Maybe he should have taken Ludwig up on that offer. Maybe he should have taken that measly grand and gotten the hell out of town. That’s all he’d wanted at one point, he tried to remind himself. It wasn’t too late to just walk out now, even without Ludwig’s money. He could put a brick through that thing’s stupid screen and hitchhike back to Vermont if he had to.
He could deal with the shamefully supportive I told you so glare of his parents. So what if he’d always stand in Simon’s shadow? So what if he’d died a million little deaths instead of one big grandiose one? He could handle the friends who’d stayed behind, who’d said that trying to make it in New York was “tough.” All of them would be more than ready to clap him sympathetically on the back, shove a Miller Draft into his hand. Jarrod’s failure would be proof positive that they’d been right all along to be cowards.
No! He didn’t have to run. If he could stop smoking, he could stop this, too. All he needed to do was find a way to end it. End it on his own terms.
Jarrod took a sharp left, toward the twenty-four-hour bodega. As he crossed the street, he thought he caught another glimpse of Ludwig’s truck behind him, but when he turned, whatever it was, it was already scooting down a side street.
The bodega’s brightly lit windows loomed into view. They’d let him use their phone; he knew that. Despite their reputation, Jarrod had found New Yorkers to be as friendly to neighborhood folks as those in any small town, maybe more so. He’d call Geoff and see if he could crash at his place, give himself some time to think. If that didn’t work, he’d sleep in the subway station.
He hit the curb and felt his steps begin to slow. Nausea gripped him. His dopamine receptors howled that he’d better just go back to the apartment, back to the Polybius, and play, already, if he knew what was good for him.
Jarrod knew what was good for him, and with every nerve ending screaming at him, he commanded his legs to carry him to the bodega. He had to get away, and he knew it. He had to get away, or it would be over. Game over.
As predicted, the woman working the early shift let him use the counter phone, but only after a moment’s reluctance. He gripped the receiver, fumbling with the buttons and praying he remembered Geoff’s number correctly.
“Dude, you’re like totally all over the news,” his friend said. “I think you can get a book deal out of this. Brilliant! Effin’ brilliant! What made you—”
“Look, Geoff, can I crash at your place tonight?” He craned his neck toward the bodega’s front window, swearing that he again spotted Ludwig’s truck circling the block. “Don’t really feel safe here.”
“What, like, TV crews buggin’ you and whatnot?”
“Something like that. So what do you say?”
“Sure deal, bro. But next time you go all Evel Knievel, you better let me in on it.”
“You got it.” Jarrod hung up.
He thanked the woman, who took the phone from him and backed up as far as she could in the small space behind the counter. He left, rubbing the back of his neck as he headed west toward Geoff’s apartment, unable to shake the sense that someone, or something, was watching him.
Conspiracy International Forum >> Topics >> Ghosts >> Video Games
Polybius and Times Square Event?
GrassyNolan posted on Nov 28 @ 8:08 PM EST
I have started this thread in hopes of providing a space to discuss all relevant info regarding this subject, namely any (alleged) links between the 1981 “arcade shooting,” the recent event in Times Square, and the game Polybius.
ElHotTubDinero posted on Nov 28 @ 8:24 PM EST
Polybius is an urban legend. It’s a variation on the standard “haunted video game” trope (with regional variation) . . . do your research before posting here.
GrassyNolan posted on Nov 28 @ 8:31 PM EST
“Thanks,” HotTub . . . the view must be great from your high horse. Any intelligent commentators out there care to weigh in.
ElHotTubDinero posted on Nov 28 @ 8:33 PM EST
View’s FANTASTIC, A**hole! You want to really know what’s REALLY going on in the world, stop blaming it on ghosts and look around you! The “arcade shooting” was some MKUltra bullshit if I ever smelled it . . . and I wouldn’t be surprised if what happened in Times Square was more of the same.
BigPosseComitatus posted on Nov 28 @ 8:44 PM EST
I’ma eat all y’alls luggages!
