Countdown

by Michelle Rowen

  He leaned over and grabbed my face in his hand and squeezed.

  “Be very careful, little girl,” he growled. “Very careful. Some secrets can kill faster than any level in this game.”

  He let go of me and wiped his hand on his black pants as if to remove any trace of me.

  I was surprised he didn’t order my death right then and there.

  But he didn’t. After all, the show must go on.

  ANOTHER BLINDFOLD. MORE DARKNESS.

  You’d think I’d be used to it by now, but, unfortunately, phobias don’t work that way. You don’t simply get used to what you fear. It gets worse and worse and harder to deal with every single time. Even if you tell yourself it’s irrational to be afraid.

  The darkness made me hear my sister’s cries and my mother’s screams again, replaying like a nightmarish song, over and over and over.

  But suddenly something made the darkness even harder to deal with.

  My implant began to beep, and pain raked through my brain.

  “Rogan? Where are you?” I said aloud.

  There was a man at my back who had my arms pinned behind me as he pushed me ahead of him. He was big and strong, and I’d given up fighting against him several minutes ago as they’d led me out of the building and into a car. I couldn’t see anything, but I think we drove for about ten minutes before stopping again. I didn’t know where I was, but I knew it had stopped raining. The wind was cold on my face.

  I felt something else move past my face with a metallic whirring sound. A digicam.

  And so it begins again.

  A deep weariness filled me. Was Gareth right? Was I doomed to die in this game? Was my only chance to try to kill Rogan?

  He’d offered me everything or nothing at all. A privileged life or certain death. That was the choice I was supposed to make.

  I didn’t know exactly what had happened to that man, but I did know that if I did what he asked, I’d be selling my soul to the devil.

  I was still hoping beyond hope for a third option to present itself.

  Soon would be good.

  I heard something heavy and metallic clang against the ground close by, then I was shoved from behind. I staggered forward, going over on my right ankle when I tripped on something. Pain shot up my leg as I fell, hitting the ground hard.

  The beeping from my implant was disorienting, and I took a moment to steady myself, hands out at my sides as I forced myself back to my feet.

  Keeping my weight on my left side, I braced myself for the next horrible thing to happen. But nothing did.

  It was silent then. Too silent.

  “Rogan? Where are you?”

  I felt for the back of the blindfold, hurriedly untied it and let it fall to the ground. It was dark outside. Night. The moon glimmered from behind the clouds and layer of pollution. Only one star could be seen and not very well at all. The north star.

  I wished on it.

  Please help me. Give me strength.

  Perhaps not so much a wish as a prayer. My mother taught me how to pray. Since the Plague, not many people had much faith anymore, but my mother had believed.

  She’d believed in something greater and more powerful than us. I wanted to, too.

  I looked down at what I’d tripped over. A long, thin piece of metal with a hook on the end of it. A crowbar.

  So much for praying. That wasn’t helpful at all right now.

  “Welcome to Level Five! Rogan and Kira are rested and raring to go on to the next level. The question is this…will Kira find Rogan before time runs out? Or will she go in the wrong direction and find nothing but death by straying outside of her ninety-foot boundary? The ties that young Rogan and Kira have developed in their strange relationship—the murderer and the thief—are now more tangible as the farther apart they go, the closer to death they are. Kira has a mere ten minutes to locate her partner. Part one of level five commences now. Enjoy!”

  Part one? That wasn’t fair. Now they were doing sub-levels?

  Cheating. Totally cheating.

  Yeah, as if Gareth or anyone associated with this game cared about fairness. All they cared about was giving the Subscribers what they wanted and getting as many of them as possible to tune in to watch us die.

  The thought made me sick.

  The sharp pain in my ankle brought me back to reality. I scanned the empty street. The darkness was oppressive, but at least I could see. The streetlights hadn’t been properly maintained, and every third or fourth one along the street was dark, either broken or simply burned out.

  “Six minutes remain in this level of Countdown,” the announcer said merrily.

