Scavenger Hunt

by Michaelbrent Collings

  He paused when he was done. He realized that everyone was staring at him. Waiting, no doubt, for him to keel over or begin frothing at the mouth. He kind of expected something like that to happen, too.

  But nothing did. After a moment, he poured another cup. Drank it. Smacked his lips and said, “Tastes a lot like water. And it is damn hot in here.”

  Solomon’s hands opened and shut, like he was grabbing phantom cups of water for himself as Clint drank for a third time. The big ex-gangster stepped forward, obviously deciding that if Clint survived the drink then he could.

  Before he had taken two steps, Chong shouldered past him. “Hey!” shouted Solomon.

  “Let it go, hermanito,” said Elena.

  Solomon frowned at her. “No soy tu hermanito,” he spat.

  Elena, visibly surprised, said, “Hablas español?”

  “My old lady was Mexican,” said Solomon.

  “’Was’?” parroted Noelle.

  Solomon glared at her, his eyes full of anger and, Clint thought, more than a small measure of hurt. The big man finally shook his head, grimaced, and picked up a cup. He filled it with water then, surprisingly, didn’t drink. Instead, he held out the cup to Elena.

  “Gracias,” murmured Elena, taking the cup and drinking deep.

  Solomon nodded, then filled another cup and handed it to Noelle before filling the last cup and drinking it himself.

  “Hey,” Chong said to Clint. He sipped at his cup and said, almost conversationally, “Where were you today? When you got grabbed?”

  “Cemetery,” Clint said quietly.

  “Doing what?”

  Clint ignored him. Chong shrugged and poured another cup. Drank. Belched. He crumpled his cup and tossed it in a corner. Noelle rolled her eyes. “Doth I offend, milady?” asked Chong, then belched again.

  Noelle turned away. She met Clint’s eyes. “What?” she demanded.

  Clint realized he had been staring at her. It surprised him – he wasn’t the type to just stare at a girl, even when not confined in some lunatic’s playpen – and it took a moment for him to answer, mostly because it took a moment for him to understand the answer himself. Then it hit him, hit him like a hammer upside the head. “You remind me of someone is all.”

  For a moment he saw the marker. The words – so few words! – that were such an unfitting synopsis of a life.

  Noelle shoved her hands in her pockets, obviously embarrassed. “Who?” she asked a moment later.

  Clint didn’t want to answer that. And as it turned out, he didn’t have to. A voice, bright and cheery and oh-so-strange, said, “Well, aren’t you all just the cutest thing ever?”

  6

  The voice was high-pitched, gleeful in a macabre way that sent a shiver wriggling up Clint’s spine. Five pairs of eyes turning to look at the iPad on the wall – the one that had been dark until now, but which was dark no more.

  The voice had been strange. Disconcerting. But not nearly as much as the face it came from, because it was not a face at all. Yet at the same time it was a face of a kind; and a famous face, at that.

  The man who stared out of the screen behind the wire mesh that secured the iPad to the wall was wearing a dark suit and tie. Or at least a dark jacket and tie. He was only visible from the shoulders up, so below that he could be wearing shorts or chaps or nothing at all for all Clint knew.

  Clint couldn’t make out where the man was, either. The backdrop behind him was nothing but a white wall, featureless as the walls that now surrounded Clint and the others in this place. But the combination of white background and dark suit made the simple yellow of the man’s “face” stand out brightly, almost painfully so.

  The man wore a yellow circle over his face. A perfect circle, marred only by a black line, curved in an upward arc near the bottom, and two black dots close to the top. The simple yellow “smiley face” that could be seen on keychains, bumper stickers, and – most of all – was the first emoji on phones the world over.

  Though Clint admitted that none of those smiley faces were spattered with blood the way this one was. The red-on-yellow was nearly as jarring as the yellow itself against the white background. And twice as terrifying.

