeding frenzy. But I needed to work faster, because another mob of gangly monsters was fast approaching from the west, loping along on all fours like oversized wolves.
“More speed, Croc!” I screamed, crouching down and banging on the top of the roof with the flat of my hand. “And get us closer to the HOA. We need to get its attention. Ed, I need ammo up here, stat, and I’m talking yesterday!”
“Got more incoming,” Ed radioed. “Had to whip a little carrying rig for Woodstock.”
The parrot, now acting as an aerial resupply, flapped into view a moment later. The bird had been fitted with an improvised system of ropes and carabiners, forming a harness of sorts. Those roped wrapped around the bird’s chest and shoulder joints which, in turn, connected to a large wire basket filled haphazardly with more ice cream.
“Kill it with fire,” the bird chirped in clear approval as I added the pints to my orbiting rotation of ammunition. Now empty, the bird descended back through the hole, presumably to fill up the basket once more.
Meanwhile, the radio at my hip squawked to life, though the message wasn’t for me.
“Jakob, this is Ed, do you read me, over?”
“Ja, go for Jakob,” came the Cendral’s reply.
“Alright, we don’t have time for any bullshit,” Ed barked. “The disruptor up there isn’t automated, and there a bunch of steps you’ll need to take to run the progressive activation sequence—”
“That could be a bit of a problem,” Jakob cut in. “These Zoning Leukocytes are threatening to overrun us, and this creature won’t stop its insufferable shaking. It is making it treacherously difficult to hold the stairwell.”
“We’re about to fix that,” I sent over the comms. “Just do what Ed says. The only way we stop this fucker for good is to get the disruptor firing on all cylinders, over.”
“Sehr gut, I will do my best,” the Cendral sent, sounding exhausted but determined.
“Good,” Ed sent. “First thing, I need you to get to the disruptor and stabilize the primary flux core. That’s the panel with three yellow switches on the left. You need to flip them in the proper order—one, three, two. Got that? One, three, two or the whole thing’ll go into lockdown.”
I blocked out their chatter and fired more ice cream pints at the idling Sunnysiders while Croc angled toward the HOA kaiju.
We jumped another curb, tore across a lawn, and smashed through a picket fence, slowly drawing closer to the malformed titan. The massive creature was crashing through a neighborhood, crushing houses and splattering Sunnysiders, so it was hard to get within firing distance without also being within HOA SMASH distance. Trying to maintain that buffer, while also staying away from the Kannibal Kids was like threading a needle while mounted on horseback.
“Here goes nothing,” I muttered, lining up my shot then unloading another pair of pints. The ice cream sailed through the air, tumbling overhead…
Then plummeted down and fell well-short of the kaiju.
I ground my teeth in sheer frustration. The thing was three stories tall, how was it possible that we still couldn’t get close enough to hit it? Part of the problem was Psychic Sovereignty. Though it was extremely powerful, it still only had a 50 meter range—or just over a hundred and fifty feet. Under most circumstances, half the length of a fucking football field was more than enough to do whatever needed doing.
Problem was, telepathically hurling meat ice cream from the top of a moving truck at a rampaging kaiju made from houses didn’t exactly qualify as “normal circumstances.”
“Closer, Croc!” I yelled again.
“I’m trying, Dan!” the dog called up, frantic. “I swear, I am. But the HOA keeps moving, and there are just too many Sunnysiders. If I plough into a big pack, they’ll slow us down and then the Kannibal Kids will be all over us.”
Shit, shit, shit.
If Croc couldn’t get us any closer, then there was no way this was going to work. True, I could potentially get myself in range, but I’d quickly run out of ammo without the truck. I’d gone all in on this hand and if this didn’t work out, we were going to be well and truly fucked.
“Hold on a minute!” Ed hollered from below. “I might have something that can help with your range—assuming you have a way to secure it to the top of the truck.”
“Whatever you got, I need it fast!” I yelled back down.
I lobbed two more pints at nearby Sunnysiders, but several Kannibal Kids were pacing us now, bounding from roof top to roof top as they drew into range. One leapt toward us and I swiveled at the hips, unleashing a Hydro Fracking Blast with pinpoint accuracy. The beam of super-heated water blasted clean through the creature’s chest. Though the attack dealt only a tiny amount of damage, relative to the Kannibal Kid’s total HP, it still hit with 100,000 PSI of force.
The airborne monster flipped ass over end, cartwheeling through the air, then slammed into the ground with a satisfying crunch of snapping bone. I hit it with a pint for good measure and the other Kannibal Kids lived up to their name, quickly turning on their downed comrade.
Meanwhile, Ed scrambled up through the hole in the roof, with a rope tied around his waist which snaked back into the truck’s interior.
“This might help,” he said, pressing one hand against the metal roof. “Found it inside a vestigial barn on the edges of the HOA. Never had any use for it, but I couldn’t bear to leave it behind.”
The air bowed and warped as Ed’s Superspace Storage disgorged a bulky contraption that appeared to be a miniature, redneck Howitzer. Because I’d grown up in rural Ohio, however, I knew exactly what it really was, even without the description. An apple cannon.
Orchard Obliterator 3000
Rare Artifact
Type: Projectile Cannon, Ranged
Have you ever wanted to weaponize your daily serving of fruit? Well, here's your chance. Originally designed for wholesome, family-friendly fun, this overpowered monstrosity has been modified for... let’s say less than legal combat situations. Why let apples rot when you can launch ’em at high velocity and turn your enemies into fruit salad?
Fully automatic, equipped with a high-pressure air tank and a reinforced barrel, this beauty can fire apples at a rate that can only be described as deeply concerning. And don’t let the juicy payload fool you—when those apples hit, they hit HARD. Like a Mack truck doing 95 in a school zone. By which I mean, they make a big mess and rarely leave survivors.
An apple a day keeps the monsters away—especially if you aim for the head!
It was a thing of glorious beauty.
“Hope that helps,” Ed shouted before slipping back down through the hole in the roof.
It sure as shit did, though I needed to get it attached ASAP before Croc accidentally knocked the damned thing off with its erratic driving.
“Croc, hold things steady for thirty seconds!” I called into the cab. “No sharp turns and try not to hit anything!”
While balancing on top of the truck and keeping one eye out for encroaching Kannibal Kids, I pulled up the Minion Masher Overlay and conjured a holographic grid that seamlessly contoured to the surface of the truck. I didn’t need it to be perfect—I just needed it to stay in place when Croc took a sharp turn or ran down a Sunnysider. I selected an appropriate section of the roof which became strangely malleable, then quickly rotated the apple cannon into position using a thread of mental effort and grafted the makeshift weapon into place.
There was a brief flash of light as cannon bonded to truck, the two becoming one.
I swiveled the barrel, loaded a single pint into chamber, then took aim and slammed my palm against the bright red firing button. The cannon let out a deafening whoomp and the pint erupted from the barrel and arced through the air, slamming into the kaiju a second later.
A grin spread across my face. Hell yeah. Game on, motherfucker.
Comments
James A. Hunter
They say "the best-laid plans never survive first contact with the enemy..." That is definitely going to be true this time around. But it's a wild ride. 😜
Nilbog
This is a very chaotic plan but given how the fight between Marcus and the Flayed Monarch went fights stay messy no matter how far you advance
