“Yo, Mike, sorry I’m late,” shouted Preston. He was a teenager who’d started working at the arena on a Government-sponsored work experience programme but had stayed on as a full-time employee, more because he loved the sport than because of the money. Preston had once spent four weeks travelling across America in Greyhound buses and during the trip he’d acquired a collection of sweatshirts and an accent which he kept in shape by watching American movies. As he closed the door behind him, Cramer could see that he was wearing his Washington Redskins shirt and knee length Miami Dolphins shorts and had on a blue New York Yankees baseball cap. Cramer smiled. It was barely above freezing outside. The boy had style, all right. “No sweat, Charlie,” he answered. “You see anyone out there?”
“Couple of BMWs just drove up. I guess that’s them.”
Cramer hit the light switches and the fluorescent lights above the practice area flickered into life. “Okay, can you check the arena lights program? We’re going to use number six, we were having trouble with the searchlight on number five yesterday so I want to see if it’s the programming or the light that’s not right.”
“Cool,” said Preston. As he walked over to the computerised console which controlled the lighting system, two men arrived carrying nylon holdalls. They were both in their late twenties, well groomed and tanned as if just back from a Mediterranean holiday. One of them dropped his holdall on the floor.
“You in charge?” he called over to Cramer.
“Sure am,” answered Cramer. “Which team are you?”
“We’re the Bayswater Blasters. Is the other side here yet?”
“You’re the first,” said Cramer. “You’re due to start at nine-thirty, right?”
Five more young men arrived, all dressed casually in jeans and sweatshirts. “They here, Simon?” one of them shouted.
“No, you sure they said they’re still on?” the man in glasses replied.
“Sure. I spoke to their captain on Wednesday.”
“Why don’t you get changed while you’re waiting?” Cramer suggested. “Have you guys played here before?”
They all shook their heads so Cramer showed them where the changing room was and gave them photocopied maps of the arena. When they reappeared ten minutes later there was still no sign of their opponents. Cramer watched them as they waited by the main entrance. They were wearing camouflage outfits and military-style boots and carrying futuristic paintball helmets and facemasks. They were all equipped with neck protectors, padded gloves and special vests to hold extra paintballs and had clearly spent a lot of money on their gear. Their weapons were also expensive. Their leader, the one called Simon, was carrying a Tippmann Pneumatics 68 Special semi-automatic which had been fitted with a twenty-ounce carbon dioxide constant-air cylinder and a large capacity bulk loader which would hold up to two hundred rounds. It would pack a punch, Cramer knew, and the TASO red dot sight meant it would be accurate, too, though he also knew from experience that most players who used semi-automatics just kept firing blindly until they hit something, relying on brute force rather than skill. The ‘spray and pray’ method.
Cramer looked at his watch. It was nine-forty. He went over to Simon and asked him if they wanted to start.
“Our opponents still aren’t here,” he said.
“You’ve booked it for the next two hours whether they come or not,” said Cramer.
“Yeah, but there’s no point without someone to fight, is there?”
“You could divide into two teams.”
Simon gave Cramer a withering look. “You can count, right? There are seven of us.”
Cramer raised his hands in surrender. “Hey, okay, I just didn’t want you to waste your money, that’s all.”
Preston walked over, doing his impersonation of a Brooklyn pimp. “They ready?” he asked.
“No, we’re not ready,” snapped Simon.
Cramer explained that the opposition hadn’t turned up.
“Bummer,” said Preston.
Simon looked at his watch, a rugged stainless steel diving model, and made tut-tutting noises. Preston tugged at the peak of his baseball cap. “You could split into two teams,” he suggested. He nodded at Cramer. “Mike here could give you a game, that’d make it four a side.”
Simon narrowed his eyes. “We’re a team,” he said slowly as if addressing an imbecile. “We train together, we have a system, we can’t just divide into two and expect to function. It just won’t work.”
“I’ll take you on,” said Cramer, quietly.
“What do you mean?” said Simon.
“I mean I’ll give you a game. I’ll take you all on.”
Several of the men laughed. Simon looked Cramer up and down. The man in front of him was in his late thirties, a little over six feet and wiry rather than muscled, and looked as if he might be able to handle himself in a fight. But his deep-set eyes were watery and reddened, the cheeks crisscrossed with the broken veins of a heavy drinker and there was a strong smell of whisky about him that wasn’t masked by the mint-flavoured gum he was chewing. Simon shook his head. “What? You against the seven of us? I don’t think so,” he said.
“Come on, Simon, give the guy a chance,” shouted one of his team-mates.
“I tell you what,” said Cramer, “I’ll show you a new game. No enemy flags to capture, no teams. You go where you want to go, I’ll come in and get you. I call it Hide and Kill.”
“You against the seven of us?” Simon repeated.
“What, you don’t think that’s fair?” said Cramer. “How about if I tie one arm behind my back?”
Several of the team began laughing and Simon’s cheeks reddened. “Okay, you’re on,” he said. “I tell you what, why don’t we make it a bit more interesting? Why don’t we have a bet on the side?”
