Gamers Con: The First Zak Steepleman Novel

by Dave Bakers

  Caught my eye.

  I knew it was the time to strike.

  That now was our chance.

  I pounced, threw myself at Yorbleson, caught him just beneath his chin with my shoulder. I felt his bones sink back into his frail body, and I knew that I’d made good contact.

  Together, we fell down, onto the floor.

  As I lay there, sitting on his chest, I felt him scrabbling about, trying to get back up.

  It was then that Alan said, sounding a little stunned, “It’s like I thought—his powers down here, there’re not as great as up there, in the hall.”

  As if responding to this, Yorbleson scrabbled about beneath me, but I held him down firm, determined not to allow him to get back up again.

  To give him another chance.

  “Let. Them. Go!” I said, still sitting on Yorbleson. “All our parents. Now!”

  “Don’t you want to win the tournament, Zak?”

  To be honest, I found that question fairly insulting, what with him insinuating that I’d prefer to win the tournament than, like, get my dad out of this place?

  “Why don’t you just let them free?” I said, now realising that I was sounding like a whiny little kid—you know the type at Disneyland that complain about the length of the queue . . . not that I’ve ever been to Disneyland—maybe with my parents’ divorce looming that’ll be somewhere my dad thinks fit to take me on his weekends.

  When Yorbleson spoke again, his words were still strangled . . . well, that much was obvious since I was sitting on him. “No, Zak, I won’t let them go.”

  I looked over to Alan, trying to see just what we were going to do from here on out.

  It was then that I saw him with his parents, stooped down over his mother and father, just . . . looking at them . . . kind of like a kid who’s really into science checking out some exhibit in a museum.

  “Alan?” I said. “What’re we going to do now?”

  For some reason, I thought I watched something pass over the surface of his eyes, like he was—just for a moment—thinking on that offer of Yorbleson’s . . . knowing that this was his chance to cut and run.

  And yet, I was the one who was still sitting on Yorbleson.

  I was the one in control.

  For the time being.

  “Where do we go next, then?” I said.

  Alan gave me something between a pout and a shrug, and then he stared down at Yorbleson. “Way I see things, the only way we’re going to be safe is if we can find some way to trap him here the same way that he trapped our parents.” He looked to the cells—to the other parents behind bars. “But this is his prison, so I can’t see how we’re going to manage to lock him into it.” He looked back at me. “You saw how he opened the cell with just the snap of his fingers.”

  I held still, applying the full force to Yorbleson’s chest.

  If I hadn’t known that there was more to him than just being a frail, seventy-something-year-old man then I might’ve felt just a tad bad about what I was doing.

  But, the way things were—the way I knew things to be—he was capable of so much more. He wasn’t even human thinking about it.

  I shot a glance back at Alan, hoping that he might’ve come across something by now.

  But he was back to staring at his parents again.

  Maybe I was being a little harsh on him, what with the fact that he hadn’t lived with them for the past couple of years, that he’d lived out his time with Yorbleson here—doing whatever it was that he bid Alan do for him in the real world.

  It was then that the thought struck me, though when I spoke it was clear—from the way my voice cracked—that it couldn’t be a sincere possibility.

  Could it?

  “What if we kill him?” I said.

  53

  THOUGH, looking back, I was certain there was no echo in the place, whenever I think of it, I hear my voice reverberating about my skull—constantly coming back to me.

  Like a tune stuck in my head.

  It seemed like my words had had the same effect on Alan since he was sort of staring into the middle distance too.

  Even Yorbleson had gone slack beneath me, and I knew that he simply didn’t have the energy left in his frail body to fight back.

  “How’d we do it?” Alan said.

  That sent a shiver down my spine.

  Sent warmth flushing up to my skull.

  I could feel the blood slurping at my temples.

  All those thoughts bursting to be brought to life, to be played out for real.

  I kept my weight planted firmly on Yorbleson’s chest even though he made no move.

  “I won’t open the cells if you kill me,” Yorbleson said.

  Though I felt myself shuddering inside—felt like my bones might buckle and break at any second—I managed to get out an assured reply.

  “Who says we won’t get them open?”

  Beneath me, I felt a kind of vibration passing through Yorbleson.

  It took me a moment or two to realise that he was chuckling to himself.

  “Shut up!” I said. “You free our parents now, or I’ll kill you.”

  “No you won’t,” Yorbleson said, still cackling, sounding almost like he was choking, “I know that you don’t have the killer instinct, Zak, not in games, not in life, that was why you needed the help to make sure you got through the tournament, you might have great potential, but you still have a long way to go to become a truly professional gamer.”

  I knew he was trying to wind me up.

  Trying to egg me on into making a mistake so he could sliver on out from beneath me, so that he could, no doubt, do some of that magic of his . . . even if it was limited, there was no telling just what he might be able to do.

  And unpredictability was a massive advantage right at the moment.

  “I’ll do it,” Alan said, his tone cold, clean.

