The Nightmare Game System

By Raymond Johnson

A game designed to shatter the minds of the people who play it. A thief on a mission to save his sister. An ambitious demon masquerading as an artificial intelligence.

In a world where a diabolical game threatens to break the minds of its players, Ramzan, a determined thief, embarks on a dangerous mission to save his sister. Little does he know that the game, known as The Nightmare Game System, is more than just virtual reality fun—it's a horrifying concoction of terror. As Ramzan battles nightmarish abominations such as zombies, lycanthropes, and slime monsters, controlled by a cunning and unfair programmer, he must protect his secrets and cling to his sanity. Will he triumph over this psychological onslaught and escape the clutches of a twisted AI? In this dark fantasy thriller, the fate of Ramzan's sanity and humanity hang in the balance as he races against time in the ultimate survival challenge. Brace yourself for a gripping journey through a treacherous virtual world where murder, mutilation, and the battle for one's very soul converge.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Audion Media
• Release date: Jun 30, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223718819

Book preview

This book is dedicated to my wife, Carrie, Who was not the inspiration for Stephen King’s novel, but is nonetheless my prom queen. My son, Logan, who has been to the Outpost with me numerous times. My son, Thane, who let me introduce him to Fright Night, and my two personal little monsters, Lucas and Quillen, who laughed with me at Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein.

Also my loving daughter Alexis, who left me to die at the hands of the vampires in Jaycee’s Haunted House and jumped when the cow came out of the roof in the movie Van Helsing. My aunt Peg, let me watch the movie Alien when I was eight because I lied to her, and let me come to her house to watch Angel Heart on HBO. Finally, Chilly Billy Cardille, who gave me hours of Chiller Theater that I will never ever forget. Its absence On the air is still felt decades later.

To my Aunt Neat, the meanest old witch I ever loved, Outspan Foster, who gave great advice that I probably ignored because I took crappy notes, and Anneliese Rennie, who contacted me and did an impromptu reading on the first chapter of this book as soon as it hit Royal Road. Oh, and Nesler. Can’t forget Nesler.

Ray Johnson

Chapter One

The Opening Credits:

An Unwanted Reservation at the Hostel

Y ou should know better than to mess about with Obshchina, boy, said the bearded man. His voice was a deep basso, and while his Russian was good, he wasn’t a native. His accent gave him away as Vainakh—in simpler terms, a Chechnyan.

The Obshchina were the Moscow branch of the Chechen mafia. He had suspected as much when they dragged him off the street and stuffed him in the back of a van, but the bear of a man confirmed his fears with his simple speech patterns. He had been foolish enough to think he could steal from them, and now he was duct taped to a chair.

About to die.

They were going to make him tell them where he’d stashed the money, and once they retrieved it, they would kill him.

But there was no way in hell he could tell them. The man in the chair had given the money to his younger sister, Jekaterina, in the hopes she would leave Russia and make a better life for herself. His haul had been just over 33 million rubles, roughly half a million American dollars. Not as much as he’d have liked, but enough. He’d given it to her with instructions to leave and never come back, and not to tell anyone where she was going. The man knew the likelihood of his capture was high, but she had always been his priority.

He would hold out as long as he could, but eventually he’d talk. Everyone always did. But his plan was simple—name a friend of his who had died in a recent automobile accident, Vadim, as the man holding the money.

Once they realized he had no idea where the money really was, and that there was no way of getting it back, they would kill him and Jekaterina would be safe. All he needed was the strength to keep quiet.

The ursine man before him rubbed a hand over his scalp, then rolled up his sleeves as he tilted his head, looking at Ramzan like a dog hearing a strange noise. You are foolish, young Ramzan, he said with a toothy grin. "I can already see in your eyes that you will not talk. This is bad. Da. Is very bad for you."

Ramzan glared defiantly from his chair. "I know you are going to kill me, and I don’t care. I will never tell you where the money is. I can take torture. You do not scare me." Ramzan wasn’t kidding. He had grown up hard. Beatings, pain, suffering...they were old friends to him. His pain did not matter, but his sister’s life did. He would endure any nightmare they could dish out, for her sake.