  Clint felt the moment stretch out. Utter silence as five strangers were stared down by a man in a suit, wearing a yellow cutout over his face. The smiley face twisted on its center axis as the head below cocked to the side: whoever was under there was waiting.

  Chong rushed forward with a sudden scream, his fists pummeling the cage that protected the iPad. “Let us out of here!” he screamed. “I’ll kill you! I’ll find you, and when I do I –”

  The cage didn’t give under his fists, the silvery metal easily resisting his attack. Still, some of the vibrations must have made their way through to the iPad, because it glitched for a moment. The smiley face twisted, and the shoulders of the man on the screen bunched together as though he were flinching away from Chong’s attack. “Stop,” he whispered. Then, louder, “Please, just stop.”

  Chong’s only response was to roar even louder, and renew his attack. “Stop, stop, STOP!” shouted the man on the iPad.

  And Chong did stop. Suddenly and completely. Not because of the words, but because of the sharp tone that suddenly rang out through the room.

  Everyone spun to face the five empty hospital beds… and toward the five occupied beds beyond. The beep sounded once more as they turned, and Clint had a moment to see that the light on the collar worn by the “Chong” dummy had shifted from green to red.

  And then it exploded.

  Smoke filled the white room. Clint coughed and waved away the sudden plume of darkness that surrounded him. A few moments later, the darkness withdrew. There was a hum, and Clint realized that there must be some kind of hidden venting system somewhere, because the smoke was clearing away. Letting him and the others see “Chong.”

  The mannequin’s head was mostly gone. Half the collar hung from the thing’s melted neck, the underside of the mesh criss-crossed with silvery lines, and it didn’t take a brain surgeon to intuit that they had led to, and caused the discharge of, the explosives packed in the collar.

  As Clint watched, the remaining bits of the mannequin’s head sagged, melting from the heat of the explosion. His gaze flicked to the side, catching an open-mouthed Chong who stared in horror at his avatar, melting and blackened on a bed that smoldered beneath it.

  Everyone turned back to the iPad. The man there stared out through the small black dots. “When I give an order,” he said quietly, “I expect to be obeyed. Understand?” His voice quavered, as though he was holding himself back from hysterical screaming only by the greatest of effort.

  Clint nodded. So did everyone else, their chins going up and down in perfect sync. The smiley face moved, too, nodding as well. “Wonderful,” said the man, his voice still strained and strange. “Then let’s begin.”

  7

  “First: introductions,” said the man. “I already know your names. And as for me….” He giggled, a jagged shard of a laugh. “You can call me Mr. Do-Good.”

  Clint felt like the world was spinning too fast. He wondered what would happen if – when – it finally flung itself loose of its moorings.

  Again, he was taken back to the cemetery. To the time staring at the reminder of the last moment the world had spun away beneath him. He went once a year, every year. That was not enough to honor what was there, but he could not stand to see it more often than that.

  He had thought those times were the worst; that what the marker represented was the lowest possible point of his life. And he realized now how wrong he had been.

  “Please, mister,” said Noelle, her voice small and faraway. “Why are we here?”

  Mr. Do-Good’s mask did not move, and of course Clint had no idea what his face looked like beneath it. Even so, he had the distinct impression that the man was beaming at Noelle like she was a prize student. “What a good question!” he half-shouted. “We’re going to pla
y a game, of course!”

  “What kind of –” began Noelle.

  “Please, dear,” said Mr. Do-Good, “don’t interrupt. It’s rude.” Then he cleared his throat. “But to answer your question… I guess you could call it a scavenger hunt. You’ve all played those, right?” He paused a moment. When no one answered, he continued, “You get points for going door to door and getting people to give you things, or doing something ridiculous in a public place?” The words ended in a question. The kind of sentence a host at a party might utter when in doubt that the party game he had chosen might not go over as well as hoped.

  No one spoke. Clint didn’t know if he could have spoken, even if he had wanted to. The world was still spinning too fast, and if he said anything at all he thought he might just fly away and be fully and finally lost.