  I looked to him, looked deep into his eyes.

  And I saw the hate there.

  I wondered—wondered why he hadn’t thought to do it before now, why the thought that he could simply kill Yorbleson had never occurred to him.

  Was it because he’d seen him in the flesh, seen him in human form?

  Was that what was holding him—us—back from doing what was surely the right thing?

  I looked off to the cells around us remembering my promise. “You think we’ll be able to get these cells open?”

  Alan gave me a firm nod. “Yes,” he said. “I think I know a way.”

  I held my ground, not wanting to get up off Yorbleson, to give him a chance to escape. “So,” I said, feeling a tremble pass through me, “What do we do now? How do we do it?”

  “Leave, Zak,” Alan said, his tone firm, and seeming to be many years older than he appeared. “I’ll do it—but you have to leave us alone.”

  Though Alan had helped me out of that gunk—which I surely would’ve died inside if he hadn’t tugged me out—I couldn’t bring myself to trust him . . . not quite yet.

  I felt Yorbleson stir beneath me, another of his chuckles vibrating through him, and I knew that it was the only choice.

  Yorbleson was right.

  I didn’t have it in me—that killer instinct.

  This was something I’d have to leave to Alan.

  I’d have to trust Alan.

  I remained there, sitting on Yorbleson’s chest another couple of moments and then, all at once, my body seemed to act for me, and I lifted myself up off him, away from him.

  And, just like that, I was standing on my own two feet.

  Watching on as Alan took up my place.

  Watched him lay a firm foot down on Yorbleson’s chest—pinning him to the ground.

  Without turning to look at me, Alan said, “Outside, Zak—wait outside.”

  I held my ground, still not quite wanting to leave all of the parents behind, and yet, at the same time, knowing that I’d have to.

  If I wanted to really help them.

  To keep my p
romise.

  I gave a curt nod, even though Alan was facing away from me so he couldn’t have seen it, and then I scarpered on out the same way we’d come in, through that steel door, out into the corridor.

  I must’ve waited there for five minutes—longer?—and I was on the point of going to check what was going on, if maybe Yorbleson had managed to overpower Alan, or if he had somehow talked Alan around, that was when I felt everything around me crumble.

  Felt the darkness gnawing at the cracks.

  Eking its way into everything.

  Bleeding all around.

  And, once again, that chill descended.

  Over everything.

  I was tumbling—tumbling back . . . falling into what seemed like a bottomless pit . . . nothing around me but darkness.

  In the distance, something went thump!

  54

  THE WORLD was sound to me before anything else.

  Rustling clothing.

  Babbling voices.

  A high-pitched squeal at the fringes of my hearing.

  It was like all those sounds pressed down on me, like a blanket, smothering me, refusing to allow me to get back up.

  I felt somebody touch me on the shoulder.

  Nothing more than one of those pokes kids give animals with sticks to check and see if they’re alive.

  I cracked open an eye. Looked about me. All I saw were blurred shapes.

  Then came the voices.

  A little more steadily.

  I made out one above the rest.

  That strangely booming voice.

  The voice that reminded me of him.

  Of the Cloaked Figure when I’d first seen him.

  When Harold had inhabited his body.

  In all those offline versions of the game.

  Yes, that was who it was, Harold . . . and he was asking me the same question he asked me the last time I found myself lying on my back on the hard ground of the convention centre.

  “Zak? Are you okay, Zak?”

  I blinked a few more times. That seemed to sharpen up the blurs just a touch. Then I reached about me, felt for the floor, waited for somebody to tell me not to get up . . . but nobody did.

  I felt hands all around me, firm grips taking hold.

  Lifting me up.

  Then I managed to look past the people all crowded around, and I realised where I was. Inside the plastic shell—still—that same little cubicle where we’d been ordered to play out the Final of the Grand Tournament, where we’d all disappeared—one by one—into the Sirocco.

  “Zak?”

  I looked around, backed away from Harold, and I saw Kate, James and Chung lurking just behind her. I managed to raise a smile though I felt an almost unbearable throbbing pain in the centre of my skull, almost like somebody had tried to split it open with a sledgehammer. I reached up and gave it a rub—felt the sizable welt there.

  Then I remembered what had just happened, where I’d just returned from.

  And, with that question on my lips, I jolted about, looked around me.

  “Alan?” I said, and then, turning back to the others, “Our parents?”

  They only met me with worried glances, and I knew that they were still missing.

  I looked around, to Harold and Steve, standing close by. “What happens now?”

  Neither of them seemed to have a clue.

  I turned around, looked to the TV screen, saw that it was flickering away but that it had gone black—there was no sign of Hall of Hallows there.

  “I guess maybe . . .” Harold began, but was soon cut off by a crackling sound which broke through the air and destroyed the tranquillity in the plastic shell which housed us from the spectators—ensured against ‘cheating’ at the Final of the Grand Tournament.

  I turned on the spot, looked to the Sirocco, and, like white shadows forming out of thin air, I watched the bodies all appear before us.

