Nerve

by Jeanne Ryan

  WHAT DO YOU THINK? Now all of the panels are back in action. Have there been messages tonight that the others have seen that I haven’t?

  Jen’s shoulders shake. “I don’t have any gun experience. What if it goes off?”

  Ty scowls. “It won’t unless you pull the trigger, idiot. Cocking the hammer just shifts it from double action to single action.”

  Samuel adds, “Which is only a problem if it’s a real bullet.”

  What, he still believes the guns aren’t lethal? What does our audience think? No police have crashed in to save us. Does everyone really believe this is a big game of paintball or something? That we’ll walk out of here with nothing more than a few bruises? There are sadists watching who want it to be real. My friends, at least, must be watching in horror. And helplessness, because no one knows where we are.

  I don’t remember what the video said about double action and bullets in the chamber, but I know that cocking the gun is one step closer to shooting it. And Daniella realizes that too. Mascara runs down her cheeks. But, ultimately, the fear of becoming the next victim if she screws up the grand prizes must get to her, because she cocks her gun.

  “Vee?” Ian says.

  I feel the same way Daniella does, not wanting to touch the hammer, to point this thing with less of a net. On the other hand, if something crazy happens, I need to protect myself. And my friends. Holding my breath, I flick my thumb against the knobby protrusion at the back of the gun. Click.

  Micki’s upper lip takes on a sheen that wasn’t there before. Good. A red veil shadows my vision.

  “How long do we need to stay like this?” Jen calls out in a squeaky voice.

  No answer from NERVE.

  Ian says, “All the game told us was that we had to cock our guns, not how long we had to leave them cocked. We’ve completed that part of the dare, so now let’s flip the decocking levers and lower our weapons before anything stupid goes down.”

  Samuel nods. I wish he’d say something.

  We all look toward the panels, expecting NERVE to chime in.

  Ian focuses on the players across the table. “How about I count to three and we decock them at the same time? Let’s quit before we pass the point of no return.”

  He takes a breath. “One.”

  Jen raises her eyebrows at Micki, whose gaze remains firmly on me.

  “Two.”

  Sweat drips down my spine. The room is quiet, no music, not even the squeak of a chair.

  Ian inhales deeply. Will we be the only ones to decock our guns? My breathing is so shallow, I think I’ll lose consciousness at any moment.

  “Three.”

  I move my thumb to the lever, but before I click it off, my world goes dark. The room’s lights have gone out. Strobe lights flash on. People scream. And shots fire.

  eighteen

  Instinctively, I duck. The metal of the gun is heavy and slippery, yet I keep it propped on the seat back way above my head. My heart hammers in my chest like it’s trying to escape, and, as my hearing returns, I detect twangy music that you’d find at a square dance. Yee-haw. Clearly, some sicko’s idea of a joke.

  My right arm is stiff, almost numb, so I slowly lower the gun to the floor, tempted to drop it. But I might need it to protect myself, against all of those other guns, which I’m sure are still pointed my way, even in the dark.

  “Is everyone okay?” I ask the room in a soft voice, not wanting to startle anybody into more gunfire.

  In the space to my left, Ian says, “Yeah.”

  I speak louder, over the banjos. “Tommy? Syd?”

  There’s a rustling in the far corner of the room, and then Sydney’s voice, which always projects crystal clear: “We’re fine.”

  I exhale in relief.

  “Aren’t you going to check on us?” Micki says in a sing-songy voice.

  “I figured you survived, seeing as how I didn’t fire my gun.”

  She grunts. “Like hell you didn’t, or maybe your pretty boy’s the one who shot at us.”

  There’s a sound of Ian shifting his body. “No, some of us can control our trigger fingers.”

  Ty laughs. “That’s not what she said.”

  Samuel speaks up, for the first time in what seems like hours. “There were five shots. I didn’t fire. And the sound didn’t come from next to me. So it had to be you guys.”

  Ian’s voice is angry. “My gun is cold; wanna come here and check it?”

  Of course, Micki adds, “Knew he had a cold gun, to go with his frigid girlfriend.” God, is everything tied to sex with that girl? And why doesn’t she just admit that she freaked out and fired? Unless…With a tremor of anger, I realize another possibility.