  “Is this fun for you?” I asked aloud, speaking directly to that bodiless voice that tormented me with its inane cheerfulness. “Do you enjoy your job, you disgusting piece of garbage?”

  There was no reply.

  Big surprise.

  “Rogan!” I yelled as loud as I could, and began to limp along the street. After a few feet the beeping in my head got louder, the pain so acute that I couldn’t think straight, so I stopped and changed my direction.

  It was like that old children’s game my sister and I played long ago. The one where you hide something and the other is trying to find it. Warmer, warmer…colder…very cold. The warmer you were, the closer you were.

  Okay. Well, in this version of the game, warmer meant no beeping and I was close to Rogan, colder meant that my implant beeped and hurt. Very cold meant that it was moments away from exploding.

  Not as much fun as the good old days.

  I tried not to think about how many ways Rogan could be hurt or injured or worse, how many reasons he might be unable to respond to me. If what I’d been told about the implants was true—the ninety-foot rule—then he couldn’t be very far away.

  But where was he?

  That shouldn’t have happened between us in the reward room. Even though it had felt so right, so perfect, being in his arms, it just complicated things. This situation was complicated enough as it was.

  All contrived, too. Everything about this game was a setup—especially the reward level. I mean, I don’t know how I hadn’t seen it. Drugged food and wine, all spread out in a beautiful room with a big bed. And the huge, relaxing bubble bath just waiting for me to slide into. To put me in the mood. The whole thing had “we want you to do it with Rogan so the pervy Subscribers can watch” written all over it.

  And, stupidly, I’d very nearly done exactly what they’d wanted me to.

  I couldn’t fool myself into thinking it had just been because of the drugged food and booze. I didn’t know what I really felt for Rogan, but it was something. Something real. At least, I’d thought so.

  Now I didn’t know. I didn’t know anything anymore.

  My heart twisted. “Rogan! Where are you?”

  “Five minutes remain in this level of Countdown.”

  I slowed and stood in the middle of the street.

  Think, Kira, I told myself sternly. You’ve made it through four levels on this stupid game. Think.

  I ran as quickly as I could, my ankle shooting with pain as I went, and pounded on every door I could. All locked. I called Rogan’s name out again and again.

  Nothing.

  I turned around and around, but there was no clue. No cars. No trees. No high wires. No platforms. All the doors were locked. I couldn’t see any sign of him.

  And yet my implant had stopped beeping.

  That meant he wasn’t far.

  My ankle throbbed. Did that guy mean to shove me so I’d twist it? The bastard. I glanced down at it, thinking I might be able to see the swelling through my new black lace-up combat boots, when I saw something a few feet away on the ground.

  A sewer grate. But it wasn’t like the others that were old, grimy, and rusted.

  This one glinted under the edge of moonlight.

  “Two minutes remain in this level of Countdown.”

  I hobbled over to it and crouched down, pres
sing my fingers against the edges of it. It was awkward and heavy. There was no way I’d be able to lift it up.

  “Rogan!” I tried to peer through the tiny openings. “Are you in there?”

  This sewer grate hadn’t been here for years. It was the only thing that didn’t look at least twenty-five years old on this street. Well, other than me.

  But it was hopeless. How was I supposed to remove the cover to check?

  Then I gasped.

  The game had rules after all. Structure. It wasn’t a freefor-all chaos session. The answer could often be found in the level itself. In the beginning, we’d been given the keys to our locks; we’d simply needed to figure out how to use them properly. The Dumpster had held the bell that had triggered the door to Jonathan’s office. The man we were supposed to kill in level three hadn’t been an innocent, he’d been a robot, and if we’d been paying closer attention, we would have figured that out earlier than we did.

  The game gave us the tools and clues to help us get through the level. We just needed to figure out when and where to use them.

  I hobbled back to where I’d started and grabbed the crowbar. Then I hurried over to the sewer grate.

