by James Frey
“He told me not to kill you,” Renzo repeats, not saying more.
He ushers Sarah off the bed and arranges the pillows and the covers to make it look like she’s still sleeping in it. He gives her the pistol and takes her by the wrist. He looks at his watch. “We have ninety seconds to get out of this house. Are you coming?”
Her gaze hardens. She squeezes the grip of the gun. Earth Key gets warmer and warmer. She smells the fresh air from the garden, from the world, still alive, still strong.
She is these things too.
Alive.
Strong.
“Yes, Renzo. Lead the way.”
BAITSAKHAN, MACCABEE ADLAI
Peru-Bolivia Border, Carretera Puno Desaguardero, Desaguardero, Peru
“That better be them,” Baitsakhan says. He’s in the driver’s seat, which is pulled all the way forward so that Baitsakhan, all five feet two inches of him, can reach the pedals. He’s been driving since the village of Acora, south of Juliaca, so that Maccabee could navigate with the orb as they followed the Olmec’s car at a safe distance. Baitsakhan has stuck with his plan not to tell the Nabataean that his new hand can hold the ancient transmitter.
He has to pick the right time to reveal his secret.
The right and deadly time.
They sit on a side street staring at the bustling but modest border crossing. It is 7:17 a.m. It took just over two hours to get there, including the brief stop they made to dump the body that Maccabee had thrown in the bed of the truck. They’d passed through the barren but striking landscape almost without speaking a single word, which suited both of them.
They were tired of Playing like this.
Of not fighting.
Of not killing.
That was one reason Maccabee had helped that woman the night before. Not merely to get the uniforms off Tlaloc’s men, but to stay sharp, to keep the taste of blood on his tongue.
Baitsakhan isn’t the only one who loves murder.
But for now they’re forced to wait. And watch. And wait.
It doesn’t suit them. Hence the bickering.
“‘Better be’? Are you threatening me?”
“I just mean I don’t want to lose them.” Baitsakhan lowers a pair of binoculars from his face. He sees the taillights of the Olmec’s car, a nondescript Mazda, as the driver talks with the Bolivian border guards.
“Baitsakhan, we’ve tracked people across the globe with this thing. We’re not losing anybody.”
“We should be crossing now, with the Olmec—if that is the Olmec. He looks different. Why did he do that to his hair?”
“He was tired of it being black? Who knows. Just calm down. You sound like a woman.”
“I’m no woman!”
“You’re not even a man, Baitsakhan.”
“You’re barely a man yourself! What are you—eighteen? Nineteen?”
Another person guessing wrong about Maccabee, who is 16. How he enjoys it. But he doesn’t answer. He won’t spur the Donghu any more.
“It was only a joke, Baitsakhan.”
“I don’t like jokes.”
“No kidding.”
“I mean it.”
“All right. Just shut up, okay?”
“Fine. But you too.”
“My pleasure.”
And they both shut up.
Baitsakhan digs a smartphone out of his pocket and swipes it on. Puts in a pair of earbuds, messes around on the internet.
Maccabee watches the border crossing. Men and women stream into Peru from Bolivia for work. The tourist trade here seems intact, even thriving. Maccabee thinks the people coming here must be rich wanderlusters embarking on their last grand tours, crossing special places like Lake Titicaca off an end-of-days bucket list. In a sense, they’re like the tourist equivalents of Baitsakhan or himself. Players playing a different, and far less lethal, game.
Life goes on.
“Look at this!” Baitsakhan interrupts Maccabee’s thoughts, thrusts the smartphone across the cab of the truck. Maccabee is wary that Baitsakhan is trying to show him snuff pictures of blown-up people or decapitated animals. Baitsakhan shakes it, yanks out the headphone jack. “Take it.”
Maccabee does. There, on the little screen, staring back at him with dark eyes, is An Liu.
Maccabee hits play. Baitsakhan leans across the middle of the cab, practically putting his head on Maccabee’s shoulder so they can watch together.
And they both watch.
Only once.
“That son of a whore,” Maccabee says.
Baitsakhan pulls back to the driver’s seat. “That was a real nice picture he found of you in your underwear.”