  I clear my throat so that my next words are as clear as Sydney’s. “Maybe NERVE fired the shots. Or maybe they injected the smell of gunpowder into the air vents along with a recording of shots. Either way, they wanted to scare us into shooting. Don’t you guys get it? This is the finale.”

  Everyone’s silent for a moment. On some level, they must know that what I’ve suggested is a likely scenario.

  Ian says, “In the dark, with the strobe lights, we couldn’t tell who was shooting or not.”

  Sniffling, Jen says, “Assholes. Turn the lights on, already. Your audience can’t see us in the dark anyway.” I hadn’t pegged her for the crying type. But then, I hadn’t pegged myself as the gun-toting type.

  “Smells like piss in here,” Ty says.

  Is that a faint ammonia odor mixed in with the scents of firecrackers and popcorn? Ugh.

  NERVE must be doing something tricky with the lighting, because although I can’t see any glow overhead, I begin to make out the shape of my arms. I sit up, mostly to get away from the nasty carpet, but also to take a peek at the shapes emerging in the semi-darkness: the love seats, the shifting heads peeking back at me. The coffee table is invisible, but eventually I can spot the thick cables connecting it to the ceiling.

  OKAY, NO EXCUSES. YOU NEED TO RE-AIM YOUR WEAPONS NOW. AND, TO BE CLEAR, YOU MUST HOLD YOUR AIM FOR THE LAST TWENTY MINUTES OF THE GAME.

  I remember watching a grand prize finale last month, the one with the kids standing at the edge of the roof. Which I was sure had a net below. As the players trembled, NERVE kept cutting to highlights from the previous dares. That’s what they must be doing now with us. All for sadistic entertainment.

  As my pupils dilate, I detect Ty rising above the back of his love seat barricade, his gun pointing in Ian’s direction. He hisses something at Daniella, who slowly joins him. Jen and Micki aim their weapons toward me, well, my love seat, same difference. So does Samuel. Ian raises his gun toward Ty.

  I hold my gun in my lap, deciding what to do. Running my fingers over it, I locate the decocking lever. Should I flick it? But I have to protect myself, and I’m sure no one else has decocked their gun, even though NERVE hasn’t said anything about keeping them cocked. There’s really no choice, is there? If I want to defend myself and my friends, I have to be a combatant in this sick game. I rise up onto my knees and take aim over the seat.

  We wait. Again, the lights dim and the music goes silent, causing minute sounds to become noticeable—the buzz of electricity, a pipe rushing from a floor above us, rapid breathing, bodies shifting. The darkness is impenetrable, like a living creature that reaches into my eyes, my nose, my mouth. I want to yank it away, but it’s got me in its clutches. My chest wall threatens to burst open to release my wildly pumping heart. I hiccup, unable to control my breathing or the sounds I’m making. Someone across the divide laughs. Micki.

  Ian shifts to the end of his love seat that’s closest to mine and whispers, “Put your head down for a minute. Concentrate on long, slow breaths.”

  I do as he says, keeping hold of my gun and its aim. I don’t care about the damn dare, but if Micki starts shooting, I have to fight back. I breathe deeply. After a minute, I think I have my wits under control. But my head throbs, so I let one hand free from the gun to rub my
temple. This is all a horrible fantasy, right? I try to imagine myself someplace else.

  Suddenly a lecture my science teacher gave on quantum physics comes to mind. Something about a cat. Schrödinger’s Cat. It was a story about how events remain in the realm of probability until they actually happen, or maybe until someone witnesses them happening. This scientist named Schrödinger claimed that if his cat were in a box, no one could know for sure whether it was alive or dead until they opened the box to find out. But now I wonder if the Watchers won’t learn of our fate until someone opens this evil box.

  No, stop it. I need to use my mind in a way that slows the out-of-control beating in my chest. The darkness around us could be anywhere, anytime. I could be alive or dead. Okay, I choose alive. While I’m at it, I choose the darkness to be a gentle blanket on a moonless night, where I rest a few feet from a boy who’s warm and sweet. When he holds me, his heart beats strong with what I tell myself is passion, not fear.

