The Game

by Christopher J. Thomasson

  He removes his fingers and blinks against the pain. Movement to his left catches his eye. There’s a man there—then two men. Both are heavily armed—guns trained on him.

  There’s no doubting where he is now. He’s in the simulator—the game. He turns to the right. Four more men are there. He rises from the ground, gun hanging loose by his side. He looks to the sky, knowing that somewhere beyond the illusion is a camera.

  He shouts, “Singleton!”

  Again, the pain floods his mind. He presses his palm to his forehead. The sound of gunfire erupts around him. He can feel a sudden flare of pain in his left thigh. Another gunshot and another blossom of pain in his right shoulder. He screams and the sound of his voice builds and builds within himself. More gunshots—more wounds—more pain. He falls to his knees. Twenty men surround him now. Each one opens fire—the bullets cutting flaming caves through his body and still, the echoing reverberations crush against his skull.

  He falls to the ground, whimpering like a sick puppy.

  Then finally—silence.

  * * *

  Singleton and Georgia drive away, leaving Paul on the corner of Fifth and Vine. His apartment is only a few blocks away and he enjoys the quiet stroll home. He’ll probably never see the two of them ever again—and that’s fine by him. He and Rob want to put this chapter of their lives behind him.

  Speaking of Rob, Paul thinks, you sure have been quiet these last few days.

  In fact, the last time Paul remembers hearing Rob was back at General Potter’s research facility—when Paul turned over control of his body to Rob so Rob could have the satisfaction of lighting the first match—of watching first-hand as the facility burned to the ground.

  I’m still here, Buddy.

  Are you okay?

  I’m okay…I’m just tired.

  So am I.

  Paul walks a few hundred paces, then thinks, I guess the game’s over, huh?

  His footsteps are near silent. Behind him, the moon emerges from hiding behind a silver-lined cloud. Its light throws his shadow onto the sidewalk in front of him.

  He senses Rob’s mental nod of ascension.

  Yes, Rob thinks. The game’s over.

  To my dear readers:

  I developed a passion for reading at an early age, but at one point, I had to start transferring the story lines and plot ideas in my own head down onto the written page. For many years, I only wrote for myself, never really believing that someone else might enjoy the stories I have to tell. So here I am, many years later, sharing my imagination with others and wandering why I never started this earlier in life. There’s such a release, a feeling of completeness when I get to the end of a story.

  Thank you so much for spending these last few hours with me and The Game. In closing, I have a request. Independent, self-published authors rely on word of mouth and an honest review of their work in order to sell their stories. So, if you enjoyed The Game, won’t you please take a moment to leave me a review at your favorite online retailer? As a token of my gratitude, please enjoy an excerpt from my upcoming full-length novel, The Gravedigger.

  -Christopher J. Thomasson

  Excerpt from

  The Gravedigger

  “You ready, Gringo?”

  Steven can’t help but smile—even his parents have taken to calling him by his nickname and he can’t figure out how it happened. Maybe they heard his friend Eduardo calling him Gringo. Or maybe they do it knowing how much he misses his friend—their way of reminding him they care how he feels. Whatever the reasons, he appreciates their efforts.

  He throws a couple of pairs of wool socks into his backpack and calls out, “Almost, dad.”

  His dad appears in the doorway. His white skin is blatant contrast to the mop of ginger hair sticking up in all directions on his head.

  “Come on, dad. Aren’t you going to brush your hair?”

  Bill rolls his eyes upward, a comedic attempt to look at his hair through his head. “What's wrong with my hair?”

  “Dad!”

  “Dude,” he says, trying to give his best impression of a surfer. “That's what a hat is for.”

  At the mention of the word hat, Steven remembers that he hadn’t packed his own hat. He rummages through a pile of clothes on the far side of his bed and finds it hidden underneath.

  “You ready now?”

  Rolling his eyes, “Yes, dad. I'm ready now.” He approaches his dad, spins him around, and then forces him down the hallway toward the kitchen at the other end of the house. His mom stands in the kitchen, leaning against one of the counters. She has a box of glazed donuts in her hands and holds them out to Bill.

  She says, “Now you will be back in time for church Sunday morning?” The way she says it is more of an order than a question.

  “Yes, honey.” Bill kisses her.

  “Did you pack plenty of water?”

  “Yes, honey,” he says, kissing her again.

  “What about underwear?”

  "Yes, honey,” he kisses her a third time.

  “Dad!” shouts Steven, a little too loudly. “I thought you were ready to go?”

  “Okay, okay. Hold your horses, Son.” He kisses her a fourth time. “Now we can go.”

  They file past her, snatch donuts from the open box, step through the utility room, and out the door that leads to the garage. They pile into the car and, with a wave to the lady of the house, Bill backs out into the street.

  The weekend hunting trip is under way.