“It was a bathing suit.”
“Not like any bathing suit I’ve ever seen.”
“All Europeans wear them. But Baitsakhan—”
“It’s not good. Not good at all.”
“And it has almost two hundred million views!”
A destitute-looking man crosses the street in front of them, wearing a sandwich board and ringing a bell. The sign reads, DIOS Y LA MUERTE ESTÁN CERCA. ESTOY A LA ESPERA DE HEREDAR LA TIERRA.
One of the meek ones.
One of the faithful ones.
One of the stupid ones.
He disappears around a corner, his bell tinkling away.
“You think Liu’s right?” Baitsakhan asks.
“That killing us will stop Abaddon?”
“Yeah.”
“Of course not. He just wants help doing his dirty work. He wants to win, like you or me,” Maccabee says, not fully comprehending what the Shang wants.
“Then it’s a pretty smart move.”
“It sure is.”
As they talk, Maccabee scrolls through the comments. Most brim with fear or righteousness or stupidity or cynicism or zealotry or doubt. Many look to be written by people with the mental capacity of a sheep. A full battalion of trolls mocks every kind of post.
But one that nobody has seemed to notice catches Maccabee’s eye.
The username is a dead giveaway.
He takes a screen shot.
“The Mazda’s moving, Maccabee.”
The Nabataean looks up from the encoded message. He’ll have to crack it later, when they’re not hunting. “Let’s go. And let’s hope the border guards in this backwater don’t have you and me on their stop list.”
Baitsakhan puts the truck in gear and drives toward Bolivia. “Now we know why he dyed his hair, I guess.”
“Yes. Now we know.”
They move to the crossing and get lucky. None of the guards give them a second look. If anything, because of the eagle-claw uniforms, they get the kid-glove treatment.
The two Players pass into Bolivia.
Life goes on.
What will be will be.
HILAL IBN ISA AL-SALT
Los Angeles International Airport, Tom Bradley International Terminal, Star Alliance Lounge, Los Angeles, California, United States
Hilal left Stella’s, stole a car, and drove to California. Now he sits in a private cubicle, his regular smartphone pressed to his ear. His predawn flight for Bangkok—the closest he could get to India, given the state of the world—leaves in an hour. He wishes he were in Asia already, but flights have been canceled and moved and shuffled, and there doesn’t seem to be a private plane left in Southern California—everyone with the means has left and is holed up somewhere remote and private. Having defeated Ea is a real consolation, but he would rather be closer to the Harappan, closer to the girl, closer to her death.
May the Makers allow it.
A dead little girl.
He prays that one of the Players can find the strength to do it.
He is not sure, in his heart of hearts, that he would have this strength.
So to Bangkok. Barring any unforeseen circumstances he will be there in 19 hours and 34 minutes. He will make his way farther west from there. But before he boards the plane, he must speak with Eben ibn Mohammed al-
Julan. It is overdue. He must tell him of Ea. Of Stella. Of everything.
The phone rings. Eben picks up almost immediately.
“Hilal? Is that you?”
“It is, Master.”
“By the fathers, where are you? Are you all right?”
“I am in Los Angeles. I am fine.”
“Have you crossed paths with any of the others?”
“No. They Play on.”
“And what . . . what of the Corrupter?”
Hilal lowers his voice to a whisper. “I found him, Master. I had help, but I found him. . . .”
“And . . . Can it be?”
“Yes. I confronted Ea. I spoke with it.”
“You met with him?”
“Yes. It was the only way I could get close enough to do it.”
“And wha—”
Hilal cuts him off. In a stream of words he tells Eben of Stella and her relationship with Ea and her hatred for him and her help in defeating him. He tells him everything. He finishes with “Humanity will be free of his evil for all the days to come.”
“I have a hundred questions, Hilal. A thousand, especially about this Stella and her army.”
“As do I. She will contact me when she can.”
“What do you think she is doing?”
“I have thought about this constantly, Master. My guess is that she and her army are behind the destruction of Stonehenge. She has no love for the Makers, and less still for Endgame. I think, in her way, she too is trying to stop it. All of it.”
