by Jeanne Ryan
“What’s next, princess?” the man asks.
“Prop the door open quickly,” I tell him. We need the light.
He does.
“Now walk through the waiting area and down the hallway, toward the room. No quick moves, but don’t drag your ass either.”
He struts forward. I keep a few paces behind him, pointing my gun at his butt and shining the light from my phone. Every few steps, I peek around him to make sure no one else has entered the hallway. Yells come from the game room. Has NERVE sent in reinforcements?
I call out, “Syd, Tommy, Ian, are you guys okay?”
“We’re fine,” Sydney shouts back. “As long as psycho girl doesn’t shoot the ceiling anymore.”
A breath explodes from my chest. Thank goodness. When we get to the room, I say, “Go back inside, Ty.”
“Why? I thought you wanted the game to be over.”
“Do it,” the man says.
Ty ducks through the cave-like opening in the glass. Even though the lights are out in the game room, the panels above the one-way window reveal various images in muted shades of green, confirming my earlier suspicion that NERVE was filming us with night-vision cameras. Micki and Ian pick themselves off of the floor, where they must’ve been wrestling. They cock their heads my way, as if they’re trying to make out what’s going on here in the corridor.
“What the hell?” Micki crouches so her eyes are even with the hole. Why didn’t she follow Ty out? Does she think there’s a chance the game will continue as long as she remains inside? What kind of prize did they offer her on top of the Harley? Ownership of a dog-fighting emporium?
My voice is steel. “Ian, Tommy, and Sydney, c’mon out.”
Micki straightens up and grabs a gun from Jen. “My next shot won’t be a warning.” On one of the panels above, I see her aim at Syd.
The man speaks up. “If you don’t do as Vee instructs, none of you will receive any prizes. I can make sure of it.”
Ty pokes his head back through the opening. “Who are you, like the NERVE boss?”
“No, but they’ll want to keep me happy, I assure you.”
There’s silence. No doubt they’re waiting for NERVE to confirm what the man said. But NERVE’s probably too busy assembling an army. The panels remain focused on the players in the room.
Micki’s voice is harsh and she still aims at Syd. “Doesn’t seem like anyone’s backing you up, Mr. Investor. Maybe they don’t care if you get shot.”
The man begins to tremble. “But I care. And I have the means to make sure you earn your prizes.”
There’s movement and murmuring in the room.
Ty speaks up. “How can you guarantee it?”
“If she shoots me, I can guarantee you won’t get anything. And if she doesn’t, I always reward those who assist me. Just as I punish those who don’t.”
Micki’s snarly voice rises. “But we’re the ones with the guns. Maybe NERVE just wants us to shoot you ourselves. And then Virgin and her friends.” She turns to point her gun through the opening in the wall at the man.
Ian says, “Are you high? Whatever happens in this room will be broadcast. And stored on video. You want to spend the rest of your life behind bars, or as the bitch of whoever owns the video so you can avoid prison time?”
I steady my aim. “Besides, we’d shoot back, which would be self-defense. Not that it matters, since I don’t see any cameras out here in the hallway. I’m the only one not being filmed.” My voice is hard and my veins are like ice.
Ty says, “I don’t know.”
“Well, I do,” I say. “I’m done playing. I’m giving this asshole the punishment he deserves. And screwing you guys out of winning anything at the same time.”
The man’s body stiffens. “I’m pulling out my wallet. It’s filled with cash and credit cards. Use them.” He takes out the wallet and sets it on the floor.
Micki stares at the hole in the wall, probably calculating whether she could dash through and beat my head in before I shot the guy. Or her.
Tempted as I am to prod her, I let her think. She may be vicious, but I don’t believe she’s stupid.
And then her shoulders slump and she lowers her gun. “Get out of here, shitheads.” Jen tries to hug her, but she shrugs away.
A few moments later, Tommy ducks through the opening, followed by Syd and Ian.
Before we head out, I motion toward the man’s wallet. “Take out your driver’s license.”
“Why? You can’t buy anything with that.”