The brute looked disheartened. "Da, is true. We kill you. Eventually. You have sat right on those brass tacks you were so quick to get to, you know? As for torture? Eh, not so much. We like to let you torture yourself. Hell, boy, he laughed, we will let you kill self too! Ha!" Spittle flew from the giant’s mouth in a spray that covered Ramzan’s face.

Ramzan scanned the empty room. There was no plastic on the floor, but he doubted that the Obshchina would care about leaving things like blood spatter around. They were more like those cowboys of the American west—shoot first and worry about the body count later. If and when it came to that Ramzan planned on making them work for every drop of blood. Bite off his tongue to keep them from learning anything. He would happily arrive in Hell a mute before giving them the satisfaction.

My name, the big man said as he thumped a fist on his chest, is Stanislav. I tell you this so you know that you will never make it out of here alive. Nothing,—he leaned in and breathed toilet breath into his face—and I mean nothing will change that fact, Ramzan.

Stanislav reached behind Ramzan to the back of the folding chair he sat on and lifted him like a rag doll. I show you. He carried Ramzan without an ounce of effort into a dark, concrete hallway. The floor sloped downwards and showed signs of moisture. The area was dimly lit, but Ramzan thought he could see large rats scurrying out of the way as Stanislav approached.

The hall ended at an open doorway, and Ramzan heard an electrical hum. His captor carried him like a baby into the room beyond. It, too, was dimly lit, but it was dry inside. A dehumidifier ran somewhere just out of sight. He recognized the sound instantly, as his mother’s house had flooded every spring, and the dehumidifier was the only thing that kept the mold from eating their house.

The Chechnyan turned, and the room came into view for Ramzan. There was a line of people—ten, after a quick head count—also duct taped to folding chairs. They all wore the same bizarre contraption—a spherical helmet that completely encased their heads. Dirty wires sprouted from the tops and trailed behind them like diseased vines. None of them moved a muscle, or acknowledged that they entered the room.

He wondered briefly if this was some new form of torture, but he quickly dismissed that thought. There was no sign of pain or suffering. They sat silent and immobile, as if they had no idea of what was taking place around them. No, this was something else entirely, and for some reason, it scared him.

Ramzan had been stabbed, shot, and beaten. While horrifying, he had intimate knowledge of what they entailed and could deal with it mentally and physically. But the state of these strangers unnerved him on a deeper level. Their placidity screamed out to him.

There was something very wrong with the people in this tiny room.

Stanislav grinned at his confusion. You ever hear of American MMORPG’s? This one of them. Is completely immersive, and feels one hundred percent real. Is virtual reality, but it will be only reality that you will know for rest of your life.

The huge man held his fingers to the throats of six people before he found what he was looking for with the seventh. He dragged the chair away from the others and unlatched the helmet on the man’s head. This is only way you stop playing, he said as he pointed to the dead man. You die. Once I put this headgear on you, there is no hope left. Understand?

Ramzan felt slivers of ice forming on his spine. Why should I be afraid of a video game?

Stanislav cracked a toothy grin. "Ha! I knew it. I just saying to myself, I bet boy is wondering why we put him in game, eh? Not just shot foot and knee until you talk, da? You will see. You will see." Stanislav sat the helmet on the ground and picked the dead man up; chair and all. He flung the corpse across the room with one hand and it hit the ground with a metallic clang.

Ramzan, wide-eyed, looked back to the row of captives. Now that his eyes had adjusted, the situation became clearer. IVs hung behind each of them, dripping clear fluid into their arms. They all wore diapers.

Here are rules. You tell me where money is, and big friend Stanislav will kill you quickly. Right now. I promise, you not feel a thing. He bent his knees so that he could look Ramzan in the eyes. When I put helmet on your head you can only free self by telling me where the money is. You just say that you want to cooperate and then say where money is. We will look, if it there then I will take you out of game, and kill you fast. Maybe make you feel it a little bit just for forcing me to hook you up. Point is, you will be free of game. He drew a huge knife from around his back. In Ramzan’s hands it would have been a short sword. In Stanislav’s mitts, it was a letter opener.

