The Game

by Christopher J. Thomasson

  The Game

  by

  Christopher J Thomasson

  Also by

  Christopher J. Thomasson

  INSPIRATIONS:

  Poetry, Commentary, and Short Stories

  I AM NOBODY:

  a memoir

  NUGGETS:

  A Collection of Micropoetry

  AVERAGE JOE:

  A Novel

  Copyright © 2015 by Christopher J. Thomasson

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this story may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from Christopher J. Thomasson, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages for reviewing purposes.

  This story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, any place, events, or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and storylines are created from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Editor: Erin Schroeder

  Smashwords Edition, License Note

  Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.

  ISBN: 9781311087720

  Part One

  Dust chokes his throat. If there’s anything about this country that he just can’t get used to, it’s the dust. It never ends. Even in the heavily tree-lined mountains (if you can call them trees—where he’s from, trees tower hundreds of feet above the ground—here, they are barely taller than two men), the dust materializes from thin air. It’s so bad he can’t leave the barracks without a bandanna secured around his head to protect his mouth, nose, and lungs. It’s not uncommon for the stuff to gather around the openings of the eyes, nose, and mouth—to mix with the moisture and solidify like concrete. He can only imagine the horrors the stuff is doing inside his lungs.

  But those are thoughts for another day—a day when he can finally sit at home in an air conditioned house, maybe with a loving wife and a few children. A dog would be nice. A good loyal purebred...not like the mangy mongrels found here. These dogs are so skittish he can’t get near them, even with a piece of dried jerky in hand. Briefly, his thoughts turn to his childhood dog, a beautiful Blue Heeler. She was loyal and the best companion a teenager could have. He remembers scratching her ears and saying goodbye to her before leaving for basic training. He remembers the letter he received from his mother six months later, telling him his dog had died.

  Something moves through the scruff of underbrush ahead and he puts a closed fist into the air. The men behind him freeze in place then gracefully begin to fade into their surroundings. In seconds, they disappear—all that gear, all that equipment—it always surprises him at how silent they can be when necessary.

  Robert Daley holds his position, standing motionless in the middle of the overgrown trail. It’s his responsibility to keep his men safe, and that means determining if the noises ahead are a threat. His eyes scan the shadows ahead, his mind now focused on the task and not with those things of the past. He slowly draws his rifle to his shoulder and sweeps the barrel to the left, then back to the right. He can’t see anything threatening but the rustling noises continue from a heavy clump of knotted brush ahead and slightly to the right. The barrel of his rifle automatically adjusts that direction—a product of his training.

  He moves forward, creeping closer to the source of the noise. The brush rustles again as individual leaves and branches move, seemingly of their own will. There is no wind. Has to be a critter of some sort, he thinks. A chipmunk? Maybe a bird building a nest? He’s at the clump of bushes now. Using the rifle’s barrel, he pushes the branches aside. A sudden flutter of wings and feathers erupts in front of him as a bird takes flight, barely missing his face in its haste to escape the intrusion.

  Rob doesn’t flinch—another product of his training.

  He turns to the rear and signals the sign for all clear. His fellow soldiers materialize from the landscape. In the same way they blended into their surroundings a few moments ago—watching them materialize never ceases to amaze him. Seeing it reminds him these men are not just soldiers—they’re magicians.

  His sergeant signals for him to continue on their mission but as Rob turns, the ground below him erupts in golden flames. As quickly as the brain functions, his mind never registers what is happening. In the space of a millisecond, darkness converges on him and wraps him in its unfeeling cloak of silence.

  * * *

  “Hey everybody, come look at this!”

  Paul feels the crowd push closer and he fidgets nervously. His eyes dart away from the screen—the distraction is brief, but it’s almost enough to kill his virtual character. They continue to press in and he finds it harder to breath. The odor wafting from their bodies threatens to send him into an asthmatic fit. He tries to ignore them and concentrate on the game.

  The arcade is noisy. Kids shriek in delight or disgust at the games they are playing—sometimes it’s hard to tell the two apart.

  Other than the children, all the other noises are artificial. To the right are the racing games—the kind where the player can actually sit in a mockup of an actual racecar. Revving engines, squealing tires, and wrecking vehicles add to the mix of noise. To the left are the kiddie games with lots of flashing lights, carnival music, and ringing bells. Here in the center of the arcade, where Paul is currently playing, are all the war games. Grenades explode, rifles pop, and machine guns clatter in symphony to the artificial sound of dying men. As noisy as it can be, Paul can barely hear any of it now. The slight distraction he felt a few seconds ago is now gone, replaced by such a deep concentration that the surrounding auditory flood barely registers in his mind—like hearing the ocean in a sea shell.

  Like gas fumes tickling an open flame, news of Paul’s potential feat sparks an vague curiosity in those present. Some leave their games unfinished, just to see what the commotion is all about.

