The Buried Cities

by James Frey

  “Guess old Goliath didn’t like me taking him down,” he says. He tries to laugh, and blood sprays from his lips.

  I never imagined saying good-bye to my best friend like this. I reach out and touch Hicks’s face. The skin is cold and slick with sweat.

  “Promise me something,” he whispers.

  “What’s that?” I ask him.

  “Don’t let that Minoan get whatever this thing is guarding. Okay?”

  “Sure,” I tell him. “I won’t.”

  Hicks smiles. “Knew you weren’t a traitor,” he says. “See ya, Boone.”

  His eyes close. He breathes one last time, then he’s gone.

  Ari has come over. I stand up and put my arm around her. I see her looking at Hicks’s mottled face, wondering if her turn is coming next. The poison is making its way through her veins, farther up her arm. I can sense her exhaustion. Whatever is going to happen next, we need to finish it, and soon. “Let’s check on Cassandra,” I say.

  I turn to look for her, and she’s right behind me, holding a rock in her hand. “Sorry, Cahokian,” she says as she brings the rock up toward the side of my head. “I need to speak with my sister. Alone.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Ariadne

  “You don’t look well, sister.”

  Cassandra drops the rock she’s just used to knock Boone out. At first I think she might have killed him. But his ruined chest is still rising and falling. Of the three of us, only Cassandra appears more or less unscarred, although I know the blow from the mechanical man must have hurt her badly.

  She reaches into the pocket of her pants and pulls something out. She holds out her palm. On it is her piece of the key. “You have yours.”

  It is not a question. She knows that I do, that I would not have gone through all of this if I did not.

  “You’re going to die, Ariadne,” she says. “The poison has advanced too far.” She glances at the body of the dead Cahokian, Hicks. “That will be you soon enough.”

  She’s right. I can feel the poison, thick and deadly, creeping through my veins. It has become more difficult to breathe. My arm is almost useless. How much longer do I have left? Not long, I think.

  “What do you want?” I ask my sister. She knows that she could kill me. Or she could simply wait for the poison to finish its job, then take the pieces of the key from me and from Boone.

  Cassandra comes over to me. I don’t flinch as she raises her hand and places it against my cheek. “You know you’ve lost,” she says. “I will open the door, take the weapon, and return with it to Crete. I will be the hero of our line. Your name will be forgotten. Already our parents no longer speak it. It’s as if you were never born, that there were never two of us. Only one.”

  She looks down at Boone. “I will kill him, too, of course. Then everything you’ve done will be for nothing.” She looks back at me. “Tell me, was it worth it? Losing everything? For him?”

  I stare into her deep brown eyes. Eyes exactly like mine, in a face I share. How is it, I wonder, that two bodies so similar can have hearts that are so different? Or are we really that dissimilar? Before meeting Boone, I might have felt as she does now. Loving him, even for such a short time, has changed me. “Yes,” I tell her.

  Her face hardens. This is not the answer she wanted. She wants me to say that I regret it all. At that moment, I realize that what Cassandra wants more than anything in the world—perhaps has always wanted—is to be capable of love. Maybe at one time she was. Before training turned her heart to stone. Before her jealousy of me poisoned her just as the beast’s poison has doomed me. We are both dying, only Cassandra doesn’t know it.

  She kneels down and begins going through Boone’s clothes. She quickly finds the piece of the key that he has been carrying, and stands up. She takes me by the wrist and drags me along behind her as she walks the length of the hall to the stone doors. Too weak to struggle, I don’t resist. When we reach the steps, I stumble up them.

  “Give me the other pieces,” Cassandra says.

  “You’ll have to kill me,” I say.

  She laughs. “A final display of bravery? Admirable. But you want to see what’s behind those doors as much as I do. I’m allowing you the chance.”

  As much as I want to defy her, she’s right. I do want to see what’s inside the next room. My entire life has been devoted to this.

  Everything I’ve done has led up to it. To die now, without knowing, without seeing, is unimaginable. She’s already won. I won’t defeat her with a final display of resistance.