"If you do not talk, then you will die in there, and that is not something you want. Nyet. He sighed. I like you, Ramzan. You are brave and hold tongue when you should speak. I respect that, but I tell you true, if you die in game you will never leave it. Your mind will automatically be uploaded into game system and you will live out a million Hells before power finally goes out."

That man—the brute pointed at the pile of chair and man he had tossed away like trash a few seconds ago—is still playing. He will always play. He no get out. He suffer now in ways you cannot imagine. He scream about things you cannot fathom. Stanislav’s body quaked as he shivered at the thought. Torture. Scare even me. Stanislav shook his head with a look of pity that frightened Ramzan more than the motionless captives. A thug like Stanislav never felt bad for the things he did.

Stanislav waved the knife in Ramzan’s face, his right eyebrow raised in a question. When no answer came, he shook his head, stood, and placed the knife behind his back. The hairy brute dragged his chair over to the empty spot that he had just created, then turned the chair so Ramzan could see the body that had been so casually thrown aside.

The man’s blank eyes stared back at him, burrowing into his soul, a look of unfettered horror still etched on the dead man’s features. The corpse’s mouth was locked open, lips peeled back, exposing poorly kept teeth.

The man had died screaming.

Blood was flecked over his chin and around his lips. He had died hard, writhing in pain and terror, before he had most likely choked on his tongue or his own blood.

Stanislav noticed him eyeing the body. Ah, you see poor Pyotr, do you? He did not steal from us. His crime not as great as yours. But I have big heart. I gave Pyotr a chance. I placed him on Easy Mode. I give him chance, but like you, he thinks he is man’s man and refuses to make restitution. It takes him two days to get to where he is now.

The bearish man taped Ramzan’s hands even more tightly together. A guttural gurgle rose from his throat, and he turned his head and spit a gob of yellow phlegm onto Pyotr’s forehead. The fool. He makes me kill him over a debt of honor. He slid Ramzan’s chair against the wall. "You? You will go in Hardcore Mode. Nyet. We will be putting your balls to the wall, yes? You will enter on Nightmare Mode. Da."

Stanislav bent over and picked up the headgear. He polished an area with the elbow of his shirt sleeve, gave it a once over, nodded, and perched it over Ramzan’s head. I don’t suppose you want to be smart and just tell me who has money, eh? We know that you don’t have it, or we would have found it already. I promise, tell me now and you die quick. Easy.

Ramzan considered it. Perhaps this would be the time for him to talk about Vadim. If he could convince his captor that the money was lost, he might be able to protect Jekaterina and save himself a great deal of grief. It was worth a try.

Stanislav, he gasped, unable to entirely hide the terror he felt, I’ll tell you what I can. I swear. But it won’t do you any good. I have no idea where the money is, and I have no idea of how to find it. Ramzan hated himself for caving in so quickly, but he knew that the moment he entered the game he was never going to get out. This was the only card he had to play, but he didn’t know if it was a trump card or a chump card. If this worked, then Stanislav would kill him. He wouldn’t have to worry about going into the system.

The big man cracked his neck as he twisted it from side to side. It was a disturbing noise in the near-dark of the room. It sounded like bones—twisting, snapping.

The Vainakh crossed his hairy arms and gazed into Ramzan’s eyes. I am listening,

I gave the money to a friend. His name was Vadim.

Stanislav scowled "His name was Vadim, you say? What happened, did he change his name and go into hiding?" The disbelief etched on the man’s face and the skepticism in his voice were apparent. The big man was sharp, of that he had no doubt, but Ramzan didn’t know if he was bright enough to catch on.

