GAMELAND Episodes 1-2: Deep Into the Game + Failsafe (S. W. Tanpepper's GAMELAND)

by Saul Tanpepper

  So why aren’t I moving? Why do I just lie here, frozen, choking on sobs my body doesn’t seem to remember how to let out?

  Finally, just when I’ve managed to push the fear far enough away that I can move, the door opens again and Mabel comes in. The terror I’ve so desperately pushed away comes flooding back in again.

  “Don’t know why I have do this every hour,” she mumbles unhappily to herself.

  She goes through the same routine, all the while talking to herself. Despite my panic and loathing for her, I find myself drifting in the sound of her voice. She checks my blood pressure and eyes, stimulates my foot, takes my temperature. It’s easier this time to keep still, now that I know what to expect.

  I watch her between the slit of my eyelids as she bends down out of sight. She talks to the catheter bag as she measures and empties it. She moves to the head of the bed and does something to my IV. I hear the rustle of her clothes, smell the soap on her skin and the slight tang of body odor. Then she goes and stands at the foot of the bed and records her findings on the medical Link. She clicks it back to the bed frame when she’s done.

  “Back in another hour, honey.” Then, with a dry chuckle, she adds: “Don’t go anywhere.”

  Finally she leaves.

  Don’t go anywhere?

  I want to throttle her.

  I try to remember Kwanjangnim Rupert’s wise advice. Patience and pliability. Strength in waiting for just the right moment to act. A skilled hapkido expert will always bend to adapt to his situation.

  So I lie in the darkness for several more minutes, thinking about my situation—what little I know about it. I consider my enemy’s skills and strengths—not just hers, but who I assume she works for: ArcWare. I assess their known and presumed disadvantages. I strain my ears for any hint of a sound outside the room.

  But there’s nothing, just the quiet clicks of the IV drip and the occasional ticks and creaks of the bed as I breathe.

  Fifteen minutes have passed since she came in. I measure this by the digital readout on the instruments beside me.

  Ever so slowly, I sit up. I reach down and find the Link and turn the screen to me and wake it. It tells me it’s Friday, eleven twenty three in the evening. Almost a week has passed since we first broke into LI, probably three days that I’ve been in this place. Eric must be going frantic by now—assuming he doesn’t know.

  He doesn’t. That’s what my instincts tell me.

  I wonder if Grandpa knows.

  My instincts remain silent on that one, as they do regarding whether Mom has realized I’m gone.

  I want to apologize to her. I want to tell her she’s not as bad of a mother as I always believed. It’s me who’s bad.

  I scroll through the Link, blinking away tears that aren’t there, and find the initial admittance report. The basic information is there: my name and age, height and weight, blood type, viral infection status (clean), implant status (version 4a, intact, latent), and life expectancy. Then there’s the triage nurse’s report at the emergency room at the New York Medical Center:

  <<17Y/O F ADMITTED POST TRAUMA (EXPLOSION)>>

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  << CXR, ABD/NECK/HD CT SCANS, IV RINGERS. CBC, TYPE & CROSS. 3 UNITS.>>

  Most of this is incomprehensible to me, just a bunch of medical mumbo jumbo, but I get the basic gist of it. There was an explosion, just as the man and nurse said there was. The cuts and bruises all over my body are proof enough of that.

  Why can’t I remember?

  I look, but there’s no mention of any of my friends.

  No mention of us being in East Harlem.

  Third tunnel.

  Kelly and Jake were coming back. We were going to meet up with them. That’s it. They were trying a different way back to avoid the zombies around the midtown. That’s why we were there, to meet them, not to go through ourselves. We were in a boat. Reggie was rowing. And then…

  Something happened. Planes. Flying over us. A bomb. Napalmed the shit out of everything. That’s what the man had said. A sob escapes from my throat. Kelly and Jake had been in the tunnel when it was bombed. Already lost one subject.

  Who died?

  No! I can’t let this stop me.

