I was now bracing his full weight against me to keep him from toppling over. “Yeah, you’re a whole lot of help.”
“I guess we won’t be winning the grand prize, will we? Knocked out at level two. It’s embarrassing.” He said it so wryly that I knew he was joking.
Joking. At a time like this? He was even crazier than he looked.
He was also very pale, and there was a sheen of perspiration on his grimy face. My hand was pressed to his chest to hold him steady, and his heart beat erratically. I pulled at his shirt to take a quick peek at the wound underneath. It looked raw and open, as if it had been inf licted with a sharp object like a big butcher’s knife. Definitely not from a gun. I’d seen bullet wounds up close and personal before—the image seared into my brain forever, along with my father’s glazed, unseeing eyes.
Blood oozed steadily out of Rogan’s shoulder.
“You’re a mess,” I informed him.
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“You stink, too.”
“Again, well aware. Like I said, they didn’t give me a few hours at the spa before locking me up in that room so I could smell like a f lower for you.”
My throat thickened with panic. “You really think this is where we should be? Are you sure?”
“I was. But there aren’t any doors. There’s nothing. And if we’d reached the finish line, you’d think there’d be some sort of sign.” His words finally betrayed a sharp edge of strain.
“I’m going to let go of you now,” I said.
“Thanks for the warning.”
He eased back against the concrete wall behind him, and I stepped away to stand in the middle of the alley. I turned around slowly, trying hard to ignore the ticking that was potentially counting down the last seconds of my life.
“I used to watch TV shows like this,” I said. “Not exactly like this one, of course, but they have the races and the puzzles to solve. Usually at this early level of a game, it’s still fairly easy. Or at least, not insanely impossible to figure out.” I glared at the camera hovering in the air four feet from my face.
“You don’t know the people who set this game up. It’s all about the losing, not the winning, for them.”
“I’m just saying that it can’t be the end. Not yet. What’s the fun in eliminating contestants in level two?”
I scanned the alley. Two brick walls. One concrete wall, gray and unyielding, behind Rogan’s hunched-over frame. I looked up. A sliver of slate-gray sky showed above the thirtystory buildings that surrounded us like cold, emotionless sentries.
“What did you think we were running toward?” I asked. “What did you see on that map?”
He looked around. “It was an office. I remember it from before I got sent away. I could have sworn it was right here.”
“One minute remains in this level of Countdown.”
“59…58…57…”
There was a Dumpster to the side of us, full to overf lowing. Strange, considering that the neighborhood was deserted. A rotting apple core lay to the side of it, the fruit turning brown. No f lies, though. It didn’t seem as if anyone or anything lived here anymore, but that piece of fruit didn’t seem as old as it should have, considering the surroundings.
“What kind of office was it?” I asked.
“What?”
“What kind of office?” I repeated, loud enough to be heard over the countdown.
“It was a…a doctor’s office. A psychiatrist.”
“Let me guess, your doctor?”
Rogan’s expression shadowed. “I had a few appointments there, yeah.”
“Obviously he wasn’t very good at what he did if you went psycho, anyway.”
He glowered at me.
A doctor’s office. Right here. But now it was gone? Was Rogan tripping out, or was he remembering something important?
I sure hoped it was something important. We didn’t have time to be wrong.
I went toward that Dumpster and jumped in.
“What are you doing?” Rogan demanded.
“Trying very hard not to die.”
I plunged my hands into muck and filth. Rotting food, discarded boxes, plastic bags filled with rancid garbage. Living on the streets had given me a necessary talent for Dumpster diving. You could find some really good stuff if you had the time and motivation to go searching.
Currently I didn’t have the time, but I sure as hell had the motivation.
I didn’t know what I was looking for. Even when I found it, I still wasn’t sure.
“24…23…22…”
It was a bell attached to a sign that read: Please ring bell and the receptionist will be right with you.
Okay, it was something.
I held my breath and rang the bell.
Nothing happened for a moment, and what little hope I had started to fade, but then I heard something. A heavy, metallic sound.
“Kira. Look.” Rogan pointed at the ground.
I looked over the edge of the Dumpster to see that a door in the ground had slid open. I hadn’t even noticed the edges of it before.
“10…9…8…”
I launched myself out of the garbage like somebody possessed and grabbed Rogan’s arm. There was a f light of stairs leading down. I pulled him with me, and we quickly descended into the semidarkness below.
“3…2…1…”
The door above us slammed shut with the force of a guillotine. When nothing else happened, I quickly continued down to the bottom of the stairs. A short hallway led into a white room.
Rogan met my gaze. “I don’t feel dead yet. Should we be celebrating?”
I thought about that as I tried to bring my breathing back down to a normal pace. “If we’re dead, then death wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought it would be.”
“Congratulations, Rogan and Kira, on successfully completing level two of Countdown.”
I rubbed my temples, finally allowing myself a measure of relief. “Is he going to say that every time? Because that’s going to get old really fast.”
