Countdown

by Michelle Rowen

  against his bindings.

  I felt the pounding of my heart in the backs of my eyeballs as I waited for something horrible to happen. I’d tried to

  stay calm this whole time, but the dam had broken and fear

  f looded over me again.

  The metal cuffs restraining my arms behind me released

  and dropped to the f loor. I rubbed my wrists and looked at

  Rogan with wide eyes.

  “What just happened? I’m free.”

  I jumped up from the chair and began to move toward

  Rogan.

  “No—stop, Kira!” He leaped from his chair, too, his gaze

  moving up toward the ceiling “This room—don’t come any

  closer—”

  A thick sheet of glass slammed down from the ceiling to

  the f loor, slicing between the two facing tables. The force of it blew the hair back from my face. If I’d taken one more step,

  it would have cut me in two.

  I looked at it, stunned, not believing what had just happened. I put my hand against the cold glass and stared at Rogan

  whose hands were still bound behind him.

  I glanced up at the camera that was taping us and imagined

  the Subscribers watching eagerly.

  I rushed to the door and realized with dismay that there

  was no handle on this side.

  “Kira!” Rogan’s voice was clear and loud, despite the glass

  barrier. He wore an expression of pure shock.

  I promise that her death will be painless, Gareth had said. I only had to wonder what he meant for another moment. That was when the gas began to seep through the air vents

  into my side of the room.

  THE GAS SLID OUT OF THE VENT IN THE UPPER left corner in a translucent white slithering line. It trailed down the wall and onto the f loor. More and more of it, moving through the room like blind fingers searching me out. When it reached me, it curled around my legs, swirling and

  moving like a snake.

  “Kira!” Rogan yelled.

  Gareth was right. It wasn’t painful. In fact, it didn’t hurt

  at all. I was surprised that the gas didn’t even have much of a

  scent when it finally reached my nostrils. I clamped my hands

  over my mouth and nose, but I knew that wouldn’t do any

  good. Not for long. I turned to the glass, to Rogan. “What do I do now?” I didn’t even try to hide the panic

  in my voice.

  He pulled hard against his restraints, but it did nothing. His

  expression was frantic. “I don’t know. Damn it! I don’t know!” The camera swiveled to take in both sides of the room. “Where are you, you son of a bitch?” Rogan roared. “I’m

  going to kill you!”

  But there was no reply. There was nothing. His father had

  promised to give us some privacy—other than the fifteen

  thousand subscribers who were tuned in to watch my death

  scene, of course.

  I tried to hold my breath, but after thirty seconds I remembered that breathing wasn’t really a choice. Unfortunately. I inhaled some of the gas. It still had no discernible odor.

  Maybe it was just a ruse. Maybe this was just something to get

  an entertaining reaction out of us and make the Subscribers

  happy after we’d cheated them out of a good level six ending by escaping.

  But, no. The more I breathed, the weaker I felt. My head

  began to swim. I gasped for breath. Instead of pounding hard

  and fast with fear like it had been before, my heart began to

  pump more and more slowly.

  The gas cast a whitish fogginess over the already white

  room. My legs crumpled beneath me, bringing me onto my

  knees hard enough to bruise. I dragged myself closer to the

  barrier and put my hands up against the smooth, cold glass. Rogan had moved close enough that his breath now fogged

  up the glass. He continued to struggle hard against his bindings, but it was in vain. He couldn’t break free. His expression

  held a mixture of rage and grief. From where I had placed my

  hand against the barrier, he was only a few inches away. So

  close…but not close enough.

  “I want you to know,” I managed, gasping now for each

  breath I took, “I still think that you were wrong earlier.” “About what?”

  “I’m glad I got off the shuttle. I…I’ve been happy for any

  time I’ve spent with you.”

  “Kira—” His voice broke. “Don’t talk like you’re giving

  up. Please, don’t.”

  “Promise me that you won’t stop fighting.” I blinked, and

  the tears splashed down my already wet cheeks. “Don’t let

  him change you into a monster like him. You’re too good for

  that. There’s…there’s still hope…”

  My hand slipped off the glass. I breathed shallowly through

  my mouth in quick little gasps. The world in front of me was

  fading from white to gray. Darker and darker, closer and closer

  to the pitch-black that I feared the most.

  Would I see my family? Would I go to Heaven when I died? I wanted so desperately to be brave. But I wasn’t brave. I

  was afraid. So afraid.

  Gareth was right about one thing—it didn’t hurt. But that

  seemed to make this even scarier. At least pain reminded me

  that I was still alive.

  “Damn you, Kira!” Rogan yelled. “Don’t stop fighting! Not

  after everything we’ve been through. Not like this. Please!” I wanted to let him know how wonderful I thought he was,

  how much I believed in him, and how he’d helped me trust

  somebody again, somebody other than myself. That the past

  didn’t matter. That he was better now. So much better. And

  that I’d miss him so much.

  But I didn’t have the energy to speak. My mouth moved

  wordlessly as I slid the rest of the way down the glass and felt

  the cold, hard f loor against my head.