SormenDestroyer posted on Nov 28 @ 8:50 PM EST
What’s REALLY going on in the world is that there’s a war coming. A war between free-living humans and those who seek to enslave us once more. You can either fight or submit & pray for scraps . . . what you CAN’T do is try to hide.
SEVEN
Dusk settled over the city as Jarrod walked the six blocks from Geoff’s apartment to the library. He no longer felt the game’s pull—time and distance had granted him some immunity to that, at least—but he still didn’t trust himself with it. He promised himself he’d stay safely settled on Geoff’s couch until he got some answers.
The library was as good a place as any to start. He managed to find a free computer terminal, sandwiched between an aging baby boomer working on her résumé and a tween plugging away at Minecraft.
The screen was bigger than his phone’s. The connection was more stable. But the answers were as skint. He typed in everything he knew: Polybius, Polybius video game, Polybius arcade game, and so on. He scrolled through page after page and found absolutely zilch. As far as the Internet was concerned, the game had never existed.
There had to be something he was forgetting. Something about the game that only someone who’d played it would have known. He typed in Polybius dreams and Polybius nightmares, and still nothing. On a whim, he tried Polybius track wheel, and the results were, predictably, the same.
He gripped the edge of the desk tightly, wanting to heave it over. Come on! I can’t be the only person on earth who’s seen this thing besides Ludwig and a dead spree killer! Someone must have made the damn thing! And then it hit him. Someone had made the damn thing.
Jarrod hit the keys with a vengeance, typing Polybius Sinneschlöshen 1981.
The screen went blank, then started to scroll through bank after bank of code. Numbers and symbols spilled down the frame, too fast to comprehend, even to read.
Jarrod shot up. He scanned the room for help. “Um, excuse me? I—”
Something else popped up on Jarrod’s terminal, just a simple line of text: Are you prepared?
Almost without realizing it, his fingers found the keyboard and typed in a response: Prepared for what?
A moment later, more words scrolled across the screen: Prepared to take aim.
Jarrod pushed back from the desk as if it had just caught on fire. He wanted to get up, to run, but he was cemented to the chair, staring helplessly at the screen, Another line of text appeared: Remain where you are. You have been identified and will be collected.
He flicked a couple of glances to the terminals on either side of him. Both seemed normal. And when he looked back to his own screen, it had changed back. It showed only the New York Public Library logo and asked for a login. No spiraling code and no You will be collected.
Is this what had happened to Brian Shaw? Had the politicians been right? Could it be true that the long-ago arcade massacre was the fault of video games? One video game in particular? Jarrod did the math. The credit screen had said 1981. According to the article he’d read, Shaw had been an employee at the rink around then. He’d have had more than enough spare time to play games after hours while he painted the mural.
What if the game had put those images in his mind? What if it had done the same thing to Shaw? Shaw had complained of nightmares of sleepwalking. What if the mural and the poetry were just the beginning for that thing, the first physical manifestations of what the game wanted? The final thing being—
/> The shooting.
It needed to be destroyed. It had to go. It had to die. A cold determination came over Jarrod. He shut his eyes, slowed his breathing, and rose from his chair. Then he found his way to the library’s exit, not daring to take a single breath until he reached the open air.
He took his time on the way back to his apartment, letting his rage cool and his resolve calcify. He desperately wanted a shower, but not before he put an end to the game once and for all. After it was over, he’d take a shower. And after that, he’d stuff a change of clothes and some clean skivvies into his worn knapsack and skip town.
As his stoop finally came within view, Jarrod scanned the pavement in front of his building for a brick, a broken chunk of pavement, anything. Butted up against the high granite curb, he found a bent piece of rebar. The weight felt good in his hand.
He crept down his building’s concrete steps, past the fetid odor of trash bins well overdue for pickup. He could feel the Polybius’s slick pull. He gripped the doorknob and lifted his key, about to unbolt the door, but the knob twisted easily and opened without even the whisper of a click. He took a deep breath and pushed through.