No, I can’t. And I wouldn’t. The thought of buying any prizes with this creep’s cash makes me ill.
I say, “Just do it.” Now he can see how it feels to have his privacy invaded.
He kneels down to remove a card before placing the wallet back on the floor. In the limited light from my phone and the overhead panels, I can’t tell for sure if it’s his license or a membership card to Pervs Anonymous, but he has to know I’m not fooling around. He stands up and holds it out toward me.
No way I’m getting close enough for him to knock the gun from my hand, so I have him hand it to Tommy. With me in the lead, but walking backward so I can keep my gun trained on the man, we march out. Ian brings up the rear, pointing his gun at the man from behind.
Out by the elevators, I kick up the doorstop and yell, “Anyone leaves before we’re out of the building and this guy gets shot in the ass.” No one ever died from a butt shot, I tell myself. As I slam the door shut, I imagine hands in the dark grabbing for the man’s wallet.
Ian reaches to press the button for the VIP elevator, but I shout for him to stop. “This whole lounge has been taken over by NERVE. If they send backup, or those chauffeurs down there are armed, they’ll come through the private entrance.”
Ian hits the button for the “housekeeping” elevator. We all jerk upright when the bell rings, our wary eyes waiting to see whether someone’s headed our way. The doors open to an empty car. Thank God. But I’m still not convinced NERVE won’t have a firing squad waiting for us below, even in the dance club.
As we move toward the elevator door, the man asks, “Are my hostage duties complete?”
I pause. If we run into someone from NERVE, will this guy give us leverage? I don’t think so, or they would’ve rescued him already. On the other hand, if there are police below, paid off or not, it won’t look good for me to be dragging a hostage at gunpoint.
“You can stay up here,” I say.
We get on board, and I hit the button marked “Club,” saying a silent prayer that we don’t need an access code to go down.
The door closes and the car moves. As soon as it does, Sydney and Ian collapse onto me in a group hug. It hardly seems real that we’ve escaped from that room. How long before the other players finally give up and leave?
Over Syd’s shoulder, I spy Tommy looking uncomfortable in the corner. I feel a pang of sympathy for my wingman, even though he filmed me during the dare at the school theater. But he came to rescue me, right? Once Sydney and Ian let me go, I approach Tommy and give him a hug too. He seems surprised, but grabs me in an embrace that isn’t too awkward until I lose my balance and shove an arm into his side. A vibration suddenly shudders at his hip. I jerk my arm away. What the hell?
Tommy takes a step back, and pushes me away from his body. His face flushes and his eyes dart down to his hip.
I grab at him. “Your phone works. I just felt it. Answer it!”
His mouth smiles, but his eyes don’t. “They must’ve just turned it back on.” He pulls the phone out of his pocket with shaky hands and reads a text.
I check my own phone, which still comes up as blocked, and I tell Ian and Syd to do the same. All blocked, except for Tommy’s, even though we’re in an elevator.
“Why aren’t you calling 911?” I ask.
He fumbles with the phone. “Uh, yeah. I will.”
“C’mon, how hard is it to press three numbers?” And why is he so hesitant? Then the chao
s of the past few hours seems to settle in my brain, leaving a clear trail to what I hadn’t seen before now. “Where are the police, Tommy? Did you even call them?”
He stares at his phone. “Of course I did. They must’ve gotten the wrong address or something. GPS isn’t as exact as people think.”
“But you are.” Everything that happened tonight sharpens into crystal focus, like that one-way glass into the room. “Give me your phone, Tommy.”
He pokes at the display. “I said I’d call.”
“Humor me.”
“Humor me,” he mimics in a high voice. “You sound like a character in one of those plays you couldn’t get cast for.”
“I want the phone now, Tommy.”
“Give it to her,” Ian says. He presses the close button to keep the elevator doors from opening.
“Shut up.” Tommy wipes some sweat from his forehead.
“Vee, I came here to bail you out and you don’t trust me?”