Stanislav made a face like he was sucked on a rotten lemon slice. Vadim. He shook his head. I think...not. He hooked a massive finger under Ramzan’s chin and forced him make eye contact. I talked to Vadim for quite some time. Was good kid. Sad that he knew you, otherwise would be alive now. To think, I had some respect for you. I think to myself, this kid has balls. Sure, I will probably stomp on them, crush them in a vise, or even cut them off,—he made a scissor motion with his fingers—but no matter what I do, he will not talk. He shook his head in disappointment. You know, Vadim? He was tough and brave. He had no idea why I was there, but whenever I ask him about you, he no talk at all. He was, as the Americans say, a stand-up guy.

He sneered at Ramzan, You, on other hand,—he rolled his eyes to the ceiling as he searched for the word—sully friend’s name so you do not suffer. In Chechnya, we would cut out our own tongue before we would betray a brother. He stuck one of his hairy mitts into a pocket, and jabbed a finger from the other hand into Ramzan’s chest. It felt like a steel rod.

You dirty the name of good man who died because of your mistake. I offer to kill you quickly. No more. He bared his teeth. That option is gone. Now, you suffer. If you are smart, you will tell me where the money went. If you do, maybe you won’t die in there. The grimace turned to a smile. Maybe.

He jammed the helmet onto Ramzan’s head, and the world went away.

Pitch black.

No sound.

His head was encased in a biometric foam; he only knew that because he’d played a fully immersive MMORPG before. He also knew that as soon as the headset turned on, he would lose all sensory information from his true body, and would instead have false sensations fed in through the helmet. It would feel utterly real. He wouldn’t be able to differentiate the game from reality.

He had played the game War Bonded, and he was all too familiar with how a cut in the game felt like a cut in real life if you didn’t turn down the pain settings.

Something told him that he wasn’t going to be able to manipulate the settings in this particular game.

Chapter Two

Character Mutilation

Ramzan held his breath and waited with resigned dread. He felt like he was strapped in the electric chair, waiting for the switch to be flipped. Any second now and 2,200 volts would pass through his body.

What a delicious thought, came a voice from the darkness. It was almost male, but slightly effeminate, flavored by an American accent. Not Russian, that was good. Americans were weak and full of sympathy.

Yes, that is a wonderful idea. Let’s do that! He swore he heard muffled, as if the person expressing the sentiment was wearing gloves.

Ramzan’s body was racked with a jolt of electricity that fired through every nerve. His jaw clenched so forcefully that he bit through his tongue. He wanted to scream, but he couldn’t open his mouth. Pain crashed over him like a tidal wave of burning oil.

Through it all came a gender-neutral voice.

You take 10 Health points of electrical damage.

You take 10 Health points of electrical damage.

You take 10 Health points of electrical damage.

You take 10 Health points of electrical damage.

You take 5 Health points of bite damage.

You are bleeding. You will lose two Health points every second until the bleeding stops.

You have 1,952 out of 2,000 Health Points remaining.

The damage from the electricity and bleeding continued for an eternity, until the voice stopped detailing the damage he was taking, and said:

You have 3 out of 2,000 Health Points remaining.

His jaw relaxed. He opened his mouth and spat a torrent of blood, along with the masticated remains of his tongue. Gah! Ack, Haashaan, was all that Ramzan could manage. His skin had blistered, burned, and sloughed away from his face in places. He smelled...bacon.

Ramzan couldn’t move, but instinctually knew that he was lying on the ground. The soil was cool and moist beneath him, and his nostrils detected fresh soil through the stench of his charred flesh. In spite of his left eye bursting from the jolt he had taken, his right eye began to focus on his surroundings. He was outside. The occasional bush pushed up through the grey earth, only to find grey sky waiting for it.

He tried to push off the ground, but his fingers had burned down to nubs after they had caught fire, and they brought renewed waves of excruciating pain at the slightest flex.

From nearby came a rhythmic wumph, and Ramzan struggled to turn his head. Shovelfuls of earth flew out of a rectangular hole and landed on the ground in a pile nearby. The rhythm stopped, the shovel launched from the hole, and a lithe, well-dressed form leapt from the pit.