  * * *

  It’s The Gringo’s third hunting trip and he’s sure this time will be different. Third time’s a charm, his dad had said when they started planning the weekend getaway. On his previous trips, he had seen two doe, one during each trip. Unfortunately, they couldn’t shoot them; his dad had not purchased doe permits. But this time will be different— he’s sure of it. This time they’ll see a big buck and he’ll have his first hunting trophy in addition to all the meat. He can already taste his dad’s homemade deer jerky.

  He looks over at his dad. Their activities have increased over the past few months and Steven knows why. He had been so upset and distraught over Eduardo’s family moving that the only thing his parents could think of to do was take him places all the time in an attempt to distract him. For the most part, their attempts at distraction worked, but then there are times like this, when the radio is the only thing denting the silence. Neither he nor his dad speak for a long while so Steven spends the quit with the memories of his friend.

  Eduardo has only been gone a few months, and he’s beginning to experience the numbing effect that time and distance put on a friendship. It’s getting to the point that he’s already beginning to forget what Eduardo looks like. The memories in his head grow faint and blur more with each day. He would have to look at a snapshot of the two of them to remind him that that part of his past is not just a fading dream. It’s a strange feeling to know someone for more than a year, to draw as close as brothers, and then to have time and distance dissolve those memories like sugar in water. The taste is still there, but the physical substance is gone.

  “I miss Eduardo, Dad.”

  Bill takes is eyes from the road, quickly glances at his son, and then back to the road again—as if evaluating his son’s emotional state of mind before moving the conversation forward in a particular direction. “I know you do, Son. But sometimes there’s nothing we can do to change a situation. It’s all in God’s hands and if it’s His will, you’ll see Eduardo again.” He pauses for a minute and another mile of road unrolls in front of them. Then he continues, “When I was young, there were very few people that I came into contact with that I didn’t see again sometime while I was growing up. In fact, I can remember one friend that—kind of like Eduardo—moved out of state during my freshman year of high school. Do you know that a few years later when I went to college, he came back to Texas and went to the same university that I did?”

  Even at such a young age, Steven realizes his
father doesn’t really want an answer.

  “We started at the same time but it was the second semester before we ever ran into each other.”

  “Really?”

  “Yup. And we're still good friends to this day. So you can never give up hope that God will one day bring you and your friend back together.”

  “So you really think that I'll see Eduardo again?”

  “Gringo.” He pauses, thinking. He snickers and asks, “Do you really like that name?”

  “Yeah, Dad. I do.”

  “It’s just...”

  “Just what?”

  He shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s just funny, I guess.”

  “That’s the whole point, Dad.”

  Bill glances over again and smiles. Steven, for the first time, notices the lines that crease the corners of his dad’s eyes. His red hair is lighter than it used to be—thinner too. His goatee, always a dark crimson, is now speckled with course white strands of hair. In fact, there’s almost more white than red now.

  Boy, he’s getting old. Steven turns to look out the window just in case his facial expressions give away his thoughts even though he knows there’s no way his dad can read his mind.

  There comes a point in life when the realization that each and every individual on this planet is born to die. Some individuals find out about mortality earlier than others—no two people are the same. In some situations, a close friend or relative passes away, leaving more questions about life and death than there are answers. In other instances, such as now, those questions come out of nowhere and hit with the full force of surprise. He turns back to his dad’s profile and realizes that his dad would not be here forever—that one day, his dad will die—and his mom would die too—that all of them would die one day! Again, he turns his face to the window, this time to hide the sudden tears forming in his eyes. With the tears come the sniffles—and those are a lot harder to hide.

  His dad places a hand on his shoulder. “What's wrong, buddy?”

  He tries to think of something to say, something other than what has been spinning through his head. “Dad, if we see a deer...”

  “Yes?”

  “I just....I just.” He hates feeling helpless; this feeling that everything in the world can turn on him and bring a fresh river of tears. It’s so embarrassing and he wants it to stop; he doesn’t want to lose control of his emotions. He’s a young man and young men don’t act like little girls.

  He remembers when Eduardo sat across from him in the hallway outside the principal’s office. Eduardo may have looked toward the floor to gather his thoughts, but when he looked up, the tears were already there—staining his cheeks. He hadn’t been ashamed to cry—and to do it in front of a virtual stranger—a stranger that had stood up to him in a crowded playground. Eduardo was the biggest kid he knew—had known —and Eduardo had not been ashamed of his tears because he knew what he’d done to Emily was wrong.

  If Eduardo was unashamed of his tears, then by all means, The Gringo shouldn’t be ashamed either.

  “You just what, Son?” His dad’s hand moves from his shoulder to his head and gently rubs his hair.

  “It just hit me, Dad. I see the white hair in your beard and the creases around your eyes and I thought...”

  “Yes?”

  “I realized that you...that I...that everyone...is going to die some day.”