  An Act of War’s concave screen stretches approximately eight feet from the floor and wraps 150 degrees around Paul. Players stand in front of the screen using black plastic, wireless sub-machine guns. While two players can play the game simultaneously, Paul is playing alone, but in two-player mode—holding a gun in each hand.

  There are endless levels of war playing out on screen. Like most games of this nature, the objective is for the player to shoot his or her way through the enemy and survive as long as possible, thereby gaining the highest score. Since the game’s arrival a few months before, Paul and several friends have made it a personal challenge to knock A.M.Y. off the top of the leaderboard. They have no idea who A.M.Y. is, but that doesn’t deter them from wanting their own name at the top. So far, Paul’s come the closest. His initials fill four of the top five spots.

  But he wants that top spot.

  It might be a vicious rumor, but the word is there’s a hidden contest associated with An Act of War. Whoever beats A.M.Y. wins not only a copy of the game to play at home, but a cash price too. How much? Nobody seems to know. As far as Paul is concerned, the contest isn’t legit either. It doesn’t matter to him one-way or the other, he just wants to see his initials in that top spot. That, in itself, is satisfying enough.

  “Level fifteen,” someone shouts behind him, “He's made it to fifteen!”

  “Who cares,” says another voice, some girl standing behind him and to his right. “It’s not about the level, it’s about the score.”

  A few seconds later, someone begins to chant, “Paul, Paul, Paul, Paul...”

  * * *

  Near the front of the building is the main counter. It’s full
of stuffed animals and cheap plastic toys—and each display has a large number written on a plastic card in front of it—the bigger the toy, the larger the number. Many of the games provide tickets based on scores and levels reached during gameplay. The more tickets a person wins, the better the toy he or she can trade.

  Behind the counter, Mr. Ervin, the arcade’s owner, steps into a small office. The chanting of Paul’s name gets louder and louder each passing second. He plops down into a chair behind the desk and stares at the telephone. He contemplates not making this phone call, but if he doesn’t, they will still discover what’s going on here. If he doesn’t make the call, he could lose everything.

  He reaches out a shaking hand and plucks the handset from the cradle. Ordinarily, he would have discarded the outdated phone years ago, but landlines are still the safest and most secure method of holding a conversation. He dials slowly—from memory, using a number that’s been imbedded in his mind for years now.

  Somebody picks up after the second ring.

  “Yes.”

  “Mr. Singleton?” he asks, voice shaking in time with his hands. He pulls the phone away and clears his throat.

  “Ah, yes, Mr. Ervin. How may I help you?”

  Why with the stupid, rhetorical questions, Ervin thinks. He knows why I’m calling.

  “I think I’ve got someone about to beat the high score on An Act of War.” A chorus of amplified cheers echo through the building. “Or maybe he just did…”

  “Very interesting, Mr. Ervin. I'll be there shortly.” Singleton terminates the call and Ervin replaces his end of the phone in the cradle. Something about talking to Singleton always makes him uneasy. The man has never been untoward or rude in any form, but Ervin always gets the impression that the man is hiding something. His eyes are always cold and never mirror the polite, good-natured tone of voice.

  Ervin exits the office and joins the crowd surrounding Paul. He cheers and celebrates with everyone but despite his outward, cheerful demeanor, he keeps a wary eye on the front door for Mr. Singleton.

  * * *

  Paul has never heard such cheering in his life. The game speakers still echo the last gunshots, but the cheering crowd around him drowns out the sound. They’re cheering for him...for him! Paul Gest, seventeen-year-old computer geek, school nerd, voted most likely to never marry by the senior class, never won a thing in his life, and now look at him. He’s the object of all this attention.

  Suddenly, George Ervin is standing in front of him, violently pumping his hand up and down. He’s a short fellow with thinning hair and a beard, once dark brown, but now sprinkled with more white than anything. All the kids love him. The large gap between his two front teeth causes him to whistle when he speaks, making all the kids giggle. Paul’s known him since he was young. Mr. Ervin (or, Whistling George as most of the kids call him) is kind of like the hometown preacher, always been here, always will be.

  “Congratulations, Paul. Congratulations!” George leads him through the throng of people and to the front counter.

  Someone shouts, “Paul, you forgot to put your name in the machine!”

  “Excuse me a second, will you, Mr. Ervin?”

  “Sure, sure, go ahead.”

  * * *

  As Paul moves back through the crowd, Aaron Singleton steps off the sidewalk and into the arcade. George sees him enter and a feeling of foreboding settles in the pit of his stomach. Singleton’s head swivels, taking in the room, his artificial smile beaming false amusement. Ervin sees that grin from across the room and he thinks it would look more appropriate on the head of a demon than on Aaron Singleton.

  Back at the game, Paul uses one of the plastic guns to shoot at a large alphabet on screen. He can choose up to six letters but he settles on just his name and an exclamation point—the four letters written in all caps. He shoots the submit selection and the screen immediately switches to the leaderboard.