  I take the two pieces of the key out and give them to her. She plucks them from my hand, then presses two of the pieces together to form a half. There’s a clicking sound as they join. Cassandra puts the other two pieces together, then adds them to the first pair. Now she has a completed ball in her hand. She walks over to the doors, where there is a round indentation in the wall beside them. The key fits into it perfectly.

  The doors slowly swing inward. Cassandra steps through them, and I stagger forward. Inside is a small chamber less than three meters across. There is nothing grand or unusual about it. The walls are bare, without carving or adornment. There are no statues standing sentry, no torches, no anything except for a stone pedestal with a metal box resting on top.

  Cassandra walks up to the box and places her hands on it. I manage to follow, and stand behind her as she lifts the lid. When she turns to me, the look on her face is one of victory. “Would you like to see what you’ve lost?” she asks.

  I bring my hand up. In it is the arrowhead I’ve been holding in my palm. I plunge it into Cassandra’s belly and draw it up in a sharp, tearing motion. Her skin parts, and warm blood pours out over my hand. Her mouth opens, and her hands scrabble at me as she tries to push me away. I look into my sister’s eyes. “I will see you soon, sister,” I say as I push the arrow into her heart.

  Cassandra falls. I catch her in my arms and lower my sister to the floor. My heart aches under the weight of her. I have killed the other half of my soul. But there is no time to mourn. I close my eyes, willing myself not to pass out yet. When I open them again, I look into the box. There, laid out before me, is what appears to be a gun of some kind. I stare at it for a moment, then turn away. My life force is swiftly fading, and before it leaves me completely, I want to see Boone again.

  The walk out of the chamber seems to take forever, even though it is only a handful of steps. When I get outside, I find that I am not alone. There are others in the hall. Some I recognize: Bilal, Kelebek, Yildiz. Most I do not. At first, I think they must be apparitions, hallucinations caused by the poison as it consumes my mind. Then Kelebek and Bilal run to me and take me by the hands. They support me as I stumble down the stairs, then lead me through the group of onlookers and over to where Boone lies on the ground.

  I fall down beside him, reaching out to stroke his face. I think maybe he has succumbed to Cassandra’s blow after all, but then his eyes flutter and open. His eyes are unfocused for a moment. Then he looks at me and smiles.

  “Hey there,” he says. One hand comes up to hold mine. Then he sees the blood, and a shadow of worry passes over his face.

  “It’s not mine,” I tell him.

  “Cassandra?”

  “Dead.”

  “The weapon?”

  “It’s there,” I say. “In the chamber.”

  “I want to see it.”

  He sits up, holding his head, then stands. I can’t, and so he reaches down and pulls me to my feet. Then he picks me up, cradling me in his arms, and walks to the chamber. When we are inside, he sets me down. I am able to stand by leaning on him. I do not look at my sister’s body lying on the floor. Together, Boone and I look at the weapon in the box.

  “We won,” he says, but his voice is flat.

  “Yes,” a voice behind us says. “You have won.” Yildiz is standing in the doorway. “You may take it and go,” she says. “We will return you to the other city.”

  “What about
Ari?” Boone asks her. “Can you heal her?”

  Yildiz shakes her head. “That is beyond our powers.”

  “I’m not leaving you here,” Boone says to me.

  My body is on fire. The poison is burning me up from the inside. I look at Yildiz’s eyes. “Do you have something to make death come quickly?”

  She hesitates only a moment before nodding.

  “Bring it to me,” I say. “Please.”

  Boone starts to protest, but I stop him by placing my fingers on his lips. “I’m not afraid,” I tell him.

  He looks at me for a long time. His eyes are wet. Then he nods. Yildiz turns away and says something to someone outside the chamber. Boone helps me sit on the ground. We lean against the pedestal that holds our prize, our hands interlocked. Yildiz continues to stand in the doorway.

  There are so many things I want to say to Boone, so many conversations we have not had, so many things we will never get to talk about. Now there is no time. All I can do is hold his hand, feel his pulse against my palm. His heartbeat soothes me.

  I do have one question. “What will you do with the weapon?” I ask him.