  “45…44…43…42…”

  It took me a few seconds to pry up the cover. After it was partially removed, I could get my fingers under it and move it to the side. It made a heavy, scraping sound against the cold, hard pavement.

  I peered into the darkness and it gave me chills.

  “Rogan?” I asked, but was still met with silence.

  A wave of fear and doubt crashed over me. I couldn’t crawl down into the darkness. I couldn’t do it—I couldn’t even move. What if I was wrong? What if I was wasting time I didn’t have right now?

  No, that was wrong. I could do it. I had to do it. I had no choice.

  A cry rising in my throat, I thrust my hand down and felt around for something to hold on to. It was warm and moist in there.

  My hand brushed the underside of the opening, and it felt slimy. I shuddered.

  “25…24…23…”

  There was no time. I’d failed. We were going to die.

  I plunged my hand deeper into that hateful darkness and touched the metal bars of the ladder.

  “Rogan—I’m sorry…I’m sorry I’m too slow—”

  I screamed when something grabbed hold of my wrist. It held on so tight I thought it would pull me down into the bottomless darkness. I tried to pull away but couldn’t.

  “10…9…8…7…”

  Rogan’s face appeared from the darkness. He held my wrist tightly as he climbed up the ladder and f lung himself onto the pavement, his chest heaving.

  “Congratulations to Rogan and Kira for completing the first half of level five successfully.”

  I collapsed to the ground next to him and started beating on his chest with my fists.

  “You asshole!” I yelled. “Why didn’t you say anything? Why didn’t you tell me it was you down there? Damn it, Rogan!”

  He stilled my hands and held them until I finally relaxed.

  “I’m sorry.” He searched my face. “When you were meeting with my father they had me in another room. They told me that if I said a word to help you locate me they’d kill you on the spot. I couldn’t reveal where I was until I got out of there.”

  My heart slowly returned to a normal speed. “Oh.”

  His grip on my hands tightened as his brows drew together. “Are you all right? Did my father hurt you?”

  I shook my head, then touched his cheek. “Did they do this to you?”

  His face bore a red mark that ringed his left eye…before too long it would darken to a bruise. His bottom lip was cut and slightly swollen.

  He grimaced. “Let’s just say that when they make a point they try to make it a memorable one.”

  I reached up to touch his face but stopped myself. “Well, let’s look on the bright side, shall we? You weren’t down there long enough to smell like a sewer.”

  He gave me the edge of a grin as reward for my awkward attempt at humor. “Good to hear. I’d rather not experience another involuntary hosing down if I can help it.”

  He got to his feet and then helped me up.

  He frowned as he watched me limp a few steps. “What happened?”

  I shrugged. “Went over on my ankle. I’ll be fine.”

  “They did that, didn’t they?”

  “Maybe I’m just clumsy.” I scanned the street. It was still vacant, still very dark. The shadows and light from the street lamps slid across the road like ghosts. “Rogan, I need to talk to you about your father—”

  Then I heard a hard, metallic sound—like the crowbar hitting the pavement earlier. I looked down the street. In the distance I could see two figures standing a block away. I couldn’t see much, apart from that they were large and male. The metal sound was indeed another crowbar that one of them had tapped against the ground. They stared at us but didn’t say a word.

  I got a strange feeling that I shouldn’t wave my hand and try to be friendly.

  “Who are they?” I whispered.

  “Not sure.” Rogan didn’t take his attention from the silent figures.

  “Welcome back to Countdown!” The announcer’s voice made me jump. “Rogan and Kira continue to make a terrific team as they work their way through every level with ease.

  “You’ve met Kira already, now let’s give you some insight into the mind of convicted murderer Rogan Ellis.

  “Born into a life of privilege and leisure, Rogan grew up attending only the best private schools in the country. His father, Gareth Ellis, CEO of Ellis Enterprises, built his company to be a forerunner of all things technical, including the creation of the Ellipsis tablet that, just before the Great Plague, had taken over sales of both Microsoft and Apple. His two sons, Liam and Rogan, were the pride and joy of a loveless marriage to socialite Lissa Bartholomew Ellis.