Ramzan could not tell if it was a man or woman. The being was dressed in a man’s sharkskin business suit, with matching gloves and black loafers. Its tie was out of place, and it had on round, black sunglasses as if it were blind. Its hair was medium-height on top, but clipped short on the sides to where the pale skin shown through. Its flesh was sleek and shiny, white like a body submerged in water for weeks away from the sun. The albino walked over and straddled Ramzan.

Welcome to the character creation portion of our version of the NGS, sexy. I’m your guide, Blair. At the mention of its name the figure slicked a hand back through its hair and licked its lip. It’s my duty to introduce you to the game and help you set up your character, so that you can survive as long as possible. He/She ran a tongue over its teeth like a cat enjoying the remnants of a meal. We wouldn’t like you to die too quickly.

Hurka?

Hmmmm? Blair gave him a bored look. I’m sure it does hurt, sweetie. Believe me, it just goes uphill in the snow from here. The androgynous form grabbed his wrist and stood up, then dragged Ramzan to the edge of the freshly-dug plot. The ghost of a being released his arm and gave him a wink. I filled the bottom with broken glass and used junkie needles. Don’t worry, honey. You can thank me later.

A foot struck his ribs, and Ramzan was sure he’d heard one snap. For a moment, he was weightless, then his body crashed into the debris below. The kick and the landing had cost him two more Health Points.

Blair’s voice oozed down from above. I suggest that you think about what brings you here. There’s only one way out. I’ll only ask you once before you enter the game. After that, you play as long as you can hold out. No matter how sweet your ass is, darlin’.

Dirt flew into his face, and he choked as it went up his nose and into his mouth. He tried to spit it out, but he had no tongue, and his lips had been burned to cinders. Another shovelful of soil landed beside him. In desperation, Ramzan swallowed the earth in his mouth and snorted the dirt from his nose. He gasped for air as another scoop of soil entered his mouth.

Blair leaned over the edge of the grave and crinkled its nose. How am I supposed to bury you alive if you keep eating all the soil? I’ll bet if I was shovelin’ shit, you wouldn’t try to eat it!

Another shovel full fell on top of him, and then another until he could not see the open sky above his grave. He couldn’t breathe. The needles and glass tore into his back as the soil on his chest grew heavier.

Neutral and unbiased words flowed into his ears, somehow making it around the earth that caked his Eustachian tubes.

You take 200 Health points of compression damage. Zero Health points available.

You have died.

Respawning in 3...2...1...

Respawn.

Ramzan expected to appear at a binding location or respawn point, but to his horror, he hadn’t moved. Buried alive, dying slowly all over again. His body no longer pulsed with pain, so claustrophobia took over. It was hard enough when it felt like the walls were closing in. Now, they actually encased him, and panic set in. With a muffled scream, Ramzan tried to free his hands enough so that he could burrow his way upwards.

That neutral voice rang in his ears once more.

You are suffocating. For each second of suffocation you will take 1 point of damage.

You are suffocating. You take 1 Health points from suffocation.

You are suffocating. You take 1 Health points from suffocation.

You are suffocating. You take 1 Health points from suffocation.

On it went, nearly as maddening as the claustrophobia that numbed his mind. Every ten points of damage that he accrued caused another notification to pop up, reminding him how close he was to death.

Ramzan wriggled his wrist until he got it to move. He could barely do anything from the lack of oxygen, but he fought onward until he managed to pull himself up a little. Despite all the pain, the maddening claustrophobia, and the doomsday countdown in his head, he formed one coherent thought.

Uma Thurman’s character in Kill Bill 2 had made this look too easy.

He fought his way up inch by inch, and almost shouted in triumph when his hand broke the surface. With a scant 100 points of Health left, his head emerged from the ground like a bean sprout in search of the sun. He drew in a long gulp of air, spat out clumps of saliva-formed mud, then blinked furiously to get the dirt out of his eyes. Then, he paused. He was exhausted and needed a break. His head and one arm were above ground. That was a victory.