  I’ve almost got myself believing in this romantic fantasy when the faint light appears again. Across the room, three guns still point at me. Fantasy over. Tears well in my eyes along with a hopeless weight in my belly.

  Which only gets heavier when Sydney produces a theatrical sigh and says, “Okay, that’s about four minutes. Time for a scene change. I’m sure we can do something more interesting than point guns in the dark.” There’s a tremor to her voice I’ve never heard before.

  I wish she’d be quiet. But has she ever been one to silently endure?

  Ty snorts. “You’re welcome to come sit over here and show me what you got in mind. I’ve got a free hand.”

  Frantic whispering comes from Syd and Tommy’s corner.

  My skin feels like bugs are crawling all over it. “Stay where you are, Syd,” I call out. I’d go over there and tackle her if it wouldn’t cause several guns to alter their aim.

  “What’s your name?” she says.

  “Ty, like in tiiiiime to party!”

  I sit up tall. “Syd, do not even think of moving.”

  Leave it to Syd to try and turn the game around. But this is way bigger than a school play. She can’t charm her way out. Or mine. The thought of Ty placing any of his fat fingers on her makes me want to gag. And what about Daniella? She could get jealous, and discover that holding on to a gun has its benefits after all.

  Micki groans. “God, Virgin Victim’s friend is even more annoying than the virgin is. Maybe we should shift our aims.”

  I speak up. “Yeah, that sounds like what I’d expect from you, aiming at the people who can’t defend themselves. Just remember whose weapon will be pointed at your head.”

  I can’t believe I just said that, but Micki maintains her aim on me instead of swinging it toward Sydney. I hate that Syd’s here, so defenseless. My brave, stubborn best friend, who’s been wearing that silly corset so long that her back must be aching.

  I wipe my eye. “Syd, just stick with Tommy, okay?” He must’ve told her about contacting the police, right? Unless he’s afraid she’ll blurt it out in a dramatic moment.

  Tommy says, “Seems like we should get weapons too.”

  No! What the hell is he thinking? Especially when police should be here at any moment. Or is that what he’s banking on? Which means his request is just a way of playing tough. Who’s he trying to impress? This audience isn’t worth it.

  I call out to him, “There are enough guns in here already. No one needs to add more for their sick show.”

  A dagger of pain shoots down my right arm. Maybe from gripping the gun so long. I don’t know how many minutes more I can hold on to this slimy weapon. How much longer do we have, fifteen minutes? And if I’m getting tired, what about the others? All it would take is for the strobes to go back on, or another bang to startle someone into pulling a trigger. The more tired we get, the easier it’ll be to make a mistake.

  The room fades to pitch-black.

  I whisper to Ian, “We’ve got to end this as soon as possible.” Before someone’s aching arm cramps up. Before Sydney gets with Ty and stirs up a heap of trouble. Before NERVE introduces something that sends us over the edge. Which I know they’ll do.

  Ian whispers back, “I’m working on a plan.”

  I ask, “What? Dive to the floor and hope for the best?” I don’t mean for that to come out so snarky, but hopelessness can bring out the worst in anyone.

  He grunts. “I’m assuming there was no window in the bathroom, right?”

  That’s the best he’s got? “Of course not. No windows anywhere in this twisted theater.” As I say the words, a combination of images flood my mind: stages, audiences, windows, guns. We’re the actors in this sick production. Our scummy Watchers could be based anywhere in the world, kicking back with cocktails. Making bets. Waiting for blood.

  Imagining the audience watching our show makes my pulse quicken with the promise of an idea. What is it? I can’t shake the feeling that I’m on the edge of something, like when my mind’s eye takes a pile of fabric and sewing notions and coalesces them into a design. Think. I wish I could examine our surroundings better. Maybe we could make one of the doors open somehow. How many openings have we seen so far? Nine? I squint, trying to make out anything in the dark. NERVE’s probably using night-vision cameras to broadcast close-up shots of us. They think they can capture our anxiety. It’s a turn-on for them. I’ll bet the sickest viewers wish they could be here in the room with us, smelling our fear. I envision spectators cheering for gore, like at a Roman arena, the emperor enjoying the kills from his gilded seat.

