Matt glared at the plate, unseasoned turkey and crumbly stuffing falling over the sides. He despised the misshapen fork he’d used the last week, loathed the wooden inn that reminded him where he was.
The table jostled, food spilling. Greg made more of a raucous when he planted a leatherbound book in front of him. “You won’t believe this.” He threw the cover open and adjusted his glasses. “The town of Whifflemore was founded in 1153 by Commodore Whiffle and his partner, Trevor More.” Elation colored his pale cheeks while his lanky limbs danced wildly. “They have history books of everything I developed for my story!”
Matt’s lip twitched. He clenched his archaic fork and stuffed the slab of turkey in his mouth. Bland boring turkey. Jaw popping with every clench of his teeth around the stiff meat, he glared at the plate.
“You usually gormandize whatever’s in front of you,” Greg said.
Matt growled, “This isn’t exactly French toast with berries and whip.”
“It’s probably better for you.”
Slamming the fork, he conveyed every thought consuming his nightmares through a searing glare.
Greg looked as lost as a pimpled teenager staring at rubber wheels. Then again, everyone here would be confused by a 6-cylinder engine.
“We are stuck in your book. I’ve probably lost my job, maybe my apartment. I haven’t eaten a decent meal cause all I can afford in your measly town is dry turkey.”
Greg ruffled his thick hair to avoid scratching the patchy stubble around his jaw. “I’m sure time works differently here than in the real world.”
Matt’s eyes narrowed. “Awesome. Instead of missing seven days, I’ve lost seven years.”
The writer had no words.
He jabbed his fork in the stuffing. The crunchy crumbles reminded him of the couscous his coworker had made. Nothing to rave about, though his mind did drift to the accompanying tandoori chicken and roasted veggies. Now that was a meal.
“We’ll get back. Everything will be fine.”
Matt scoffed. A bit of stuffing traveled down the wrong pipe. Intense coughs racked his body in order to dispel the obstruction. After a deep inhale, everything seemed to calm.
Greg drummed his thumbs together, leaning far away. “We just need to figure out how to close the book.”
Matt shook his head. “This isn’t a book, it’s a world based on your book. If we’re getting out of here, we need a new portal. So unless you threw in some 30th century technology in some hidden tavern, we’re stuck.”
“Or we play out the story. The book doesn’t go on forever.”
“Greg…”
The chair screeched as he rose. “Whifflemore is ground zero for my story. Alex Remington should be here gearing up for his expedition into Monster Alley. It all ends when he saves the mayor’s daughter and returns to a hero’s welcome.”
“Sounds dorky.”
“There’s about 300,000 words; believe me, plenty happens.”
Matt’s fingers curled, digging into the wood.
Greg flinched. “I don’t edit when I write.”
“So the story isn’t complete?”
“No, it just…” He bobbed his head back and forth. “…might not make sense.”
Like he didn’t already know that.
The door clattered on its hinges. “Hey, stranger. I’m told you can fix…” Hesitation muddied his words. “Warped wheels.”
Matt turned to the entrance, finding a lanky man with a bowler hat. His moustache was too big for his narrow face, eyes beady like the buttons on his worn vest.
He rose, ignoring his brother and his plate. “Ten silver upfront, ten after.”
The man fished for his money purse, not flinching at the price like most. He dropped the coins into his hand and beckoned Matt into the blaring sun.
Two-story country stores and taverns were intermixed with the bland-looking bank and county jail. Everyone had a pistol on their hip and a cowboy hat shading their brow. If the women weren’t scantily clad in front of the Rusty Screw, they strutted in long skirts with parasols over their shoulders. Gunpowder and sand took permanent residence in his nose, relief coming when he passed the bakery or butcher.
His new client led him between stores. Shadows obscured most of what lay ahead.
Matt clenched the knife behind his back just in case.
He stopped beside an unharnessed carriage. But the wheels weren’t the problem. Snapped boards and torn fabric rimmed a gaping hole in the back right corner. A perfect semi-circle with the imprint of massive teeth.
Matt examined the edge, making a list of what he needed.
“How long will it take?”
“May need a week. This is bigger than what I usually handle.” The words stung in his mouth. He shouldn’t be here.
“I have to leave tomorrow.”
“Then maybe you shouldn’t have pissed off the werewolves.”
“It wasn’t a werewolf.”
Matt’s brow quirked. Nothing about this man suggested he’d go further than the Brambles. Not to mention that most who saw their first werewolf in those sparse trees didn’t dare go closer to the infamous mountain range.
The man shrank under his gaze. “I’ll pay you triple to get it done by morning.”
Now he was curious. Grinding his teeth, Matt nodded. After the man produced another twenty silver, he perused the hole once more.
But his eye traveled into the empty contents.
“Did the creature take your cargo?”
The man squared his little shoulders. “That’s none of your concern.”
“It is if there’s more damage.”
Deflating slightly, the man glanced haphazardly at the cart. “My belongings are safe, it’s just that hole.”
Matt bobbed his head. “I’ll be back with my tools.” He headed out of the shadows and back toward the tavern.
Greg gormandized what looked like shepherd’s pie, but the filling looked runny.
Planting his hands on table, Matt leaned in. “What monsters did you write in here?”
He swallowed stiffly. “I thought you were fixing a warped wheel.”
“It’s code. Wood wheels don’t warp, especially with tension spokes.”
Greg’s pupils dilated slightly, jaw working. “That makes a lot more sense.”
“Monsters.”
He waved off the comment. “We don’t need to worry about them here. The Bramble forest has a few werewolves, but the rest are in Monster Alley. Why?”
“I got a cart missing a back corner and a shady guy that’s paying me triple to finish today.”
Greg dropped his fork, eyes widening. “How big?”
“Huge.”
“Teeth?”
“Sharp.”
“See anything inside?”
“Empty, guy’s hiding it.”
Greg could barely hold his seat. “Alex should be showing up soon.”
“Who?”
He started to speak but rethought his words. “My main character. Part of the build up to the inciting action is he gets kicked from the Rusty Screw and discovers a shady man in an alley with a Hydra egg.”
Matt paled. “You dropped us in a story with a Hydra?”
Thoughts circled within his eyes, but comprehension didn’t fully kick in.
Matt bit his tongue, trying to stave the boiling aggravation. First Greg insists on building a portal based on a cardboard cutout. Then he gives said portal the directions to a wild west where Hydras and werewolves eat cattle. Now the story was playing out and they probably had to follow the main character into danger.
This wasn’t a video game; what happened if they died?
A commotion outside stole their attention. A broad-shouldered man with thick stubble, thicker curls, and dark brooding eyes crossed the worn dirt path. Clad in black like any stereotypical cowboy villain, he stood out amongst the crowd.
All he missed was his hat.
As a woman in a loose dress came running with the misplaced accessory, Matt straightened. Skin cold for the first time in a week, he couldn’t take his eyes off what had to be Greg’s main character.
A spitting image of himself.