  And there’s his name, right at the top: PAUL! It’s official. The crowd roars louder than ever and Paul covers his ears for the noise. He pushes his way back to the front where Mr. Ervin is conversing quietly with a tall, gray haired man. Paul’s never seen him before.

  “Paul Gest?” The man sticks out his hand. Paul grabs it and immediately wishes he hadn’t—it is soft, clammy, and something doesn’t feel right about the way the man’s bones feel under the skin. The bones don’t give and move like a normal person’s—they are rigid and hard.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Just call him Paul,” George pipes up. “Everyone else does.”

  Paul glances at Mr. Ervin. Something in his voice is—off.

  “Paul,” he says, as if trying the word on his lips for the very first time. He glances around the arcade, then turns to George. “Is there a quiet place where we can talk, George?”

  “Sure.” He leads them behind the counter and shows them into his office. “Make yourself at home, Mr. Singleton.”

  As Paul crosses the threshold, George tries to enter behind him, but Singleton is there, shutting the door in his face. “If you don't mind, George, I'd like to speak to the boy alone.”

  “Oh, sure, Mr. Singleton. Go right ahead.” Mr. Ervin smiles, but the contrasting glare in his eyes tell Paul that Mr. Ervin doesn’t appreciate being shut out of his own office.

  As Singleton turns to the boy, he pulls a folded piece of paper from inside his jacket. “Paul, would you mind signing this for me?''

  “What is it?” Paul is curious, but wary too.

  “It's just a form saying that you give us permission to use your name and likeness for advertisement purposes. It's no big thing. Your parents don't even have to sign it.” His big grin and the twinkle in his eye look genuine enough, but Paul remembers the handshake—he still can’t quite figure out what’s wrong with the man.

  But why would Singleton want to harm him? They don’t know each other and neither of them have given the other any reason for discord. Maybe that’s what Singleton’s deal is—he’s a businessman, accustomed to guarding company secrets behind a rough facade. Or maybe he’s military. At any rate, Paul’s spent his entire life doing well by his parents, and by God, this is his moment to shine. Paul takes a pen off the desk and signs his name where Singleton indicates at the bottom of the page.

  “Good boy,” says Singleton, patting Paul on the shoulder. It sounds to Paul as if Singleton is talking to a dog instead of a person, and just like that, he wishes he could take the last three seconds of his life back—to un-sign the form.

  “Now, of all the games in the arcade, which of them would you like to have?”

  Paul perks up. “You mean the rumors are true?”

  “Of course they are,” Singleton says. “I started them.”

  Paul looks around at the office, “But…isn’t this Mr. Ervin's place? Shouldn't he be asking me this?”

  “Yes, Mr. Ervin owns the arcade,” He sweeps a hand toward the wall, indicating the arcade beyond. “…but my company is the one sponsoring the contest and has the majority interest in the games. You won’t be taking an actual game from Mr. Ervin—you’ll receive a new one straight from my factory.”

  “Cool.”

  “Well? Which one?”

  Paul looks away, thinking. “I'd really like the one I was playing...”

  Singleton cocks his head curiously, “But?”

  Paul says, “But…I've heard other rumors that there are some better games in a basement somewhere on this block. I've heard that they hire kids sometimes to test them out. Is this true?”

  The older man pauses, pondering his answer. “Yes, Paul, there is such a place.”

  “Can I have one of the games there? I mean, since you’re going to give me a new one anyway, why should I be limited to the ones here?”

  Singleton laughs. “Well, aren’t you the entrepreneur?” He takes a seat in Mr. Ervin’s desk chair. “Most of the machines there are near completion and ready to put into arcades, so I don't see why you can't choose from those as we
ll. But it may take a couple extra weeks to get it to you.”

  “Oh, that's okay. I don't mind waiting. I'd just like to see what's down there.”

  “There's just one thing I need you to do first.”

  “Yes, sir.” Anything, Paul thinks. He just want to see the new games.

  “I need you to sign a non-disclosure agreement. You can’t discuss any of the details or ideas behind those games, or even that you have knowledge that those games even exist.”

  “Didn’t I just sign something like that?”

  “Well, no actually. As I said, that was a release form giving us permission to use your name and likeness…uh…photograph, in our advertising campaigns. This form is an agreement that you will not reveal any secrets about my gaming technology.”

  “Sure,” Paul says, thinking, what’s the worst that can happen? “Where do I sign?”

  * * *

  Evan Crowe watches helplessly as the hillside erupts in flames. He’s not sure what Rob set off, but all hell broke loose. A ball of fire engulfs his friend. Luckily, as soon as the flames explode outward, the fire extinguishes itself—as if it used all the oxygen and died, like a living thing. Crowe and the others hit the dirt and wait a few beats before moving. He expected gunfire, but none came.

  “Booby trap,” someone whispers behind him. Evan shifts position so he can look to the rear. His sergeant gives him a go on gesture. He doesn’t hesitate. He scrambles up the hill to Rob’s still body. Still no gunfire, and that’s a good thing. He leans over his friend, expecting the worse.