Deadwave

by Michael Evans

  I feel like living my best life may be a dream.

  My thoughts surely would have devolved into even more madness if the vibration of my dad calling me didn’t sound in my ear. I have never been able to rest, never been able to shut my mind off even for a moment, but the second that my dad’s contact picture of him as a younger man with his smooth skin and dark brown eyes appears on my hologlasses, all my thoughts disappear.

  “What happened?” His stern voice stings my ear, breaking the silence in the electric sports car that Jake had hailed to drive us to the club.

  “Oh, hello to you too, Dad.” By now, having his first words being hell, fuck, shit, or a combination of the three is normal to me, but I never fail to remind him of his frankly asshole-ish behavior (yes, I can call my dad an asshole; he has earned that title after all these years).

  “What now?” Jake mouths the words after having been startled awake from his nap by my snarky voice. Even on a five-minute car ride through downtown San Diego, and moments after being pumped up to meet some hot models, he can fall asleep at the drop of a dime.

  I wave a hand to motion that I am busy as my dad starts his rant. I already know before it starts that it will be a rant—as always. The man who never had an athlete as a son, instead living vicariously through his kid playing video games (even when his son is nineteen), always has so much to say after every tournament I play in, whether I win or lose.

  “I wasn’t calling to say hello.” His voice is cold, and knowing that his face is tensed on the other side of the call gives me great pleasure. “I was calling to say I watched your game, and I was wondering how you blew that when you had the game in the bag. You know you had to win that tournament to even have a shot at getting to the play-offs. I don’t even know how you are gonna get enough points to advance between Chicago and London! I can’t believe it. Well, of course I can believe it, I don’t want to. To think that college was the better option for you. To think that this isn’t gonna work out, it is very disappointing.”

  “Dad, oh my God.” I sigh, cutting him off before he can keep saying words that will drive more pain into me. If you’re asking yourself why I still put up with this when I’m a full-grown adult, the truth is I often ask myself the same question. But in the end, I know two things: my dad is the only real family I have left, and he won’t give me the keys to his company, the keys to his empire, unless I play the role of what a son is in his mind, which is essentially a puppet that can be used and abused at any moment, or at least it feels that way.

  “I wasn’t finished. Don’t interrupt me like that. May I talk now?”

  “I’m not one to say that you can’t talk, but I certainly don’t want you to.”

  “Well, you probably wanna hear what I have to say.” My dad’s voice shifts from being annoyed and harsh to ominous.

  “Oh, really?”

  “Yes.” He pauses for a second. “It is imperative that you win the Deadwave World Championship this year. I’m not about to give you a position as an executive in my company unless you prove yourself worthy. And the only way you can do that is by going to Stanford—just as I did—or by winning the World Championship. I need to see that you can accomplish anything you put your mind to, because this company is about to change the world and I want you to be the one who champions that change. I need you to be strong enough to stop the people who are going to get in our way.”

  “Dad, I really don’t wanna talk about this right now.” I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry as the stress seems to suck all the moisture out of my mouth. I already put enough pressure on myself. I don’t need him to add to it. “I can’t. I can’t. Look, I have to go. I’ll call you in the morning, I need some time to think.”

  Before he can respond, I motion to end the call and quickly mute all notifications from him. The last thing I want is for my dad to be incessantly calling me when I have a shot to talk to Riva (one of the prettiest girls in the world, but I’ll never let Jake know I think that).

  “Dude, what was that about?” Jake looks down at the black velvet flooring of the car. I don’t need to tell him for him to know what it was about. It is the same old story as usual—my dad being a prick—and he all too often gets the brunt of that energy. Except this time my dad is threatening my position in the company—also nothing new—but the fact that this will be my last year of Deadwave, no matter what, it must mean something big is about to happen.

  “It was just Dad calling.” My voice is emotionless as I glance out the window, the glowing neon sign for Eleve quickly approaching to the right.

  “Oh, James just being James.” Jake tries to crack a smile, hitting me on the shoulder to try and shake the thoughts, the memories he knows are flooding my mind, but it never works that easily.

  “Yeah, that’s it.”

  “Well, fuck Dad—I mean James.” Jake smiles, his two front teeth protruding outward to form a goofy smile that can’t help but lighten the atmosphere. “Woah, that sounded weird at first. Yes, screw James! You are about to have fun tonight, and you deserve it. You have put in so much work for so many years, you need to live life every once in a while. Maybe you will even meet an agent and become a movie star.”

  “Now, now.” I hold up a hand as the car comes to a stop. “Let’s be real.”

  “Screw being real for one night, bro. You know that anything is possible. And knowing you, if anything amazing is possible, you will make it happen. You always have.” He hops onto the sidewalk, his short yet bulky body appearing to bounce off the pavement as he bounds his way towards the crowd that has formed outside the entrance to the club.

  “Okay, okay.” I sigh, giving in to him. Everyone needs a best friend who makes them feel good about themselves like Jake. In a matter of seconds, the car is already heading down the street to its next customer and I am in the middle of a pack of frenzied people and the flashing lights of the paparazzi taking pictures of us.