  I stop short. That’s it.

  Someone in the audience would’ve demanded the best seats. Someone always does. The wall to our left has paneling that’s different from the other walls. And it only has one door, a regular one, in the corner, unlike the other walls, which have all kinds of weird hidden openings. As Ian and I made our way to the room at the beginning of the grand prize round, we passed those chairs lining the hallway. The front row.

  Suddenly, I’m certain that the silk wall-hanging in the corridor outside is more than decorative—it’s a drape, the grand drape, now raised for this sick show. And the shiny wall next to the door isn’t a wall, it’s a one-way window. We have Watchers only feet away. I feel it as surely as if they were breathing down my neck.

  Should I share my suspicions with Ian? What if any of what Tommy said is true? Did Ian manipulate me into this for Web fame? Maybe Micki was right about there being a plant for NERVE in here. How else could he pay for private school? Syd thought he was shady too, and she’s a great judge of character. Or is she? How great a judge can she be, when she chose me for a best friend? A best friend who doubted her loyalty and signed up for a treacherous game that might kill us both.

  Ian’s been my rock tonight. And I need someone to help me break out of here. Tommy could be mistaken about seeing Ian on creepy Websites, just like he was wrong to think he could count on the police to show up in time. He saw what he wanted to see online, not what was there. But he’s the smartest guy I know. Could he really have gotten it wrong? I pull at my hair. There’s no time to figure out the truth. I need to act on my gut.

  Behind a cupped hand, I whisper my suspicions to Ian, praying he’s on my side.

  “That’s crazy,” he says, but his voice hints at his uncertainty. “And even if it’s true, what do we do about it?” At least he’s whispering, not broadcasting my ideas.

  I shake my head, frustrated that he doesn’t see things as clearly as I do. Or maybe he doesn’t want to. Will he go so far as to stop me?

  I say, “We shoot through the window.”

  He’s silent for a moment. “Gunshots would either penetrate it and hit someone on the outside, assuming there are people there, or they’d ricochet back at us. Neither option is acceptable.”

  I’m not so sure the audience doesn’t deserve bullets coming through the window at them, but I’ll accept his point for now. “How about ramming a love seat into it?”

&
nbsp; “They’re bulky and not on wheels. I don’t think we could get the momentum to push one through the wall.”

  We have nothing else in the room to throw except beer bottles and popcorn boxes. Unless you count the other players, a couple of whom I wouldn’t mind throwing through the window. If only we could pick up the weird glass table.

  My breath catches.

  We don’t need to. Attached to its cables, it’s like a missile. And, since there aren’t love seats on either end, there’s nothing to block it. I whisper to Ian. He resists at first, but what’s the alternative? We trade a few ideas for how to put the plan into action without causing the others to shoot us. As soon as we have something figured out that doesn’t sound impossible, I hear a tiny click.

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  “I decocked my gun,” he says.

  My chest contracts. I feel vulnerable. But he’s right. Escaping will be worthless if we accidentally shoot people in the process. And NERVE never specified that we had to keep our guns cocked; so as long as we maintain our aims, they shouldn’t expose our actions with messages about violating the integrity of the dare. I decock my gun, but keep it pointed Micki’s way.

  “Ready?” he asks.

  I don’t have time not to be. Any second now, Sydney could strut over to Ty, which would piss off the players next to him. And NERVE might blast the music or set off the sprinklers, startling someone into shooting.

  I rise up next to Ian and say, “Showtime.”

  He leans close to me. “I need to tell you something first. I don’t know what kind of sick video-editing of me Tommy did while he jacked off, but it’s totally fake.”

  I can’t begin to figure out what’s true and what isn’t. Tommy’s capable of creating any kind of video he wants. Whatever Ian’s done online doesn’t matter anyway. What does is that we need to make an escape attempt. Now. But I understand wanting to make things clear, for the record.

  I whisper back, “My real name is Venus. I just want you to know, in case…And you have to protect Syd, no matter what.”

  “We’ll get through this, Venus.” He presses his lips to mine.