Another camera appeared and whipped past my face. I watched my eyes narrow in the shiny surface. By no stretch of the imagination did I look happy. My dark brown hair was matted and tangled, and my long bangs were slicked against my forehead. My jaw was clenched tightly, and my dark eyes f lashed with anger. I hated that digicam. Hated it more than I remembered hating anything for a very long time.
“You shouldn’t look directly at it,” Rogan advised, touching my arm with the hand that wasn’t clasped to his injured shoulder.
I shrugged away from him. “Why not?”
“You don’t want to give the Subscribers more than their money’s worth. They want you to look at them that way. It gets them off to see you suffer.” He pulled me away so that I wasn’t staring right into the lens anymore. “How did you know to ring the bell?”
I finally looked at him. “Lucky guess.”
“Yes,” a voice said. “Very lucky indeed.”
I turned to see that a door had opened and a man had entered the white room. He was tall and skinny, with short black hair and a trimmed goatee. He wore wire-framed glasses and a white doctor’s coat and he held a clipboard.
“Who are you?” I forced myself not to step backward. He was the first live person I’d seen other than Rogan since this nightmare had begun.
He stopped walking. “My name is Jonathan. I’m your liaison to Countdown.”
“What does that mean?”
He didn’t answer me. Instead, his gaze f licked to Rogan. “You’re injured.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t know that already, being our liaison and all.” Sarcasm mixed with the pain in Rogan’s voice.
“It’s worse than I thought it would be.” Jonathan let out a long sigh and shook his head. “We will have to wait a moment first.”
I looked around the room. He wasn’t moving, just staring straight ahead.
“What are we waiting for?” I asked.
Jonathan held
up a finger. “One moment.”
Every muscle in my body was tense and ready to run, but instead I waited, standing silently in place. After a couple of minutes, a small door in the wall to my right opened up, and the silver ball camera left the room. The door closed behind it.
“What happened?” I said.
“Countdown is now on an official break,” Jonathan explained. “We have a little time to prep you for your next level.”
“I won’t last another level,” Rogan said.
Jonathan nodded. “I know. I’ve been monitoring your vitals.”
He left the room brief ly and returned with a white box.
“Sit,” he instructed, and Rogan sat down in a white chair next to him.
I swear, everything in the entire room was white and scrubbed immaculately clean. It felt like a hospital—or, at least, the kind I’d once seen in an old movie.
Jonathan pushed away the material that covered Rogan’s wound. Then with no sound from the murderer other than a pained groan, Jonathan cleaned the wound and sprayed it with some sort of colorless substance. The skin around the cut turned a sick shade of green.
“Ah,” Jonathan breathed, peering closer. “The knife they used on you was tipped with calcine poison.”
“That would explain why I feel like my insides are melting,” Rogan grumbled. “Because they are.”
“What’s happening?” I demanded again. My fists were clenched so tightly at my sides that my fingernails dug painfully into the palms of my hands. Instead of relaxing, I let it happen. The pain helped me stay focused.
“What does it look like?” Jonathan asked, glancing up at me.
“Why are you helping him?”
“Kira,” Rogan growled. “Didn’t you hear the part about my insides melting?”
“But—”
“I can’t play this damn game if I have melting insides. Do you get that?”
“Of course I get that. But why is he helping you? Doesn’t he work for the damn game?”
“I do.” Jonathan nodded. “But that doesn’t mean I always agree with their idea of entertainment.”
With a syringe, he injected a blue-colored solution into Rogan’s shoulder. Rogan clenched his jaw. “That should be enough antidote to halt the damage and hopefully reverse it. You’re not going to feel great, but you’ll feel a lot better than you have.” He peered at the now clean wound. “The antidote will also help the wound knit rapidly. You shouldn’t require any stitches.”
“Thanks.” Rogan pulled away from Jonathan the moment he was finished.
He seemed oddly at ease with the man—as if they’d already met.
Jonathan closed the box. “Are you well, young lady?”
“Am I well?” I repeated. “No, I am not well. I want out of this game right now.”
“That’s not possible. But you’re doing fine so far. I anticipate that you will last several more levels.” He looked away.
My breath hitched. Could I fight him to escape from this place? If I had to? “I don’t belong here.”
“None of us belong here, Kira,” he said wearily. “Sometimes we need to do the best with what we’re given.”
“I would have to disagree with you there,” Rogan said.
Jonathan looked at him sharply. “Time has a tendency to change many things, Rogan.”
“Not as many as you might think. But time does have a way of making things a lot clearer.”
“If you say so.”
Rogan glowered at him. “I do.”
I watched their exchange with growing certainty. “Do you two know each other?”
Rogan f licked a glance at me. “No.”
Like hell they didn’t. I wasn’t that blind. Before I could ask any more questions, he turned to Jonathan.
“Are you going to get in trouble for fixing me?”
Jonathan didn’t answer the question. “We need to talk about level three.”
“I’d rather have a long nap in a comfortable bed,” Rogan said with a humorless snort.
“I’m sure you would. And you’re partially in luck. Since the broadcast is on a break, you’ve just entered a mandatory rest period.”
Rogan’s throat worked as he swallowed. “That’s not necessary.”