  I glance over the side of the bed at the floor, looking for the motion sensors. I do see something there in the darkness: four small pods at the corners of the bed, red eyes in the shadows staring at each other. They’re directly in line with where a person getting up would set their feet. Easy enough to avoid now that I know about them.

  First, though, I need to take care of these damn tubes in my body.

  The IV turns out to be harder than I thought. I waste precious minutes trying to loosen a corner of the tape holding the needle in my neck. I finally manage to peel a little away. It sticks like glue and feels like I’m ripping ten layers of skin off. I give it a hard yank and the needle comes out. Blood leaks out of the hole and drips down my neck. I feel it pool in my collar before spilling down my chest. I dab at it with the sheet, but I can’t bother with stopping it right now. It’ll have to clot on its own.

  Blood all over the bed. No way to hide it now. No going back.

  Another ten minutes have passed. Nurse Mabel will be returning in another twenty. I need to hurry.

  I lift the sheet off my legs and look down between them at the urinary catheter. Just the sight of it makes me shake with fury. My hands tremble as I give it a tug. It doesn’t move. A crazy thought enters my head: maybe they sewed it in. But then I remember Mabel and her syringe.

  About a foot past the point where the yellow tube comes out of me, there’s a Y. One arm connects to a clear rubber tubing that snakes off the side of the bed. I watch that line for a moment, fascinated as several teaspoons of pale yellow urine leak out of me and run down the tube.

  The other arm of the tubing ends in some kind of adapter. It looks like it would fit a syringe. After inspecting it more closely, I guess that it must be where the nurse extracted the liquid earlier. There must be some kind of balloon inside of me that holds the catheter in place. But without a syringe to empty it, how am I supposed to get it out? I can’t very well escape dragging a bag of pee around with me.

  I check the time. Fifteen minutes before she’s back.

  I could disconnect the catheter from the bag. It looks like it’d just pull apart. But then what? I’d still have the tube inside of me and I’d leak all over the place.

  Pop the balloon.

  Minutes tick by and panic rises up inside of me as I consider this. How the hell am I supposed to pop it?

  Finally I bend down as far as I can and stretch the tubing until it reaches my face. I stick it between my teeth and try to bite through it just below the syringe adapter, grimacing. My stomach revolts. Then my teeth pierce the soft rubber and a warm gush of liquid spurts into my mouth. I immediately spit it out onto the bed before realizing it’s just water. I give the balloon an experimental tub, but it still won’t budge.

  “Fuck,” I whisper.

  Ten minutes.

  I bend down one more time. This time I try and suck out the remaining water. My mouth fills. I spit that out, too. Finally the tube slides out.

  Five minutes.

  I make my way to the foot of the bed, then slowly and carefully crawl over it, avoiding the motion detectors. My head swims and the room spins, but I blink and force myself to focus. I’d puke, but there’s nothing in my stomach. I haven’t eaten in days and my body shakes from weakness. I don’t know how I’m ever going to overpower anyone, much less free Ashley and any of the others and escape.

  Two minutes.

  My feet hit the floor. I’m completely naked, but I don’t feel the cold. Blood drips down my chest, splattering on the floor. My vision swims before my eyes. I’m barely able t
o stand upright.

  One minute.

  I lean on the bed frame and wait for Nurse Mabel to walk in, not a clue what I’m going to do, not caring anymore. The minute passes and the door remains closed. I breathe deeply, hoping to clear my head.

  My strength slowly returns. I’m still shaking, but it feels good to stand. I bend down, carefully, wobblingly, then straighten back up again. Every muscle sings out at me. My stomach actually grumbles. And still she doesn’t come.

  “Little Miss Mabel must have fallen asleep,” I whisper.

  I make my way over to the IV and yank the tubing free from the bag and wrap it around my fist. I can use it to choke her if I have to.

  “Let’s get things moving,” I whisper, and I kick the motion detector across the floor.

  Within moments, footsteps sound on the other side of the door. My heart pounds in my ears and my skin tingles. Now I’m ready.

  I’m behind her as she comes through the door.