He heard Stanislav’s voice in his head, telling him it would all be over if he spilled where the money was. He ignored it. There were already enough people talking to him in the game, he didn’t need to add one of his own.

He attempted to free his other arm so he could pull himself out, but noticed the soil around him was turning to mud. It wasn’t thick, riverbank mud that sucked a person in and didn’t let them go. This was soupy, and becoming more liquid by the second.

Vile, brackish water splashed into his mouth. The earth around him melted into an ocean, leaving him bobbing on the surface. He doggie paddled, having never learned to really swim. In Russia, swimming was not something people did.

He spun in a circle, looking for land or a ship, until he realized that he was still in the game. That thought made him wonder what was below him, lurking in the depths just out of sight. He’d never had a fear of deep water before, but he’d never been adrift in a nightmare ocean before, either.

Now, all he could envision were tentacles, reaching up from below to drag him to a painful, drowning death. As much as he didn’t want to, Ramzan took a deep breath and looked below him. He was surprised at how warm the water was, as he dove beneath the surface. He might have enjoyed it, in other circumstances.

To his relief, the water was clear, and the visibility was excellent. There was no menace lurking in the fathoms below.

There was nothing at all.

With that came the realization he was only going to be able to dog-paddle for so long. Until he grew too tired to keep his head above water, at which point he would drown. It would be a slow, agonizing process, with all the Health points he had. He wanted to call for help, but knew it was pointless. Nobody would come. He would not be rescued. He was trapped in an endless cycle of death and respawn.

He scanned the horizon anyway, looking for something that he could use to float on, praying a passing ship would drag him from the water. At that moment, he would happily get on the Titanic, the Mary Celeste, or even the Flying Dutchman. To his dismay, the only object to break the surface was a dorsal fin.

Ramzan recognized it immediately—a Great White. It was clearly circling him, assessing him. He paddled harder, turning away from the huge fish.

Right at the second one. It was even larger than the first, and like its brother, it was circling as well.

Ramzan took a deep breath and stuck his head under the water to try and get a better look. He only had a moment to register the third shark rocketing up from below, before it struck him like a bus and launched him from the water. The shark snatched him mid-air by the waist, and he could feel every serrated tooth puncture his flesh, as they tore him in half. He could not even scream, due to the blood that filled his lungs. He could barely make out the bleeding messages over the pounding of his pulse, but as his heart stopped, the final messages were all he could hear.

You take 670 Health points of bite damage. Zero Health points available.

You have died.

Respawning in 3...2...1...

Respawn.

Ramzan awoke, strapped to a chair in a room similar to where Stanislav had taken him. His abdomen ached and still dripped blood, although he was, for the most part, whole once again. The air was cool and musty, and something moved behind him. Blair stepped into the light and gave him a lopsided smile. Look at’cha you go, little man. Even now, you aren’t screaming for me to set you free. A pack of cigarettes appeared in the being’s hand. It put the blue box near its mouth, lipped a smoke, and drew it from the pack like a blade from a sheath. Most people are already begging me to let them go by this point, Blair mumbled around the butt. They spill secrets we didn’t even ask about. Not you, though. You just endure everything with a dash of stoicism and stupidity.

What is the point to all of this? Ramzan asked. Honestly, I’m never going to talk. No matter what you do, no matter how long I’m in here, I’ll never break.

No matter how long you’re in here? The genderless figure covered its mouth as it giggled like a schoolgirl. How long do you think you’ve been in the game so far? A rough estimate is fine. I like it rough. Gimme a guess, hot nuts.

Ramzan considered everything he’d been through. It had felt like hours or even days, but it had all happened so fast, one thing right after the other, that it was hard to estimate a solid time frame. I don’t know, he stated blankly, My best guess is somewhere in the ballpark of a few hours.

Blair blew smoke from its nose in a long steady stream, having lit up when Ramzan wasn’t looking. You’ve been in the tutorial for five minutes.

Ramzan’s stomach dropped. You’re lying. There is no way that everything I’ve been through has happened in five minutes.

Blair took a long drag off the cigarette and then placed it between the first two fingers