Into an empty apartment. And he saw it at once.
The machine was gone.
For one frantic moment, he thought maybe he was in the wrong apartment. But no, it was his, all right. Shitty twin bed, half-eaten bowl of ramen, worn-out socks on top of an overflowing laundry bag—it was all there, everything he owned.
Everything except the Polybius.
And in the spot where it should have been, he saw something else: the crushed butt of a Newport Light.
JARROD POUNDED ON Ludwig’s door. “Ludwig, you better answer this door! You can’t just steal stuff from people.” He had to be home. His truck was still outside. “Ludwig! Ludwig! You better—”
Fuck it! Jarrod thought. He wasn’t here to play nice. He was there to put an end to that thing. If Ludwig didn’t like it, he could take it up with the police. He turned around and was about to give the door a solid mule kick when he noticed a small terra-cotta pot off to the side of Ludwig’s door. Inside was a plastic plant jammed into some green foam. Not exactly the kind of thing that needs fresh air and sunshine. Jarrod yanked out the plant, and at the bottom of the pot was the key to Ludwig’s door.
He pushed in and was immediately hit with the stench of ozone. “Ludwig,” he called out. “Ludwig!” He crossed the threshold, smacking his palm with the rebar.
He spotted the Polybius. It had been set up in the middle of Ludwig’s living room. Next to it, sprawled out on the dingy carpet, was Ludwig, his hand still gripping the game’s mangled power cord.
“Ludwig?”
He didn’t answer. Didn’t move.
Jarrod crept closer. “Ludwig?”
Still no answer. Jarrod poked him with the end of the rebar. Nothing. He poked harder. Still nothing. No . . . no . . . no . . . this isn’t happening.
But it was. The rebar slipped from his grasp, landing on the hardwood with a dull thud.
Jarrod bent down, wrapped his jacket around Ludwig’s arm, and pulled the plug from the wall, letting it dangle there in Ludwig’s lifeless hand. He felt for a pulse, just to be sure.
Dead as dirt. Deader.
He’d spent enough time around loose wiring to know that 120 volts wasn’t usually enough to kill. But Ludwig’s two-pack-a-day habit would have contributed. Jarrod shook his head. Ludwig might have been a schemer and a lowlife, he might have been a thief and a bastard, but he didn’t deserve this. Looking at the hunk of meat that had been his boss, his normally decent boss, Jarrod could only think what a waste it was.
The room was rimmed with shelf after shelf full of toys and other mementos of Ludwig’s childhood. Footballs, basketballs, a worn hockey stick, Matchbox cars, Star Wars action figures, a couple of water pistols that had been painted black as if for a Halloween costume, an eight-track tape player, some kind of Erector set, and more—including a half-smoked pack of Newports on the table next to a brown corduroy recliner.
The lighter sat right on top of the pack. It would be so easy. He could feel himself drifting toward them. He saw his hand reaching for them. He could almost taste that first sweet hit of nicotine.
No. This is where champions are made, he told himself. No cigarettes, and no . . .
And no . . .
And no Polybius, either.
Jarrod tensed every muscle and locked them in place. He pulled his cell from his pocket and dialed 911. “Operator, I’d like to report a dead body. I’m pretty sure he’s dead.”
“Your location?”
“Location? I’m at—”
The line went dead.
And the Polybius clicked on. Plug still in Ludwig’s lifeless hand and three feet from the wall, the Polybius clicked on.
EIGHT
Jarrod was back in the rink, back in the dream. Where else would he be? The mural was there. The flames were there. But the boy was not. In his place stood a tall man. He was lanky, with jug ears and a crew cut. “You’re Shaw.”
“Am I?”
“Where’s my brother?”
“You need to look closer,” the man said, turning to face the mural.
Jarrod felt his head turning reflexively, drawn to the images by a pull that was gravitational. “You did this?”