  Knowing Jake, he himself probably hinted to the tabloids where this party was taking place and who would be there to make some extra cash, but I don’t care enough about that to ask him. This kind of chaos, the one where the whole world seems to be spinning around me from the amount of voices calling my name and where everything is moving at a thousand miles per hour, is exactly what I need to take my mind off my loss, the dark cloud always hanging above me, even on this clear, brisk spring night.

  The bald bouncer whisks me away through the front doors of the large glass skyscraper, another team of security standing in front of the entrance to the elevator. There is something about the utter silence that blankets the air the second the front door closes and the faint echo of my flip-flops against the marble floor tile that is the best sensation in the world after the absolute madness a few seconds before.

  “We are sooo underdressed.” Jake pats me on the back, laughing as the elevator doors in front of us slide open and the two security guards, who are decked out in matching black-on-white tuxedos, motion for us to come inside.

  “Uh, yeah, I know. I feel like this is the kind of statement I wanna make, though.” I rub my eyelids, fighting a wave of exhaustion as I try to let the adrenaline inside me win over and carry me through the night. “I mean, these people are like real celebrities. We gotta make ourselves known somehow.”

  “I don’t think you wanna be known in this world.” Jake eyes me, a smile still visible beneath the serious look in his eyes. He can’t hide the fact that he is happy—his round, tan face says it all—but I know exactly what he is talking about. I know the unspoken fear he has—that we both have. The fear that becoming a gaming icon and the son of a wealthy tech CEO will end up with us both killed in a terrorist attack. That we will forever be the target, forever be a symbol, of what is wrong with America—how the system is broken, yet we are the ones who benefit from the disorder, from the corruption.

  Somehow, even with tens of millions of people unable to cover their bills, drowning in debt, and being torn alive by inflation in food and energy
prices and an automation crisis that has all but torn apart the middle class, we have managed to survive. Somehow, we have managed to live the life that most people can only dream of.

  And every day I wake up, I fear that the dream has already ended. I fear that I will die.

  Chapter 4

  I sigh, one of the long, dramatic sighs accompanied by one rubbing their face that is often customary for middle-aged business executives who are losing their hair and have more anxiety than caffeine each day.

  I wipe Jake’s last words out of my mind, not even wanting to think of the unthinkable. Not even wanting to deal with the reality that the thing that should be my greatest gift, is also my greatest curse—a curse that may kill me. Instead, I focus on the floor number quickly climbing upward as the elevator rockets to the rooftop bar that will be full of Southern California’s finest, trying my best to let my mind be absorbed in the moment and feel excited about something for once.

  “Let’s see if we can be noticed tonight.” I stare forward as the door opens, half of me feeling arrogantly confident and the other half battling with the insecure desire to crawl back into the elevator and lock myself in my room, where I feel like I belong most days.

  “I mean, looking like that, buddy, you’re truly irresistible.”

  “Hey, hey, save that talk for later.” I wink at him, following his lead out of the elevator and into the crowded rooftop bar. Jake and I are everything but blood brothers by this point, so there is nothing either of us can say to each other that is off limits—well, everything except my mom.

  “Oh, don’t you worry. I’ll save it all, but damn.” He turns towards me so that I can read the words off his mouth, the sudden blasting of music making it impossible to hear any of the words he says. Within seconds, our quiet little enclave in the mirrored elevator has given way to the starless night sky above San Diego, and the party of a lifetime happening atop its fourth highest building (yes, I’m one to know many pointless facts like this). White lights stream across the dance floor, somehow giving the chaotic atmosphere, full of anything and everything possible to let one’s mind escape from the world, a homey feel. There is a bar situated to the right of the dance floor, with glow-in-the-dark drinks and two robot bartenders to top off the exotic plants and shrubbery that dot the roof.

  It is a perfect night. The air is crisp and cool, the breeze is calm, and the air smells of a combination of expensive perfume and berries, which is never a bad combo. Yet somehow, I still feel out of place. The gorgeous people dancing, wearing tuxedos and dresses that likely cost tens of thousands of dollars, with faces and bodies surgically perfected, make me feel like the odd kid out staring at the popular kids playing at recess from the distance (I only say this because this sums up my elementary school experience to a T).

  If it weren’t for my eyes immediately noticing the group of Deadwave players seated around a small fire lined in quartz crystals, I probably would have left right then. I have been to enough exclusive parties at this time in my life to know that they never consider us gamers “traditional” athletes, and that being one of the youngest ones there is always a bit awkward, especially when someone who looks like me belongs at a college frat party, not one where people casually talk about seven-figure endorsement deals over glasses of wine.

  “Hey, Sammy, what is up?” Maken stands up from his seat, immediately man-hugging me (always an awkward exchange) as he motions for me to sit down next to him. For a guy who is so brutal in the game, he always has a charismatic way about him in person that makes me hate to like him, but impossible not to admire him.

  “Eh, not much, man, just decided to show up here, I guess, check things out.” I try not to cringe at the fact that he had called me Sammy. No one ever calls me that—well, no one besides my mom—and I’d like to keep it that way, but sometimes it’s easier to go with the flow rather than try and explain the truth.