  Before he can answer, I see Kelebek come running up the steps. She hands something to Yildiz, then glances at me before turning and leaving. Yildiz walks over to me. She holds out a vial. “Drink this,” she says, “and the end will come swiftly.”

  I don’t have the strength left to reach for it, so Boone takes the vial. Then he says to Yildiz, “What will happen to the weapon if I don’t take it away from here?”

  “It will stay here forever,” she says.

  “Nobody else can claim it?” Boone says.

  Yildiz shakes her head. “It is your prize. You may do with it as you wish, but no one else may take it. If you leave it here, the chamber will be sealed and the key destroyed. The ways into the hall will also be sealed.”

  “But someone could always find a way in,” Boone argues.

  “Only if they destroy the mountain itself,” says Yildiz.

  Boone has another question for her. He holds up the vial. “How much of this will it take?”

  “Only a few drops,” Yildiz says.

  The old woman leaves us. Boone and I sit in silence for a minute. Then he gets up and goes outside. I hear a grinding sound, and the doors begin to close. Boone reappears, resuming his seat beside me.

  “What did you do?” I ask.

  He holds out his hand. He is holding the key. “Making sure no one can get in,” he says. “I know she said they would seal the entrances, but I want to be sure.”

  He has locked us inside the chamber. Us and Cassandra’s body.

  “Nobody needs this weapon,” he says.

  I believe he is right. Before meeting him, I did not. I thought the most important thing in the world was securing any advantage I could for my line. But I was wrong. Cassandra and Hicks are dead. Boone and I may die too. Our lines will anoint new Players to take our place. And the game will continue. Now I see that there is no way to win. Not unless the lines can be persuaded to work together. And I do not think they are ready to do that. Each one wants to be the victor, and as long as that is the case, nobody will win except the beings that have forced us to Play.

  Boone takes my hand in his, the vial of whatever Yildiz has given him pressed between our palms. “Ready?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I say.

  He raises our joined hands and tips the vial into his mouth. Then he holds it to my lips. I drink. The contents are bitter, but not terribly so.

  I swallow.

  I lean against him, feeling his heartbeat against my back. We do not say, “I love you.” We both know how we feel. Instead we sit together and wait. The game will go on. We have not stopped it forever. But for now—for us—it is over.

  And we have won.

  Excerpt from ENDGAME: THE COMPLETE TRAINING DIARIES

  FOLLOW THE PLAYERS FROM

  ENDGAME: THE CALLING—

  BEFORE THEY WERE CHOSEN.

  KEEP READING FOR A SNEAK PEEK AT:

  MINOAN

  MARCUS

  When Marcus was a little kid, they called him the Monkey.

  This was meant to be a compliment. Which is exactly how Marcus took it.

  At seven years old, he monkeyed his way 30 meters up a climbing wall without fear, the only kid to ring the bell at the top. Ever since then he’s made sure he always goes higher than the other kids, always gets to the top faster. Always waits at the summit with a cocky grin and a “What took you so long?”

  He can climb anything. Trees, mountains, active volcanoes, a 90-degree granite incline or the sheer wall of a Tokyo skyscraper. The Asterousia Mountains of Crete were his childhood playground. He’s scrambled up all Seven Summits—the highest mountain on each continent—including Antarctica’s Mount Vinson, which meant a hike across the South Pole. He’s illegally scaled Dubai’s 800-meter-high Burj Khalifa without rope or harness, then BASE jumped from its silver tip. He’s the youngest person ever to summit Everest (not that the world is allowed to know it).

  If only someone would get around to building a tall enough ladder, he’s pretty sure he could climb to the moon.

  Climbing is an integral part of his training. Every Minoan child hoping to be named his or her generation’s Player learns to scale a peak. They’ve all logged hours defying gravity; they’ve all broken through the clouds. But Marcus knows that for the others, climbing is just one more skill to master, one more challenge to stare down. No different from sharpshooting or deep-sea diving or explosives disposal. For Marcus, it’s more.

  For Marcus, climbing is everything.