“Did I?”
“That’s your name, Shaw, down at the bottom.” Jarrod pointed to the spot where he’d remembered pulling away the signature. But it was gone. “It’s . . . it’s changed.”
“It’s always changing.”
And it was true. The mural had changed again. The woman now fed on the satyr. Her teeth were clamped on his neck, sending freshets of blood spraying into the air. The nymphs and mermaids had been replaced with sharks and lampreys. And the children . . . the children had torn the juggler to ribbons of flesh and entrails. One child, eyes nothing but black hollows, stood guard by the juggler’s split-open rib cage, while another smiling tot kicked his severed head like a soccer ball.
“Why?”
“Because we never see the monsters until it’s too late. We never see the demons till they come for us. The man at the pool, all he saw was his desire reflected. The satyr thought only of lust and never imagined himself as prey.”
“And the children?” Jarrod asked, eyes still glued to the mural.
“Children do as children will.”
Jarrod wrenched himself from the image and faced the man square. “You’re a monster.”
“I killed monsters.”
“You’re the monster!” Jarrod hissed. “You killed children.”
“I killed demons. The children stood in the way. This is war. In every war, innocent blood is shed. Sometimes by the gallon.” The man’s eyes began to recede, fading into black pits of nothingness. “Your brother knew that.”
A stone dropped in Jarrod’s gut. A voice wailed inside his head, a voice that faded to little more than a whisper. I made a promise.
“Your brother knew what it was like to have the blood of the innocent on his hands. He knew what it meant to spill the blood of children.”
The memory rolled over Jarrod like a locomotive. The things Simon had confessed about the raid that night in Kabul during his second tour. The way Simon’s eyes had gone hollow and black as he recounted what he’d seen, what he’d done.
“Your brother was too weak to understand. Not you, Jarrod. You are special.”
This couldn’t be happening. Shaw had been dead in his grave for twenty years when Simon was in Afghanistan. Shaw had been a murderer. Simon was . . . Simon was . . .
“Where is my brother? Why isn’t he here?”
“He was never here, Jarrod. You know that.”
“You know nothing about my brother!” Jarrod spat. “You’re nothing but a psycho, Shaw.”
/>
“Shaw? You still think I’m Brian Shaw?”
“Who else?”
“Isn’t it clear? Don’t you see?”
“See what?”
“Amazing Grace, Jarrod.” And the man who had been Brian Shaw melted into Jarrod’s own reflection. His twin reached out, clapping his hands to the sides of Jarrod’s face. And Jarrod was tumbling, falling into an abyss of twisting lines.
IT WAS CLEAR now. The world existed on many levels. Most could only experience the surface, but not Jarrod, not anymore. To him, it was laid bare. He could shift from one layer of reality to the next as simply as flipping the pages of a book. An apocalypse book painted on plates of isinglass, each one revealing some new horror, and he was the one chosen to break the final seal. He knew where the demons were. Knew from Ludwig, from old photos, and from his own memory of the countless times he’d walked past them and never known.
Times Square was once ground zero for video arcades. Thirty years ago, amid neon-clad sin palaces promising carnal decadence 24/7, stood row after row of darkened alcoves, arcades lit only by the glowing screens within. What better place for the demons to stalk?
The peep shows and jack shacks had all moved west since then. And the arcades were mostly a dusky memory, but one remained. One last multilevel temple to the almighty quarter stood proud in Times Square. One last place for the demons to plot their dominion.
Jarrod emerged from the subway in a daze, following the path as if it was lit up for him alone. He entered the building. He stepped onto the escalator that would take him to the heart of the arcade. Among the faces around him, every third one flickered. Scales rippled beneath their illusion of human flesh, their mammo-reptilian gazes boring through his defenses. Demons, and he knew it. A single word flashed across his vision, almost as if he were reading it on the Polybius screen: Sormen.
As the Worm Turns Page 32