  It took a couple of moments but, soon enough, they became real before our eyes.

  I looked to them, to Kate and James’s dads, and then to Chung’s mother.

  As I scanned a little further along, I came to Alan, and his parents.

  With about a thousand questions sitting there, plump, on my lips, I watched as the parents all came around, as they blinked away their sleep.

  I saw them stretching, yawning their way awake.

  Just like I surely had done, they blinked several times, becoming accustomed to the daylight which surrounded us, and then the invigilators helped them up to their feet.

  There was no sign of my dad.

  Not yet.

  I looked around them, sure that I’d missed him, and then I turned to Alan, a look of alarm surely sketched all across my face. “Where is he?” I said, my voice sounding much shriller than I’d intended it.

  Alan just gave me one of his apologetic stares as he looked up from helping his parents to their feet.

  I knew how he must’ve been feeling right then, what with not having seen—been with—his parents for years. And yet, something within me, it felt like calling him selfish, calling him out for having betrayed me somehow.

  “Did you . . .” I started, and then realised that there was another white glow—another of those shadows forming, being sourced from the back of the Sirocco.

  I guessed that every time I’d travelled into a game it had looked something similar.

  And then, right there, as had happened before, Dad popped up out of thin air.

  Roused himself from his sleep and then, thinking to myself, I headed on over to give him a hand up onto his feet.

  He rubbed at his eyes, his fingers reaching up beneath the lenses of his glasses, and then he glanced about, almost like a new-born baby trying to make sense of its surroundings. When his gaze fell onto me, he looked at me with a squinty stare. “What just happened?” he said.

  55

  IT WAS WEIRD.

  After everything we’d gone through—all five of us . . . not even including our parents—I’d just completely forgotten about the Grand Tournament, that there was even such a thing going on.

  We emerged from the plastic shell where we’d been kept covered from the spectators, and it was only then when I registered another time that there was a giant plasma screen which the spectators had been watching—that they’d seen the whole thing play out there.

  I only felt sure that it was real—that what had actually happened to us had been real—when I looked about me, saw the others on my heels.

  James.

  Kate.

  Chung.

  And, of course, Alan.

  All five of us walking together, across the floor of the convention centre.

  The next thing that happened was the applause.

  The spectators burst out into clapping, they rose to their feet.

  Some of them even stamped along.

  From what I recalled from watching—being a spectator myself—at previous Grand Finals, I couldn’t remember such a reception.

  Or maybe it was just more extreme because I was part of it.

  That could’ve been it . . .

  Next up, following a nudge in the ribs from James, I turned and looked up at the plasma screen, saw that the rankings were posted up there.

  Each of our names had a number of points assigned to it. Though I really had no idea of how they’d come to calculate the points, I guessed that it most likely had something to do with how long we’d actually managed to remain in the game.

  That meant Chung took fifth place; James: fourth; Kate: third.

  It left only me and Alan.

  And it wasn’t my name posted at the top of the leader board.

  It was Alan’s.

  He’d been the real hero, after all.

  I was pleased for him.

  He deserved it.

  As we followed along on Harold and Steve’s heels, up the platform which had—apparently—been hastily assembled at the centre of the area, I couldn’t help but snatch a few glances
at my companions, see their expressions there, and think about all we’d already been through together.

  And all this in only a couple of days.

  I couldn’t help wondering just what we might get up to with years together.

  Because, I was sure, our friendship would last longer than Gamers Con.

  We all had an internet connection after all.

  When the awards were dished out, Alan got the biggest cheer, what with him being the winner and all, and all four of us clapped along for him.

  Who would’ve thought it only a few hours before—before we’d really known that he was the real hero?

  Soon after the ceremony, when Alan had the trophy dangling down from his fingertips, at his side, all five of us broke away from our parents, and headed on off into the convention centre, to get ourselves lost in the crowd.

  For once in the whole weekend, I noted that Dad wasn’t playing chess on his phone, and I guessed that—even if he didn’t quite realise what had happened to him, how he’d ended up slumped there in the plastic shell along with us: the gamers—he realised that there were others for him to talk to, other parents.

  People who understood his pain at having a kid into video games.

  And I hoped that him talking to the other parents would mean him not getting into trouble with any video-game nastiness either . . . not while I was busy with other stuff.

  Like making friends.

  The five of us all wandered around for a long while, not really talking at all.

  What was there for us to say?

  When we reached the end of the convention centre, which was to say the letter Z, all five of us clung to a railing on a raised platform and stared on out through the large windows, out into the enormous car park which circled around the place.

  It was then that Alan told us that him dealing with Mr Yorbleson—nothing more than a video-game character—had meant the whole world around him tumbling down.

  Simply being destroyed.

  That had meant our parents being freed.

  And to think that he never would’ve had the chance to take care of Mr Yorbleson if he hadn’t been able to sink down through that dark-purple pool.

  There was a long silence after Alan’s potted explanation.