Cramer chewed his gum and looked at the younger man. “How much were you thinking of?”
Simon shrugged. “How does fifty pounds sound?”
“Sounds fine to me.”
Simon nodded. “Okay, so what are the rules?”
“No rules, no umpires. Everything is allowed.”
“Headshots?”
“Headshots, physical contact, whatever.”
Simon smiled. “Okay, Mr Cramer, you have yourself a game.”
“Why don’t you guys study the maps while I change,” said Cramer, as he turned to go back to the office. Preston followed him. He closed the door behind them and leant with his back against it.
“Jesus, Mike, have you got fifty pounds?”
Cramer opened his locker and pulled out a pair of paint-splattered blue overalls. “No,” he said. He pulled on the overalls and took a pair of plastic goggles from the top shelf.
“Do you wanna borrow my helmet?”
“No.”
“Aw, come on, Mike. Their semi-automatics pack a real wallop, and you’ve told them that they can go for headshots.”
Cramer went over to his desk and pulled open the bottom drawer. He took a couple of swigs from the bottle of Famous Grouse and put it back. There was no point in offering any to Preston, he drank only imported American beers. At the back of the drawer was his paintgun, an old single-shot Splatmaster. He took it out.
“You have got to be joking,” said Preston, banging the back of his head against the door. “At least use one of my guns.”
Cramer zipped up his overalls and slid the goggles on. He checked the bolt action of the gun and that it had a full twelve-gram carbon dioxide cartridge. “This’ll do just fine, Charlie.”
Preston opened the door for him and they walked together back to the Bayswater Blasters who were fastening their gloves and neck protectors.
“Ready?” asked Cramer.
Simon raised his eyebrows when he saw Cramer’s gun. “You’re going to use that?” he said. He lifted his own gun, with its skeleton stock and laser sight. “Against these?”
Cramer winked. “Wanna raise the bet?”
Simon shook his head in amazement. “We�
�re ready.”
“Okay, there are four floors above here, you go up and pick your positions. I’ll give you two minutes.”
Simon put the helmet on and slipped the goggles down so that his whole head was covered. He turned to his team and signalled for them to move out. Cramer sighted down his gun at the back of the man’s head and tightened his finger on the trigger. “Bang,” he said, quietly.
“What lighting system do you want?” Preston asked him.
“Bare minimum,” said Cramer. “Just enough so they don’t fall and hurt themselves. And use the red lights, it’ll screw up their laser sights.”
Preston smiled. “Be gentle with them, Mike.”
Cramer stood at the bottom of the stairwell and waited a full ten minutes before moving up to the first level. The stairs opened out into a large bare room off which led three doorways. Once he was satisfied that the room was clear he stood with his back against a wall for another five minutes, waiting for his eyes to get used to the gloom. There was no point in rushing. He wanted them to be over-eager because that way they’d be careless. He heard a footfall from somewhere above him and muffled voices. Cramer smiled. They had no patience, these game-players. Amateurs. He began to clear the first level, moving silently from room to room, his gun at the ready. There were twelve rooms on the first floor, linked by doorways but no doors. Several had furniture in, old tables and sofas, armchairs with the stuffing oozing from torn leather like purulent wounds.
He found his first opponent crouched behind a wooden chest, his gun aimed chest high at the doorway. Cramer ducked his head around the door jamb, saw the barrel of the weapon and his opponent’s plastic mask, and pulled his head back. He took a deep breath then rolled through the doorway, hitting the floor with his shoulder and coming up with his gun at the ready before the man had a chance to aim. The red dot of a laser sight flashed across his chest but the guy’s reactions weren’t anywhere near fast enough. Cramer fired and the paintball hit his opponent smack in the middle of his mask, knocking his head back and splattering the plastic with green paint which shone blackly under the dim red overhead lights.
“You’re dead,” said Cramer.
The man sat back on the floor, resting against the wall. “Fuck,” he said.
Cramer reloaded. There were only two rooms remaining on the first floor and both were clear. Three levels left, and six men to go. He doubled back to one of the rooms, which had a trapdoor leading to the second level. A thick hemp rope hung down and Cramer grabbed it. He twisted it from side to side and then set it swinging before rushing back to the stairs. He took the stairs three at a time on the balls of his feet, keeping close to the wall, his gun at the ready. He had to pass through one room before he reached the room where the rope was, and it was clear. He put his head close to the doorway and listened. He heard something rustle and he risked a quick look. The rope was swinging gently. In the far corner of the room one of his opponents was moving cautiously towards the trapdoor, his eyes fixed on the hole and the rope, the barrel of his gun pointing down. Cramer stepped into the doorway and shot the man in the chest. The man looked up, unwilling to believe that he’d been hit so easily. He put a gloved hand onto the wet patch of paint and looked at it. Cramer raised his gun in salute, then motioned silently that the man could go down the rope and wait for his friends.