“I don’t know what you came here to do. But the fact that you didn’t come with the police was stupid. Stupid isn’t in your profile, Tommy. Neither is daring. But calculating is. I’ll bet you’re the one who told NERVE about why I was mad at Sydney. Liv and Eulie never would’ve betrayed me like that. And how many people could’ve told NERVE about the sticker on my car’s stereo knob? You asshole!”
He sneers. “As if I’m the biggest asshole tonight.” He shakes his head in disgust.
The flame within me goes white. And then in a martial arts move I’d rehearsed with Sydney when she had a role in that ninja play, I slice my leg through the air and sideswipe him in the crotch.
When he goes down, I grab the phone out of his hands. It’s loaded with texts from NERVE, confirming my suspicions. “Son of a bitch. You betrayed me for a big-screen TV?”
He looks up at me with bloodshot eyes. “Screw the TV. We’ve got three at home. You aren’t the only one tired of living backstage.”
I stand as close to the door as possible and enter the numbers that will end this. Tommy doesn’t move from his corner while I tell the police about the guns in the VIP lounge.
“Told you he was full of shit,” Ian says.
Tommy slams the wall and scowls at Ian. “NERVE only chose you instead of me because they knew you’d break Vee’s heart.”
Sydney cocks her head at Tommy. “You tried out too? How come no one mentioned that you posted a video?”
Tommy glares at her.
I can barely keep myself from spitting on him. He screwed me over because NERVE picked Ian instead of him? Pathetic.
Ian lets the elevator door open to a nondescript corridor. Peeking my head out, I see a nearby door that throbs with deep bass and another door at the far end of the hall. I duck back into the elevator to demand the NERVE investor’s driver’s license from Tommy, who throws it at me. I tuck it into my pocket and exit into the hallway with Syd and Ian.
As the elevator doors close, I say over my shoulder, “Game over, Tommy.”
twenty
“Which door?” Ian asks me.
Sydney, for once, awaits my decision too.
The far door might lead to an immediate exit, but it could also send us straight into a bunch of NERVE psychos, and who knows how long it’ll take for the police to show up? I open the door to the music, which leads onto a balcony overlooking a large dance floor. Ian and I glance at each other and quickly tuck our guns into our clothes.
As we descend a winding staircase, the crowd seems to ignore us. We probably look like underdressed, underage kids who snuck in, never mind my scratched-up jacket and bleeding hand. On the main floor, I grab a napkin from a table to press onto my wound. The scratches on my thighs will have to wait. We bump and jostle through people laughing and drinking as though this is just a typical Saturday night. All I focus on is the exit sign.
When we’re halfway across the room, a woman points our way and screams, “Hey, those are the NERVE players!”
The music instantly softens, and everyone turns our way to stare. One guy fumbles with his phone and asks, “What are you doing here? Is the game done? They’ve been playing flashbacks since you crashed a hole in the wall. That was awesome!”
I rear back. “You were watching?”
“We all were.” He points up to a large screen that’s playing a clip of Ty and Daniella in the closet, lit by night-vision so they’re green. Not something I’d want to watch in full color anyway.
I get in the guy’s face. “You saw us trapped in there with guns? Why the hell didn’t you help us?”
“They have producers and stuff looking out for you, right?” He points his phone at me and hollers to his friends, “Yo, I told you they were in the room upstairs. I totally recognized the table!”
Everyone around us presses in to get a better look, shouting our names and laughing. Two girls ask for my autograph, and their dates start to hoist me into the air until Ian stops them.
My body stiffens. How can they act like they know us? It’s hard to get my head around the fact that while I feared for my life a few floors above them, they saw us as just one more form of entertainment, hardly worth a second thought.
Ian and Syd try to pull me to the exit, but I shrug them away, pushing through the waves and the “Hey, Vees!” until I’m next to the DJ. The screens above us have shifted to a clip of Ian in a small room, eyes fixed on a grainy video. All I can make out is a tall man slapping a little boy and dragging him into a pickup truck before the camera angle shifts to the image of Ian, alone in his dare room, watching the footage with a stricken expression. There’s no way someone made a family video of that, is there? No wonder his prizes were all about escape. I turn to stare into the eyes of the real Ian at my side, who swallows and blinks.