“I thought you said you wanted a nap?”
“On my own terms, yeah.”
Jonathan pressed a button on the wall and another holoscreen appeared in the middle of the room. The image of an average-looking man f lickered into focus. “This is Bernard Jones. He is forty years old, has been married for fifteen years, and has one child. He makes his living as an accountant. He has dreams of moving to the Colony with his family and opening a restaurant there.”
My heart jumped into my throat. Another mention of the Colony. I was starting to believe it really existed—somewhere. Sometimes I wondered if it might just be a rumor.
“Sounds like a fun guy,” I said, trying to shield my interest in the secret city. “So, what are we supposed to do, get him to do our taxes?”
“No. To successfully complete level three you are required to assassinate him.”
My mouth dropped open. “Assassinate him?”
“That’s right. There will be no weapons provided for this level. You will have to use whatever means are available to locate and eliminate this target. You will be informed on your timeline once the level begins. That’s all I can tell you. I wish you good luck.”
Rogan was frowning. “Jonathan, there has to be some way out of this. You have to let me speak to—” He broke off and yelled, clutching his head. The next moment he crumpled to the ground, unconscious.
I watched him fall and then raised my horrified gaze to Jonathan.
“I’m very sorry,” he said.
I opened my mouth to say something, I wasn’t even sure what; but before I got out a word, the lightning-fast pain ripped through my brain and everything went black.
I OPENED MY EYES SLOWLY AND BLINKED UNTIL everything came back into focus. Along with my vision, my anger returned in full force.
I absolutely hated the idea of somebody out there with their finger on a little button that could cause me pain like that. However, I did like the idea of finding whoever was in charge of that little button and giving their groin a nice, sharp introduction to my knee.
My head hurt. Badly. But at least I still seemed to be in one piece.
I glanced around and realized I was somewhere more populated. Not another empty, clinical room. I could hear voices. There was a faint sound of clothes swishing and rubbing together as a few people passed, nearby but out of sight.
There was a heavy weight pressing on my shoulder, and I slowly realized that it was Rogan—specifically his head. He was still out cold and currently using me as a pillow. We were both sprawled against a wall like a couple of homeless people. Pretty accurate, really. But this wasn’t the street. Linoleum tile felt smooth and cool against my hands. We were inside. Somewhere.
I know this place.
And then it dawned on me.
We were in the mall a few blocks north of the village. One of my main haunts. The same place I’d been when this nightmare first began—when I’d stolen my new pair of shoes. I looked down at my feet to see that the bright red sneakers were still there.
I jostled him. “Rogan.”
He didn’t wake up.
I moved my hand to the back of my head and took a moment to feel the incision mark. Then I felt for the same thing on Rogan. His dark hair slid through my fingers.
Strange. I felt not one but two incision marks on his scalp. Why were there two?
He appeared so innocent while asleep—and very nearly handsome. His eyelids f luttered, and I wondered what he was dreaming about. I looked closely at the scar on his face, and traced the line with the tip of my finger.
“Are you really as much of an evil bastard as they say you are?”
I glanced around the hallway. No one was within spitting distance, and as far as I could s
ee, neither were the f lying digicams. I wasn’t sure how long this f leeting moment of privacy would last.
I felt at his throat for his steady pulse, warm and alive beneath my touch. Then I slowly trailed down to his collarbone and under the edge of his ripped T-shirt to press my hand against his chest. Skin to skin. And I opened myself up to whatever it was I could do.
I didn’t think I was psychic or anything. But then, it couldn’t be my imagination. The pain made it real. Before, on the street, I hadn’t sensed anything from Rogan but a jumbled mass of…something.
Something.
I needed to know if I could do it again. If I could figure it out, get more this time. If I could get some sort of sense of just how bad Rogan Ellis really was and how much I should hate his guts.
All I knew for sure was that bad guys had this bad vibe that was impossible to ignore when I did this, like a cold blanket of darkness that sucked the warmth right out of me.
I didn’t know what this strange ability of mine actually was. What it meant. But I needed it to work.
I closed my eyes and tried to concentrate.
Then I suddenly found my hand in his as he pulled it away from his chest. “Hey—I’m out for a few minutes and you suddenly can’t keep your hands off me?”
I scowled at him. “Hardly.”
A glimmer of amusement lit up his ocean-green eyes. “Then what were you doing?”
“Just making sure you weren’t dead. FYI…you’re not.”
He gave a humorless laugh and glanced around wearily. “Where are we now?”
“We’re in the mall.”
“The mall,” he repeated with a frown. “Why are we in the mall?”
I reached back to feel my incision again. “We need to get these implants out.”
Rogan grabbed my wrist. “Don’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“You can’t tamper with it or it will kill us.”
“Who told you that?”
“Nobody. But it makes sense, doesn’t it?” He rose to his feet and held out a hand to help me up. I ignored it and got up on my own.
“You have two incisions. Does that mean you have two implants?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Do I?”
I nodded, surprised at his calm reaction to such a strange— to me, anyway—observation.
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