  “—ways happens when I’m sound asleep.” She’s already halfway across the room before it registers I’m not in the bed. It’s empty and covered in blood, my blood. “What the—“

  “Looking for me?”

  She spins around, but I’m ready for her. I grab her arm and yank as she turns. She’s off-balance, completely unprepared. The motion jolts her off her feet and she slams to the floor with a loud cry of pain and alarm. I hear a crack—probably her elbow—but I’m on her in an instant. I yank her arm up her back, past the point of resistance. She screams.

  “Shut up!” I tell her, growling to keep the weakness from my voice.

  She keeps right on screaming. I yank even harder, then realize she’s in agony, so I yield a little.

  “Shut the fuck up, you bitch,” I breathe into her ear, “or I’ll rip your arm out of your socket.”

  She snaps her mouth closed but continues to struggle a little. Tears fall from her eyes. It just pisses me off all the more seeing them.

  “Who else is here?”

  She doesn’t answer. I twist her arm and she yelps.

  “Who else is here?”

  “The guards.”

  “Don’t you fucking lie to me, you little shit!”

  “I’m not. I’m— Fuck! Okay, okay. It’s…just me.”

  I place my knee on her arm and lean all my weight onto it. She grunts but I don’t let up. I unwind the plastic IV tubing from my fist and grab her other hand and pull it behind her and up against the other.

  “You’re hurting me.”

  “I told you to shut up.”

  Once I’ve got her wrists tied, I loop it around her neck so she can’t pull them down. Then, standing up with my foot on her neck, I reach over and grab the catheter off the bed.

  “I should shove this down your throat, you sick bitch.” Instead, I tie up her feet with it. It stretches even more than the IV line, but it’s stronger. It won’t break.

  She doesn’t move. She’s stopped struggling and now just lies on the floor with her cheek pressed against the linoleum. Her eyes follow me as I search for my clothes.

  “Where’s the alarm for the motion detectors?” I demand.

  She doesn’t answer.

  I take a step toward her and she flinches.

  “Where?”

  “In my pocket. It’s in my pocket!”

  I reach under her and find her Link. The screen is already awake, flashing. I thumb it off. I bend down and place my lips up next to her ear.

  “Now, where are my clothes?”

  “Burnt, torn. I don’t—”

  “Where can I get some?”

  “I—in the supply closet, I think. I don’t know.” Then she half-laughs, half-coughs.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing.”

  Blood trickles from a cut on her scalp. I reach up and pull the sheet from the bed and use the corner of it to dab it away. She winces.

  “Just a cut. You’ll live. Too bad. Now, tell me: where are we? What is this place?”

  “You’re choking me.”

  “You can breathe just fine. Where are we? Answer my questions if you want to live.”

  “You wouldn’t kill—”

  “I don’t think you want to find out. One last time, then I really am going to hurt you: Where the fuck am I?”

  “Someplace you’ll never escape from.”

  I grab a handful of her hair and yank. Her head whips up. She inhales sharply.

  “You’ll never get out of here alive,” she says. “You or your friends.”

  “Bonus question. Answer this and I might let you live: Where is my friend Ashley?”

  She doesn’t answer.

  “I know what you plan on doing to her. I know about the new implants and the injections. Who else is here?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Brave words coming from someone in your position,” I spit. “You should be begging for your life.”

  “You’re just a kid. You won’t hurt me. You can’t. You need me.”

  Doubt begins to trickle in. I don’t know if she’s right about me needing her—maybe I do—but now that she’s got me thinking about it, I realize she’s right about the rest. I’m not a killer.

  “You don’t know who you’re dealing with.”

  “I know you’re with Arc. What do they want with us?”

  She laughs again. “Arc? You just don’t get it, do you?”

  “Then explain it to me.”

  “Maybe you should ask your grandfather. He’s the one responsible for all this.”

  This shocks me for a moment. “I’ve heard that all my life, bitch. It’s nothing I haven’t heard before. Tell me where my friends are.”

  “It’s too late for them,” she says, wheezing as she cough-laughs. “They’re already dead. Just like you.”