  It’s a fusion of mind and matter, the perfect way to channel all that frenetic energy that has him bouncing off the walls most of the time. It takes absolute focus, brute force, and a fearless confidence that comes naturally to Marcus, who feels most alive at 1,000 meters, looking down.

  He loves it for all those reasons, sure—but mostly he loves it because he’s the best.

  And because being the best, by definition, means being better than Alexander.

  It was clear from day one that Alexander Nicolaides was the kid to beat. It took only one day more to figure out he was also the kid to hate.

  Marcus’s parents called it camp, when they dropped him off that first day. But he was a smart kid, smart enough to wonder: What kind of parents dump their seven-year-old on Crete and head back to Istanbul without him? What kind of camp lets them do it?

  What kind of camp teaches that seven-year-old how to shoot?

  And how to arm live explosives?

  And how to read Chinese?

  It was the kind of camp where little kids were encouraged to play with matches.

  It was most definitely Marcus’s kind of place—and that was even before he found out the part about the alien invasion and how, if he played his cards right, he’d get to save the world.

  Best. Camp. Ever.

  Or it would have been, were it not for the impossible-to-ignore existence of Alexander Nicolaides. He was everything Marcus wasn’t. Marcus could never sit still, always acted without thinking; Alexander was calm and deliberate and even broke the camp’s meditation record, sitting silent and motionless and staring into a stupid candle for 28 hours straight. Marcus mastered languages and higher math with brute mental force, thudding his head against the logic problems until they broke; Alexander was fluent in Assyrian, Sumerian, ancient Greek, and, just for fun, medieval Icelandic, and he was capable of visualizing at least six dimensions. Marcus was better at climbing and shooting; Alexander had the edge in navigation and survival skills. They even looked like polar opposites: Alexander was a compact ball of tightly coiled energy, his wavy, white-blond hair nearly as pale as his skin, his eyes as blue as the Aegean Sea. Marcus was long-limbed and rangy, with close-cropped black hair. If they’d been ancient gods, Alexander would have had charge over the sky and the sea, all those peaceful stretches of cerulean and aquamarine. Marcus, with his dark
green eyes and golden sheen, would have lorded it over the forests and the earth, all leaves and loam and living things. But the gods were long dead—or at least departed for the stars—and instead Marcus and Alexander jockeyed for rule over the same small domain. Marcus was the camp joker and prided himself on making even his sternest teachers laugh; Alexander was terse, serious, rarely speaking unless he had something important to say.

  Which was for the best, because his voice was so nails-on-chalkboard annoying that it made Marcus want to punch him in the mouth.

  It didn’t help that Alexander was a good candidate for Player and an even better suck-up. The other kids definitely preferred Marcus, but Marcus knew that Alexander had a slight edge with the counselors, and it was their opinion that counted. Every seven years, the counselors invited a new crop of kids to the camp, the best and brightest of the Minoan line. The counselors trained them, judged them, pushed them to their limits, pitted them against one another and themselves, and eventually named a single one as the best. The Player. Everyone else got sent back home to their mind-numbingly normal lives.

  Maybe that kind of boring life was okay for other kids.

  Other kids dreamed of being astronauts, race-car drivers, rock stars—not Marcus. Since the day he found out about Endgame, Marcus had only one dream: to win it.

  Nothing was going to get in his way.

  Especially not Alexander Nicolaides.

  Tucked away in a secluded valley on the western edge of Crete, the Minoan camp was well hidden from prying eyes. The Greek isles were crowded with architectural ruins, most of them littered with regulations, tourists, and discarded cigarette butts. Few knew of the ruins nestled at the heart of the Lefka Ori range, where 50 carefully chosen Minoan children lived among the remnants of a vanished civilization. Tilting pillars, crumbling walls, the fading remains of a holy fresco—everywhere Marcus looked, there was evidence of a nobler time gone by. This was no museum: it was a living bond between present and past. The kids were encouraged to press their palms to crumbling stone, to trace carvings of heroes and bulls, to dig for artifacts buried thousands of years before. This was the sacred ground of their ancestors, and as candidates to be the Minoans’ champion, they were entitled to claim it for their own.