  Just before the world turned to complete, impenetrable

  black, I heard something. It seemed so far away—as if it was

  coming from the end of a very long and empty hallway. A door opened. Then I felt hands under my arms and the

  sensation of being dragged. My heavy boots squeaked as I slid across the f loor. Then a door closed. It was still so far away I

  didn’t know what was going on. I was still fading. Fading…. And then I felt the unmistakable sensation of a hand slapping me across the face. Several times. Really hard. “Wake up, Kira. Wake up!”

  My eyelashes f luttered, and I opened my eyes slowly, my

  left cheek stinging. The world crept back into focus. Oliver stared down at me.

  “We don’t have much time.” His voice trembled. “Can

  you move?”

  More eyelash f luttering on my part. I swallowed. When

  I realized that the air I was now breathing was clear of the

  poisonous gas, I began taking greedy gulps of it. I drank in

  the air, filling my lungs with deep mouthfuls until my head

  cleared even more.

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw his hand rise. “Slap me again,” I said, “and it’ll be the last thing you ever

  do.”

  He gave me a tentative smile. “I’m glad you’re feeling okay.” “Okay is a bit of an exaggeration. You should know that as

  soon as I’ve recovered I am going to kill you.”

  His smile fell. “But I saved you.”

  I kept trying to breathe normally. I was alive. I hadn’t died.

  “Thank you for saving me.”

  He let out a sigh of relief. “You’re welcome.”
/>
  “However, you do know that we wouldn’t have even been

  in that room if it wasn’t for you, right? So, please, forgive me

  for not offering you a big, warm hug of celebration.” Oliver stood up and shuff led his feet nervously. “I begged

  Mr. Ellis to let you go. He didn’t listen to me. The man is

  evil.”

  “You think?” I would have rolled my eyes if I’d had the

  energy. “Help me up.”

  He offered me a hand and I got to my feet. My ankle still

  ached from spraining it. But pain was a relief. After all, it

  meant I was still alive.

  “Mr. Ellis had a conference call come in from the Network

  chairman. He had to take it. I took the opportunity to disable

  the camera. I couldn’t figure out how to shut off the gas, so I

  had to come and get you myself.”

  That meant we didn’t have much time. Hopefully it would

  be enough. “Honestly, Oliver. I can’t believe you work here.

  For him. How can you do that?”

  “If it’s any consolation, I think this is my last day.” His expression twisted into one of shame, and he suddenly looked

  a great deal older than his seventeen years. “I never realized

  how bad it was. How bad he was. Or, at least, it took me a

  while to clue in. I never wanted you to get hurt.” “But it was okay for Rogan to get hurt?”

  His expression went hard. “My sister was one of the murder victims at that university. She was the only family I had

  in the world. I wanted Rogan to suffer for that.”

  My heart twisted. “But he’s innocent. His father even admitted it in there.”

  His eyes filled with tears. “I was wrong. I’m sorry.” “And I’m sorry about your sister.” I’d never known he had

  a sister. He’d never mentioned her. Then again, I’d never told

  him about what had happened to my family and to my sister. I’d never told anyone I’d met on the streets, holding my

  secrets close as if they might keep me warm on cold nights. I guess we had way more in common than I’d thought

  we did.

  I looked at his name tag, which read Oliver Palmer—

  Programmer.

  Funny. I’d never known his last name before, either. Never

  realized that until right now. I’d been too wrapped up in my

  own problems to allow myself the chance to really get to know

  somebody else. At least, until Rogan.

  My eyes widened as I studied Oliver’s name tag a moment

  longer.

  It was red.

  Joe had said we’d need somebody with a red name tag to

  get into the room with the server.

  “How long until somebody finds out I escaped?” I asked,

  scanning the eerily empty hallway.

  “Not long.” He looked worried. “The Subscribers will start

  complaining that the feed cut out—or they’ll start changing

  to another show. Mr. Ellis will be notified, and he’ll know

  what I did. We’d better get out of here now.”

  Oliver had had a lousy life—no question. And I didn’t even

  know his whole story. I guess I couldn’t completely blame

  him for latching on to something that seemed like an incredible opportunity, especially working with computers, the one

  thing he seemed to love most in life.

  Lucky for me—and just in time—he’d realized that he

  wasn’t a monster like Gareth Ellis.

  “We need to get Rogan,” I said firmly.

  Oliver hesitated, but then nodded. He removed the red card

  from his name tag holder and swiped it in the computerized

  lock on the right side of the white door leading to the other

  side of the room.

  The door swung open. Rogan turned to look at us, and

  his eyes widened.

  “Kira!” he exclaimed. “You’re alive!”

  I grinned. “Yeah. For now.”

  I felt a happy lurch in my chest as I went directly to him. His

  gaze ref lected what I’d been thinking. That that had been it.

  He’d thought he’d witnessed my death. But here I was, battle

  weary but ready to go another round.

  But any celebrations would have to wait until we knew if

  we were going to live more than five more minutes. All Oliver had done was buy us a little more time.