  And would that be so bad?

  He was spared the need to answer his own question as Mr. Do-Good continued. “Excellent!” he shouted, as though everyone had answered his last query with overwhelming knowledge of and excitement about the prospect of playing his game. “But I must warn you: this scavenger hunt is a little different than most. You’ll have tasks that will be sent via your smartwatches.”

  Clint saw lights flare in his peripheral vision as everyone’s watches brightened. Clint looked at his. No time, no music or email apps. Just a familiar symbol: a smiley face. The face winked as Clint looked at it, then he looked back at the iPad on the wall as Mr. Do-Good spoke again.

  “You like them? They’re super-duper cool.” Another laugh, so intense it sounded almost panicked. “So you’ll be given a place, and a time to get there. When you arrive – assuming you arrive in time! – you’ll get a task, and another time limit in which to accomplish it.”

  Elena whispered something under her breath. Clint couldn’t hear what it was, but he suspected it was a prayer.

  Chong whispered as well, though his words were loud enough for Clint to make out: “The hell’s wrong with this guy?”

  “Shhh!” hissed Noelle.

  Mr. Do-Good laughed again. “Now, assuming you get to the place, and finish your task, you’ll receive your next challenge, then your next, and so on.” Then, as though to forestall questions that no one had asked, he added, “There are a limited number of tasks, I promise. And if you get through them all, you get to go free. Isn’t that ever so nice?”

  No one answered.

  No one moved.

  The world kept spinning, spinning. Clint’s knees felt rubbery, his guts hot and loose inside him.

  “Now, the rules,” said Mr. Do-Good. Another mad, pained giggle. “We’ve already covered that you have to complete the challenges. Some will go to everyone, some will be for a specific person. You have to stick together as you play. Finish the game, and like I said, you’re free.”

  “What if we don’t play the game?” Noelle whispered.

  Mr. Do-Good leaned a bit closer to the screen. “I really hope that doesn’t happen, Noelle. If it does….” The circle twisted slightly, as though the person behind it was looking beyond the group.

  Clint turned for just a moment. Long enough to see that the “Chong” mannequin had slumped forward, the burnt nub of its neck resting against its own knees.

  Mr. Do-Good spoke again, and sounded suddenly… lost. Like he had forgotten who he was for a moment. Clint wondered if the world was spinning under the man on the other side of the screen, just like it was for him. “Okay,” said Do-Good, “so where were we? Oh, right. You have to do what the watches say. And there are a few other rules, too. First: no police. Anyone says a word to a cop and kaboom! Also, you have to go wherever I tell you on foot. No cars, bikes, roller skates, scooters, or unicycles.” He laughed, sounding suddenly angry – as though he was saying words he himself hated, but was helpless to alter. “Oh, one more thing: you can’t talk to anyone unless they talk to you first. But even if they do, you can’t mention me, or the scavenger hunt, or anything relating to it. Just say whatever you need to, to get rid of them, and keep on your merry way.” He breathed audibly, inhaling a shaky, strained gasp of air. “And remember, too, that any conversations you have will necessarily keep you from completing your tasks in that time, so you might want to restrain yourself to a quick hello-and-goodbye, rather than extended conversations about French impressionism, mmmmkay?” He paused. “Okey-dokey then!”

  Another beep rang through the room, and Clint jerked in place, his hand going automatically to his throat. Chong and Elena did the same, while Solomon and Noelle simply went rigid.

  But it wasn’t the collars. When Clint realized it, he did what everyone else did. He raised his hand, looking at the smartwatch on his wrist. The smiley face was still there, but it had shrunk and moved to the top right corner of the watch face. It spun around, like an image on a video game’s load screen.

  As it did, Do-Good spoke again, from the watch this time: “Do-Good says, LET’S HAVE SOME FUN! Your first challenge is to go to 1514 North Chambers Street. Time: 15 minutes.”