  “That’s chill, yeah, man, same here, we are all just hanging out.” He glances at the rest of the Deadwave tournament players who decided to show up, a total of seven of us, brushing a hand through his curly black hair. “I’m glad to see you brought Jake along with you, though. How’s it going, dude?”

  “Ah, you know.” Jake sighs, sitting down next to me and Maken on what appears to be a bear-skin-covered couch. “Just living the dream.”

  “Ha ha, I wish I could say that.” Aiden speaks up, the lights refracting off his glasses causing his dark brown eyes to glow. He is seated next to Riva, the only girl in the group who decided to show up, and for good reason. Most of the time during events like this, the talk will slowly devolve into weird jokes and banter that will lead to someone threatening to fight another person, or someone so wildly drunk that they can’t even stand up.

  “Yeah, I feel you.” I sigh, refusing the offer of a drink from a robot server who passed behind the couch we are seated at. I can’t have anything affect my training schedule for the upcoming week, I have to be prepared to win at all costs next Friday night in London. But after three months of traveling around the world for competitions every weekend, and training endlessly in preparation for the tournaments, my mental fatigue has hit a new dangerous level.

  “Yeah, me too.” Riva speaks softly, her voice somehow cutting through the endless cacophony of laughter and electronic music. Her beauty strikes me immediately. She is wearing a white sundress, her caramel shoulders glistening in the dim aura of the night, and her thick, black hair flowing majestically past her shoulders.

  She looks like a goddess.

  Okay, maybe that’s an over-exaggeration, but her smooth face, wide smile, and gorgeous legs that overshadowed her designer sandals are enough to make me question whether it is ever possible for me to deserve a girl like her. Besides that one girl I dated for two weeks my junior year of high school, my love life has been akin to that of the barren Sahara Desert. It is more of a mutual distaste most of the time. I am more interested in video games, and every girl is more interested in guys they find to be more attractive.

  But Riva changes everything. I am interested in her almost as much as Deadwave—for sure—but we would never work out. Competitors can’t be together, not when one of us will always win and one of us will always lose.

  No matter what, I’ll make sure I win.

  I have to.

  “Well, for someone who is tired, you sure played well tonight.”

  Riva smiles as Jake compliments her, the rest of the guys unwilling to acknowledge that they had gotten beaten. They are unable to acknowledge that she is one of the best in a world that is supposed to be all ours.

  “Thank you. It was just one night, though.” She looks down at the marble tile below. “We still have the hardest part of the season left. Heck, look at you guys, any other time of year and you would all be shitfaced by now. We all know that this is the time of year we have to get serious.”

  “That’s facts right there.” Maken slouches down in the couch as he takes a sip of his drink that has been doused in a glow-in-the-dark blue dye. “Anything can happen—”

  A loud echo that can’t be mistaken for anything other than a gunshot breaks off his words, instantly causing a chorus of screams to erupt from the crowd. The music instantly cuts off, high heels being chucked in the air as one mass of people flees towards the stairs and another towards the elevator.

  My legs jolt upward and my eyes turn to face Jake, both of us with the same thought enveloping our mind.

  This is our worst nightmare come true.

  “C’mon.” I rip Maken’s shell-shocked body off the couch as I push myself through the crowd of people that are fleeing to the emergency exit stairs.

  It feels like a real-life game of Deadwave, which might sound fun at first, but the only thing that makes Deadwave not absolutely terrifying is the fact that if I do mess up and die or get shot during a game, I walk away unharmed. But this is real life.

  This is not a game.

  “What the hell?” Jake screams into my ea
r, an ounce of comfort resonating in my body, but it is not enough to overcome the pounds of horror propelling my legs forward and causing me to push over people without regard for any life but my own.

  I keep listening for more bullets, my eyes scanning for blood—for death—but instead, the only things my senses register are the blinding screams of the people, and the heat and pressure of dozens of bodies bumping into me.

  “I told you we shouldn’t have gone to this party.” I rotate my neck so that my yell can be heard by Jake as the crowd stops running and instead violently fights over who is able to exit to the stairs first.

  “Now’s not the time.” Jake grits his teeth, spit flying into my ear as he jams into my back, the row of people behind him pushing so hard against me that I have to use every bit of strength in my legs to not topple over onto the person in front of me.

  This is pure chaos.

  I almost smile in a sick way at how quickly some of the most famous people in the world quickly devolved into something akin to a pack of ravenous zombies at the prospect of being harmed.

  I push forward, trying to use my bony shoulders as weapons to poke my way through the crowd that is pushing into the staircase. By this time, more people than me have realized that there were no subsequent gunshots, and now everyone is screaming, some even crying, in more of a confused panic, no one certain how imminent our danger is, but everyone aware that it is present.

  I eventually push my way through the mob of people to where Riva is, her limber, yet powerful body making almost effortless progress at forcing her way to safety. If there is anyone that would be good at real-life Deadwave, it would be her. My eyes connect with Riva’s, her face cold and determined, her mind seemingly taking the same tactic as mine: to pretend we are inside the game and escape at all costs.