“I want to meet her,” Eben says a little shakily.
“And you shall.”
“Hilal—come home. Endgame is so different from what we expected. Come home so we can regroup, and especially so that we can secure the ouroboros that holds Ea’s essence in the ark. I beg you.”
“No, I will keep it. It is safe with me.”
“Only so long as you live, Hilal! I am sorry, but you should come here and return the serpents to the ark so we can guard it. Or, if Endgame wipes out our line, so that Ea can be forever buried in our kingdom and forgotten!”
Hilal looks over his shoulder. A man in a business suit stands behind him, four meters away, staring shamelessly. Hilal has decided to forgo the bandages from now on, to present his disfigurement to the world. One look from Hilal and he scuttles off. Just a curiosity seeker. Hilal has learned by now that having the face of a monster attracts a lot of attention—but also that when he uses his face, it scares off most anybody.
“I agree, Master, and I will return.”
“Good.”
“In time.”
“What do you mean?”
“I must carry on. I must Play. Either to stop the Event, hopefully with the aid of my fellow Players or Stella or both, or to win. Until then, I will carry Ea. This is how it needs to be for now, Master. Please understand.”
Hilal’s voice is confident, convincing.
“I understand that time will not wait, but I still implore you to think it over, and to return to Aksum as soon as you can. The snakes must be returned to the ark, Hilal. They must.”
“Yes, Master. But in the meantime, I need to find Sky Key.” He pauses. “And somehow I need to find the depraved and irrational strength to kill a little girl.”
Dark young pine, at the center of the earth originating,
I have made your sacrifice.
Whiteshell, turquoise, abalone beautiful,
Jet beautiful, fool’s gold beautiful, blue pollen beautiful,
Reed pollen, pollen beautiful, your sacrifice I have made.
This day your child I have become, I say.
Watch over me.xv
Hold your hand before me in protection
Stand guard for me, speak in defense of me.
As I speak for you, speak for me.
As you speak for me, so will I speak for you.
AISLING KOPP, POP KOPP, GREG JORDAN, BRIDGET MCCLOSKEY, GRIFFIN MARRS
Approaching Harappan Checkpoint One, near the Valley of Eternal Life, Sikkim, India
They made it to the Himalayas, and Marrs was right: There is a path. A path recently traveled by many pairs of feet.
And now their feet travel it too.
They have not spoken since they left Sakkyong Hill Station and the river Teesta. Not a single word. But there have been sounds. Their staccato footsteps, the rattle of gear, the measure of their labored breath, the pittering of drizzle on their helmets and the leaves and rocks and trees. Aisling can safely say that she has never been anywhere like the Himalayas. The Alps were like foothills in comparison. Everything about their surroundings—the expanse of the mountains, the steepness of their slopes, the scale of their summits and their valleys—is grand.
She could stay.
She could lose herself.
She could be happy.
If it weren’t for Endgame.
She could stay.
But for the little girl.
The little girl she has to kill.
She’s suddenly nervous. Will she do it with the rifle? The pistol? The sword? Her bare hands? She knows what she said to McCloskey—that she would be willing to sacrifice anyone, herself included, if she thought it would spare Earth the Event—but Aisling is beginning to have doubts.
Killing myself would be much easier. But a small girl . . . Will I be able to do it?
She knows that doubt is the seed from which failure grows, so she forces these thoughts from her mind and focuses. Pop is several paces behind her, effortlessly keeping up, even at his age. Jordan and McCloskey keep pace too, but with much greater effort. Marrs, Aisling can see on her HUD, appears to be having an easier time.
For her part, Aisling is holding back. Neither the elevation nor the weight of her equipment bothers her. She could go on like this for hours without stopping.
A warning beep sounds over the comm link. Two red dots that Marrs marked as potential booby traps glow brightly on her HUD. She stops. Holds up a fist. The others stop too.
“Marrs, hold,” she says.
“Roger that,” he responds, several hundred feet behind them.
Aisling takes a knee. “How’s the drone?”
“Droney, man. Ready for anything. It’d be nice if it could get a visual so we can see what kind of hardware we’re up against, but this cloud cover isn’t helping. Over.”