  As he spoke, the exact words he used also scrolled across the watches.

  The words blinked, then numbers appeared below them.

  15:00…

  14:59…

  14:58…

  8

  As the numbers counted down, Clint heard the whirrrr of some kind of motor, and a second after that –

  (14:57… 14:56…)

  – two of the walls began sliding back, separating at the corner where they had come together a moment before. Everyone took a hesitant step in that direction, propelled by the knowledge of what would happen if they failed to meet Do-Good’s deadline.

  Poor choice of word.

  “I don’t want to go,” whispered Elena. She flicked a glance in the direction of the iPad, as though this entreaty might make Mr. Do-Good throw up his hands, laugh, and say, “Oh, okay, then let’s just call the whole thing off.”

  Noelle was shaking her head, obviously agreeing with the sentiment, hands jammed deep in her pockets – what Clint guessed was a nervous gesture, a defensive posture that she hoped would keep her unnoticed in times of stress or danger. “This is a bad idea,” she said.

  Do-Good didn’t say anything. The smiley face just stared. But a second later, four explosions rocked the small white room as the four remaining mannequins’ heads blew apart.

  The shock glitched the iPad again. “I recommend you get a move on,” said Do-Good from the screen.

  Clint didn’t look at the others.

  He just ran out of the room. From the small white cell into the greater, more dangerous prison of Mr. Do-Good’s game.

  9

  When he exited the white room, he found that his earlier deduction had been correct: the white room was not outside.

  The thing was a boxy structure, painted black on the outside as though to counterpoint the whiteness of its interior. The whole thing hunkered in the center of a large space that Clint guessed was the floor of a deserted warehouse somewhere. The entire place had a dilapidated, abandoned air. The roof, high above, had hanging lamps and spaces where fluorescent bars must have nestled, all of them broken or missing entirely. Beyond the lights, a long row of windows – also largely broken or missing – showed nothing but empty air and darkness. Night outside.

  The light that flowed from the white room was the only illumination, and it spilled over dirt and refuse and the occasional pile of old office furniture and a few filing cabinets that tilted drunkenly against one another: evidence of the business that had once been done here, but had apparently died off long ago.

  Solomon Black was looking around, spinning almost wildly in place as though to catch any attacker that might be sneaking up on him. “What is this place?” demanded the ex-gangster.

  “No idea,” said Noelle.

  Elena, looking at her watch, said, “Then how far is it to…?”

  “Everyone, outside,” said Clint. “Let’s find out where we are first, then we can go from there.”

  H
e expected someone to fight his suggestion, if for no other reason than because Chong and Solomon, at least, tended to fight every suggestion. But no one said a word, and everyone jogged after him as Clint quickly made his way to the closest door that looked like it might lead outside the warehouse.

  His guess was a good one. The door opened with a squeal of rusty hinges, and when Clint stepped through he found himself in a run-down street. Refuse similar to that inside the warehouse lay all over, as though it had lined up to get inside the building where it could lay down and die with others of its kind.

  To the sides sat more large buildings, all industrial in appearance, all run-down in maintenance. A seedy-looking street of a type that could be found in the commercial areas of any large city. Clint didn’t recognize it by sight, and realized that he had no idea where the white room was. He had assumed it was close to the place where he had been taken, but this might not be Los Angeles. It could be New York or Chicago or China for all he knew.

  He spun around, looking for… there! He ran toward the metal bar that jutted out of the sidewalk nearby. Looking at the green placards that jutted from it, he asked, “Anyone know how to get to where we need to be from here?” He gestured at the signpost showing the cross streets.

  “I do. I know this area,” said Solomon, his gravelly voice somehow deeper now that they were out in the open. He pointed to the right. “We’re about a mile away.”

  “And we have only fifteen minutes?” breathed Elena, fear squeezing her voice up a few notes.

  Chong took off. Running in the direction Solomon had indicated, not waiting as he shouted, “Fourteen minutes, actually.”