“That little boy wasn’t you, was it?”
He shakes his head. “But he may as well have been.”
The DJ welcomes us with a big smile. “We have VIP guests here tonight, folks!” he says into his microphone.
VIP, yeah, right. I grab the microphone and ask him to turn off the music. Because I’m a temporary celebrity, he actually does what I say. The crowd turns toward us, some still dancing to the tunes in their heads.
After helping out with so many school performances, I should know how to use a mike, but it still feels awkward. I blow on it to make sure it’s on and say, “Hi. I’m Vee.”
“Hey, girl!” a dozen or more club-goers shout back.
I point to the screen. “You just saw me playing NERVE and probably thought it looked like a fun way to earn some cool prizes. Here’s the truth. We almost died up there. The game is real. Whatever you do, don’t apply and don’t watch it next month. Or ever.”
A few people have gone to the bar to order another drink and chat. The rest of the crowd stares at me, some smirking, some whispering with their buddies, some looking puzzled. I recognize the woman from the bowling alley, with the red curls of a soprano. She was on our side before, maybe she’ll get her friends to listen. Instead, she pulls out a camera and points it at me. Everyone around her does the same. The room becomes a swarm of arms in the air holding cell phones for a better shot.
I could have been killed, and their response is to film me? It’s all I can do not to throw the mike at them or bust out crying. In that moment, the myth that every time your picture is taken, a part of your soul is stolen strikes me as a certain truth, because I feel my spirit being sucked out of me, into hundreds of all-seeing lenses that simply want to capture my fear, my anger, my performance.
I stand there, numb, dumb, and empty.
The DJ turns the music back on, and when Ian and Syd push me forward, I don’t argue. We claw our way through a swarm of people yelling at us to describe the dares, to give them our phone numbers, our Web pages, our smiles for yet another picture or video. People yank on my jacket, grab my arms, even pat my head like I’m a poodle. Without warning, my body rises off of the floor, carried along by a churning sea of Watchers. I thrash
and scream for them to put me down, until I end up on the floor with a heavy thump. One guy rubs his chin where I slapped him and calls me a stuck-up bitch. How many times have I heard that word tonight? It no longer matters.
Ian finds me in the chaos and pulls me along. When we’re almost to the exit, the door swings open and two policemen enter, asking to speak with the manager. As much as I wanted them to come earlier, I can’t stomach the idea of anything that’ll keep me in this zoo a moment longer. It’s not like there’s anyone still upstairs, right? And if they are, they’re just drinking the rest of the beer. Still, I should at least give them the NERVE investor’s license and the gun. I reach into my pocket and am stunned to discover that both are gone. Did they fall out or did NERVE get someone to pickpocket me? A tremor rips through me with the thought that those assholes are calling the shots even now. Are these policemen on their payroll too?
Maybe Ian and Syd are having similar thoughts, because we scramble into the icy air outside, rushing with our heads pointed downward until we reach the VIP parking spot. I’m surprised that no one’s slashed the tires on Ian’s Volvo. But I’m not surprised that there’s no trace of Tommy’s car.
Since Syd got a ride here with him, she gets into the Volvo. Even if she’d driven herself, she’s not ready to be alone just yet.
But I feel more alone than ever. Thousands of people must have watched us tonight, and most of them never gave a thought to the fact that the players were real, live people.
A Watcher runs to the car and pounds on the window, begging for one more picture. I shake my head and look away. Through the glass, he screams, “Who the hell do you think you are?”
I have no idea.
Ian pulls another of his getaway car maneuvers to ditch a couple of diehard Watchers, and then we drive in silence. Even Sydney seems to be grappling with some inner turmoil, huddled in the backseat with her arms tightly crossed. Is she kicking herself for letting Tommy bring her into the final dares? Fooling the girl who’s supposed to be such a great judge of character? Speaking of character, I have to know about Ian for sure. It’s not like I really believe he’s a plant for NERVE or some kind of Web exhibitionist. But can I trust my own beliefs?