“It’ll be fine. Just keep it airborne. Over.”
Jordan takes a step forward. “I’ll check the trip wires.”
Aisling holds out her hand, palm down. “No. I will. This is my mission, Jordan. Besides, when was the last time you disarmed an IED?”
Jordan smirks sheepishly. “2010. Fallujah.”
“Exactly. I’ll take this. If there’s two, I’ll disarm one and detonate the other. Stick to the plan and don’t engage until detonation.”
They’re professionals, so she doesn’t have to remind them what the plan is: Jordan and McCloskey on the right, Aisling and Pop on the left, Marrs hanging back on sniper and drone support. The forward teams are each responsible for anyone on their side. Only once the flanks are clear will they take the center position, which is likely an RPG, sniper, or machine gun—or one of each.
“Ready?”
They’re ready.
“Go.”
Jordan and McCloskey move off the path to the northwest, disappearing into the cover of the woods.
Aisling and Pop move to the opposite side.
After 50 paces Aisling says, “Marrs, when we engage, come up fast and take the first clear line up the trail you can find, but stay low and hidden.”
“Roger that.”
Another 20 paces. Aisling mutes her comm. Pop, who is on her left, does too. “How’s that for taking charge?” she asks.
Pop doesn’t look at her, just keeps his eyes keen on what’s around them. “I’ll let you know if we survive the next ten minutes.”
“Ha. Fair enough.” She unmutes her comm.
The green dots on the HUD that
mark the Harappan—purple dots mark Aisling’s team—float in front of her right eye. Aisling wonders who they are—trainers, ex-Players, soldiers, young, old? Are they also nervous, as they sit and wait for whatever it is that’s coming to find them? They must be. They are human. No amount of training can take away fear completely.
She swipes her hand through the air, indicating to Pop that she’s breaking off to deal with the traps. The drizzle has changed to light rain. Water droplets form on the muzzle of her rifle. Her gloved hands catch a sudden but brief chill. She finds the path again. It continues west before bending left and disappearing over a rise. The green dots are on the other side of that, less than 150 feet away. She slings her rifle over her shoulder and inches forward, scanning the ground for anything unusual. Her heart is like a drum. She sees nothing. No depressions, no fishlines, no wires, no pile of leaves, no scattered mounds of dirt.
Where is it?
She inches closer.
Nothing. Water drips from the edge of her helmet.
Stupid goddamn rain. Everything is muck and mist.
Wait.
There.
A foot away.
So close.
Droplets, now big enough to see, are getting cut in half by an invisible thread.
Aisling kneels. Sees it. Runs her eyes to the right, then to the left. Yes.
Thank God for the rain, she revises. She wouldn’t have seen it if it were dry.
She traces the line to the left, where it’s tied to a tree, and runs back to the right and sees it. A simple lever trigger attached to a bundle of C4 that’s covered in leaves.
She searches the ground for a twig, and without taking the time to think too much about it, she pinches the line with one hand and inserts the twig into the lever, jamming it in place.
She cuts the line. It doesn’t blow.
She moves forward 12 feet, keeping low. She can see by the purple dots that the rest of her team has stopped moving and taken position, waiting for the signal.
Aisling moves forward cautiously, searching for the next rain-splitting wire. She finds this one easily now that she knows what she’s looking for. She steps over it, kneels, removes a spool of her own thread from a cargo pocket. She takes the free end and makes a big loop around the trip wire, ties a nonslip bowline knot. She runs a zip tie through the spool’s eye and closes it and loops the tie over her pinkie. She lets out two feet of this line—a snagless Teflon-coated monofilament—and lays it on the ground. She sets a fist-sized rock on the thread and tests it gently. It will hold until it’s given a good hard tug, slipping free of the rock and yanking the trip wire and setting off the bomb. She walks 10 paces forward to the edge of the forest, where a large boulder overgrown with moss and lichens abuts the path. She moves around the rock and puts her back to it and hunkers down. She checks her HUD. Pop is in the woods, 126 feet in front of her. Jordan and McCloskey are 230 feet behind her.