  I wondered if the Subscribers were getting a video feed to go along with the audio—pictures and clips of the family, like a documentary feature playing in their heads.

  “But before too long it was evident that Liam was the favored son and was being groomed to take over the family business. Rogan, even in his early teen years, showed signs of being a sociopath who took pleasure in hurting others. His increasingly violent tendencies forced Gareth Ellis to hand him over to San Carolina’s, an exclusive mental hospital for the very rich, for schizophrenia and drug abuse. Rogan’s loving family feared he would never recover enough to properly function in society.”

  Rogan hissed between clenched teeth at the lies.

  I squeezed his arm.

  “The day he was released, his mother and Liam picked him up from the hospital to bring him back to the Ellis mansion. Despite being sedated, Rogan was reportedly acting erratically, and tried to take control of the car, which spun out of control and careened off the side of a cliff. His mother and brother were killed instantly. Both of Rogan’s legs and six ribs were broken, and he also sustained a punctured lung.”

  My throat constricted and I looked at him.

  “That’s how they died,” he said softly. “But I only tried to take control of the car because it was out of control on a slippery road. I wanted to help, not hurt anyone. They picked me up from my school that day—it was the last time I was there.” He blinked hard. “My father later said that he’d wanted to send a driver, but my mother insisted she and Liam come to get me together.” His Adam’s apple jumped as he swallowed hard. “Took me a couple months in hospital to recover from that accident. That’s when I first got into Kerometh. It helped me forget.”

  “After their deaths, Rogan became more despondent, and despite continuous help offered from his father, he began to sink deeper into drugs and violence. Gareth Ellis is quoted as saying, ‘Had I known what my son would be capable of, I would have had him locked up in San Carolina’s and thrown away the key before he could harm anyone else.’

  “He refers, of course, to the n
ight of terror when Rogan broke into the city university dormitory and systematically went door to door in his path of heinous violence. A nineteen-year-old woman who escaped that night said she returned the next day to ‘walls coated in blood,’ the word bitch scrawled over the dorm room wall of every girl Rogan murdered that night, in his drug-clouded, misogynistic rampage. This was the same night two years ago, when, if you’ll recall, there was a citywide blackout. Rogan used that darkness to his advantage to also murder the family of Kira Jordan.

  “He returned home that night, drenched in the blood of his victims. His father recalls Rogan laughing at what he’d just done. Sickened, Gareth knew there was no helping his son. He called the police and turned Rogan in. Since then, Gareth has contributed over fifty million dollars to a fund in the murdered girls’ names for the prevention of violent crimes against women, both here and in the Colony.

  “Rogan was sent to St. Augustine’s Juvenile Detention Center where he was to remain until his eighteenth birthday. Three months ago, Rogan attacked his two roommates, leaving one dead and the other seriously injured. He was sent to solitary confinement where he remained until being released to take part in Countdown.”

  Rogan’s arm was steel beneath my grip, his expression rigid and furious. I wished I could block out the sound of the announcer’s voice, somehow shield Rogan from having to hear these horrible things being said about him, but the feed was directly through my implant and into my head, so I could do nothing but listen, as he did.

  The other figures continued to stand in place in the distance, tapping the crowbar against the ground.

  “Rogan and Kira have been unaware that another team has also been given the chance to be contestants on Countdown, in a game that has run tandem to their own, and have also successfully completed four levels in this competition.”

  My breath caught. I had thought we were the only ones.

  “Kurtis Grimm was an inmate at Saradone, convicted of first-degree murder, specially chosen to compete in this game due to his background. His partner, Mac Zebowitz, is someone that Rogan might recognize. Mac was one of Rogan’s roommates at St. Augustine’s—the one severely injured by Rogan’s rampage, which left their other roommate dead. Mac has personally sworn vengeance against Rogan. Today, with help from Kurtis, he will get that chance.