  Oliver pressed a hidden panel on the wall, and a keyboard

  was exposed. After he touched a few numbers, Rogan’s metal

  cuffs snapped open and fell to the f loor as mine had earlier. Rogan stood up and pulled me to him, crushing me against

  his chest for a moment before capturing my face between his

  hands. “I thought I’d lost you.”

  My breath caught. “I’m still here.”

  “I’m glad.”

  I let out a very mild laugh. “Yeah, me, too.”

  “We need to go,” Oliver urged.

  He was right. Breathlessly, I grabbed Rogan’s hand. “Let’s

  get out of here.”

  The three of us left the room without another word. “Are you okay?” Rogan asked, squeezing my hand. “I’m recovering.” I hobbled along quickly on my injured

  ankle. “Call me crazy, but I don’t think sucking in poisonous gas until you’re almost dead is something you can just

  shake off.”

  Oliver didn’t say anything. Now that Rogan had joined

  us, he seemed to be afraid again. Whether it was because of

  Rogan’s reputation or the fact that he’d almost killed me and

  was scared what Rogan might do in return, I didn’t know. Rogan turned his gaze to Oliver. “We need to find my father’s private sub-basement office. Do you know where that

  is?”

  “I haven’t been here long enough to completely know my

  way around.”

  “We already took the elevator down past ground level. Is

  this the sub-basement?” I asked. “Or is there more?” “There’s one more level beneath this one,” Oliver said. “I

  was supposed to start working down there soon.” He sighed.

  “I guess that’s not going to happen anymore.”

  “Can we get to it through the regular elevators?” Rogan

  asked.

  He shook his head. “There’s a f light of stairs. Yeah, right

  there.” He pointed at a white door in front of us that wasn’t

  marked.

  Scurrying down the hallway toward the door, I got the oddest sense of déjà vu. Then I realized why. It was from watching Oliver play his networked game. It felt as if we were in

  the game right now, trying to find our way through, trying

  to save the day from the bad guys without getting ourselves

  killed in the process.

  Then I remembered how the game had ended for Oliver. Oliver reached for the unmarked door.

  “Wait!” I began, but he’d already turned the handle. There was a man on the other side. I recognized him as

  one of the White Coat thugs who’d brought us from the car

  to the white room. He was the one who’d hit Rogan in the

  back of the head with the butt of his gun.

  The gun he still held.

  His eyes widened with surprise when he saw us standing

  there.

  Oliver held up his hands. “Uh…hi there. Um…Mr. Ellis

  asked me to take these two downstairs for the next level of

  Countdown.”

  “Nice try,” the man said.

  He raised his gun and shot Oliver in the chest. As he twisted to aim at me, Rogan sprang at him, grabbing his arms. There was a blur of fists and legs. Rogan hit
>
  him across the jaw, and spun around and kicked him in the

  stomach. They both fell to the f loor. He grabbed the man’s

  arm and pressed his knee down on his forearm until I heard

  a sickly snap of a bone breaking. The man screamed in pain,

  but Rogan had the gun in his hand now and he pointed it at

  the man’s head.

  Rogan, breathing hard, turned to look at me, his expression tense.

  I’d caught Oliver as he began to fall, and helped him down

  to the ground. His breath came in short, shaky gasps, and he

  held a hand to his chest that oozed bright red blood. “I guess I didn’t pass the final job interview,” he managed. “Oliver—” I could barely find the breath to form words.

  “Oh, Oliver! I’m so sorry.”

  He shook his head. “No…no, I’m sorry. Don’t…don’t hate

  me.”

  “How could I hate you? You rescued me. Thank you.” I

  kissed his forehead.

  His lips curled into a small smile, and then his eyes glazed

  over.

  I let out a shuddery moan. He was dead. He’d died in my

  arms, trying to help us.

  I looked at Rogan, whose attention was now on me. “Rogan!” I yelled. “Behind you!”

  The man now had a knife, and he lunged at Rogan. Rogan

  turned, aimed and pulled the trigger. He didn’t miss. The man slumped back to the f loor. This time he wasn’t

  getting up.

  Rogan gave me a pained look. “That’s two people I’ve

  killed now.”

  I found my voice quickly. “You didn’t have any choice.” “You’re right, I didn’t.” His chest heaved from the exertion. “I’m very sorry about your friend.”

  “So am I.” I nodded, blinking back tears, and moved Oliver’s still body to the side of the hallway. I took a moment to

  close his eyes.

  Then I grabbed Oliver’s red access card.

  Rogan had a gun and I had an access card. I touched the

  front of my shirt to make sure I could still feel the outline of

  the disc in my bra.

  Maybe—just maybe we could really do this.

  Together we thundered down the stairs to the sub-basement.

  THE SUB-BASEMENT LOOKED A GREAT DEAL LIKE the other levels of this building. All white. All bland and clinical with that antiseptic smell permeating the air like a super

  clean perfume.

  Only down here, every other ceiling light was out or f lickering, casting spooky shadows on the hallway. It felt like a horror movie, as if somebody might reach out at any moment and