  “Oh, I’m very much alive.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  Something happens to me then. Rage swallows me. Fear overwhelms me. I don’t know where it comes from, but when it does, it consumes me.

  I pull her head up. “I told you that you didn’t want to find out what I’m capable of.”

  I rocket my arm straight down, shooting my hand toward the floor. Her head hits with a loud, sickening crack! I can feel the jolt all the way up into my shoulder. She gurgles once, then her chest collapses beneath me.

  And doesn’t rise again.

  Chapter 17

  I don’t know how long I sit in shock on Nurse Mabel before I realize something is dripping down my arm, something warm and sticky. Slowly, my eyes tilt down. I don’t see anything there at first, but then there’s the faintest glistening on my skin. I’m crying. I’m actually crying.

  Except my cheeks are dry.

  I stumble to my feet, gasping, reeling backwards until I hit the bed. It moves out from behind me and rolls away, throwing me onto the floor on my ass. I sit there for several more minutes staring at what I’ve just done.

  I killed someone.

  But I’m not a killer!

  And it’s not tears on my arm, it’s my blood.

  Zombies don’t cry, and they don’t bleed.

  The lying bitch. Why’d she have to lie like that?

  Finally my body begins to react to the knowledge of what it did. It starts to shake with the truth—not the panic or the remorse, but the pleasure. I liked doing it. I just killed someone and I enjoyed the thrill it gave me. What the hell kind of monster have I become?

  Not become, my mind whispers. It’s what you’ve always been.

  Eric knew what I was capable of. That’s why he had me take hapkido. He knew I had a violent streak inside of me. He knew about the pain and the fury I’ve always kept bottled up inside of me.

  Maybe yoga would have been a better choice.

  I let my head drop into my hands. “This is not me,” I moan. “I’m not like this. I’m not a killer.”

  But the proof is lying in a pool of blood in front of me. I let my rage get the better of me and now a
woman lies dead on the floor. I can’t stop staring at her. But neither can I bring myself to wish her back to life. I want her dead. I want her to pay for what she’s done to me.

  She doesn’t move.

  I can’t look at her anymore. I bury my head in my arms and focus instead on my breathing techniques instead.

  Eventually I realize I should be moving. The time on the nurse’s Link tells me it’s past two in the morning. Only a few more hours before dawn and the prep nurse from ArcWare and that man return. I need to find my friends and get away before they do.

  I raise my head.

  Mabel’s head rests in the middle of her congealing blood. Her eyes staring glassily at me, filming over.

  Her jaw twitches.

  It startles me. I stare harder at her face, paralyzed with a mixture of both fear and hope. But it’s just my imagination. She really is dead. She didn’t move. Or, if she did, it’s just her muscles relaxing.

  I get up and untie the bindings from her hands and feet. I can’t stand seeing her like this, her body twisted and drawn to itself, an unnatural pantomime of agony. The IV tubing has sliced into her fat wrists, leaving purple ligature marks that will never heal, not like my own bruises, given time. The catheter I’ve tied around her ankles is stiff and taut, refusing to untie. It reminds me of the zombie fingers that grabbed me in the Midtown tunnel on the way to LI. I shiver and yank on it until it snaps free of her heels. Her feet fall back to the floor with a thuh-thunk. I toss the tubing to the side.

  My neck itches where the hole from my IV has finally clotted. It feels sore, hot. I scrape the dried blood off with my fingernail and glance at the door. I need clothes. Nurse Mabel’s would be both too short and too husky for me. And I don’t want to undress her just so I can be dressed. I need to find the storage closet where she said there’d be clothes.

  I step over the body and bend down to grab the sheet off the floor. It’s covered in blood—some hers, some mine—but it’s better than going out there naked. I shake open it and wrap it around me. The feel of the cold, partially stiffened, blood-soaked fabric makes my skin crawl, but I try not to think about it. Instead, I tuck the corner in under my arm, then tie the IV line around my waist and cinch it snug so I’m not flapping in the breeze.