Cramer chewed his gum thoughtfully. So far he’d been lucky. His paintgun could only fire a single shot at a time so he’d have real problems if he came up against more than one opponent. He could have borrowed Preston’s gun but something about the team leader’s attitude had got under his skin. He reloaded and ducked into the next room. Clear. He heard a cough from the room ahead and smiled thinly. Despite all the money they spent on the gear, the weekend warriors just didn’t take it seriously. They got hit, they wiped off the paint and they played again. That made them careless because they knew that they’d always get another chance. Cramer had trained in a different school. He picked up a wooden chair and placed it at the side of the doorway, careful to make no sound as the legs touched the wooden floor. He placed his foot against it and then kicked it hard into the middle of the next room. It hadn’t travelled three feet before it was peppered with paintballs. The guy had his finger tight on the trigger sending out a stream of the small spheres which burst in fountains of yellow paint whenever they hit their target. Cramer bent low around the doorway, and aimed and fired with one smooth movement, catching the man dead centre in his chest. The man stopped firing and shook his head sorrowfully. “Dumb, dumb, dumb,” he muttered.
“Can’t argue with that,” said Cramer, reloading.
He waited until the defeated opponent was going back down before moving ahead, knowing that the sound of footsteps on the stairs would be a distraction. Three down, four to go.
By the time Cramer had got to the top level of the warehouse there were only two opponents left. The top level was the most dangerous because there were several old skylights through which the sunlight streamed in, leaving no dark corners in which to hide. It had originally been one large storage area but had been divided up into a maze with eight-foot tall sections of plasterboard. Cramer’s big advantage was that he’d memorised the layout of the maze, but that didn’t count for much against two opponents. He stood at the stairwell as he steadied his breathing. Above the maze were thick oak rafters, supporting the slate roof and its skylights. The rafters were about ten feet above the top of the maze and would provide a perfect vantage point, but climbing up would expose himself. He decided not to risk it, not with fifty pounds at stake. There were four entrances to the maze, one on each side, and Cramer chose the one furthest from the stairs which he’d climbed. He went in low, checking left and right before standing up. He listened. There was a scuffling noise from somewhere off to the right but it sounded more like a scavenging river rat than a pair of Reeboks. He approached a junction and bent down so that his head was at waist level before looking around the corner. Nothing. He kept his gun moving, ready to lock onto any target, his left hand out for balance as he crept forward. He felt rather than heard the presence behind him and he twisted and ducked in one movement as a stream of pellets blasted into the wall where his head had been a second earlier. He fired and saw his paintball thwack into Simon’s neck protector. Simon levelled his gun at Cramer and pulled the trigger, but before the first ball had left the barrel Cramer had launched himself to the side and into another section of the maze. The team leader was a sore loser and was refusing to acknowledge that he’d been hit. Cramer reloaded and kept moving. He could hear Simon behind him. He took a left turn and then a right, and was about to head left again when he almost bumped into the last remaining player. Cramer pulled his head back just in time to avoid a single shot and then he rolled forward and fired at the same time, catching his opponent in the chest. “Good shot,” said the man approvingly and lowered his gun. Cramer moved to go around him but as he did Simon appeared from a side passage, paint still running down his chest. Simon’s gun came up and Cramer grabbed the man he’d just shot, pulling him into the line of fire. Simon fired and bullets pounded into the man’s chest, each exploding into a yellow flower of paint.
“Hey come on, Simon!” yelled the man. His team leader was so close that the shots hurt, even through the overall and vest.
Simon kept firing, hoping that one of the balls would hit Cramer. Cramer needed one hand to hold the man up in front of him so he couldn’t reload. He pushed his human shield forward onto the barrel of Simon’s gun and then grabbed Simon’s arm, close to the elbow, twisting around to get him in a lock. Simon squealed and Cramer used his hip to throw him onto his back. The semi-automatic fell to the ground and Cramer put his foot on Simon’s chest, pinning him to the ground. Simon was winded and he lay gasping for breath, unable to speak. Cramer’s other victim got to his feet, his chest covered with yellow paint. “You bastard, Simon,” he said.
Cramer calmly reloaded his gun and aimed it at Simon’s chest. “Gam
e, set and match,” he said quietly, and fired. The paintball caught Simon just over his heart and exploded. Cramer walked away without looking back.
Preston was waiting for him downstairs by the office with the five members of the Bayswater Blasters he’d defeated earlier. “How did it go?” Preston asked.
“Piece of cake,” Cramer said, removing his goggles. One of the men handed Cramer five ten-pound notes and he winked and accepted the money. Simon came down the stairs, his helmet still on, and went into the changing room without saying anything. The guy Cramer had used as a shield shrugged as if apologising for Simon’s bad behaviour and followed him inside.
“Did you see him?” Preston asked.
“Did I see who?” replied Cramer.
“The guy who was looking for you. Old guy, said he wanted to see you. I told him you were in the middle of a game and he said he’d give you a surprise. Borrowed a paintgun and a helmet and went in about ten minutes ago.”
Cramer frowned and spat his chewing gum into a wastepaper bin. “Old guy?” he asked. To Preston, anyone over the age of thirty was old.
Preston shrugged. “Grey hair, about your height, bit bigger. He didn’t give a name. Said he was an old friend.”
The Long shot mc-1 Page 3