  His dad smiles and tousles his hair. “I don’t think going anywhere for quite some time though, so don’t you worry about it, okay?”

  “Really? But how do you know that?”

  His dad turns to the road as a couple of cars pass them in the other lane, heading in the opposite direction. He sighs and says, “To be honest, Son. I don't know. None of us knows when our time here is up.”

  “Are you afraid to die, dad?”

  With no pause whatsoever, he says, “Nope.”

  “Really? Why?” He can’t think of a single reason why anyone wouldn’t be afraid of dying.

  “Son, why do you think we make a habit of going to church every Sunday?”

  The car slows and Bill steers onto a dirt track. The cabin on their deer lease sits about a mile ahead of them, down the dirt track through the forest.

  “To study Jesus’ life and how to live our lives like His?”

  “Yes, that’s part of it...uh-oh.”

  “What?”

  His dad points at the dirt road ahead of them. A large tree has fallen, blocking the way. He throws the transmission into park and the two of them climb from the car. Even though the log is large, it’s a shell of a long-dead tree and breaks apart easily. They make quick work of moving it and have the road cleared within a few minutes.

  As they climb back into the car, his dad asks, “Do you remember the first verse that your mom and I taught you?”

  “John 3:16?”

  “Yup. That’s the one. I’m sure you hear it a lot at church don’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Have you ever really sat back and thought about the words to that verse? About what it actually means as a Christian?”

  They pull up to the cabin and park.

  “I guess I haven’t really thought about it.”

  His dad quotes, “For God so loved the world, that he gave his only Son, that whoever believes in him should not perish but have eternal life.” He opens his side of the car and slides out. Steven does the same and they meet at the trunk to gather their overnight bags and rifle cases. “I’m not sure how much you have learned in Sunday School and I have to admit, I shouldn’t have waited so long to discuss this with you—that verse may sound like it’s about death, but it’s not.”

  They heft their supplies into the cabin and Bill goes around the main room lighting candles and gas lanterns as he continues speaking. “When I was your age, I always focused on the word perish and I was always under the assumption that the verse is referring to death. What God did was send His Son to Earth to be the vessel for all our sins. He died on the cross for our sins so that if we accept Him as our Lord and Savior, the blood He shed covers our sins and we will be able to live for all eternity with Him.”

  They both go outside and gather wood for the fireplace and the wood-burning stove. “Does that make sense to you, Son?”

  “Yes, sir. I know all that. Remember? I accepted Christ as my savior at youth camp a couple of years ago.”

  “I know. But what I’m trying to explain to you is why I’m not afraid of death. Remember your question? You asked me if I was afraid to die.”

  Yes, he did ask that very question, but with the tree limb, unloading the car, getting the cabin ready for the night, and the talk about John 3:16, he forgot what had actually brought them to this discussion in the first place. He nods. “Yes, I remember.”

  “Well that verse is the why. What Jesus did for me on the cross is why I’m not afraid of death.” He adds a starter log to the fireplace and strikes a match to light it. The dim light dances across his face, accenting the hollows of his eyes. For the briefest of moments, Steven believes he can see beyond the skin and muscle of his dad’s face; he thinks he can see right to his dad’s skull. A shiver runs up his spine and his arms break out in goose bumps.

  “Do you understand now?” He asks.

  Steven nods again. “Yes, I believe so.”

  “That’s good,” says his dad. “Now break out that pot and let’s get some beans and bacon cooking. How's that sound.”

  That sounds just fine to him.

  * * *

  The wind whispers through the trees as the sun sinks slowly toward the horizon. Its light bleeds across the scattered clouds, painting their edges with threads of red, orange, yellow, and gold. He and his dad sit on the ground, their backs pressed to the rough bark of two of the largest pine trees Steven has ever seen. Layers of pine needles cover the forest floor with a soft cushioned blanket, their years of weight choking out only the most resilient of underbrush. The pine trees stand close enough to provide ample shade,
but far enough apart to give the hunters multiple shooting lanes in every direction.

  So far, they have only seen a couple of white-tailed doe. And as with their first two hunting trips, his dad opted out of purchasing doe permits so when a small herd wondered through, all they can do is watch and admire their gracefulness.

  But today ended up being different. Steven hears movement down the hill from where he sits. It’s a buck. Luckily, the wind sweeps up the hill, so the buck does not realize that two hunters are just a few yards away. Steven slowly lifts his rifle and puts the scope to his eye. The scope’s magnification is set so high and the deer is so close, that its image fills his view. He adjusts the rifle, shifting it upward so he can look below the scope and down the iron sights on the barrel of the gun. Much better, he thinks.

  He lines the sights on an area just behind the deer’s massive shoulders and squeezes the trigger. Thunder echoes through the forest—the gunshot is louder than he expected. He lowers the gun and watches the deer. It just stands there. Its ears twitch once, its head lowers, and then it falls to the soft bed of pine with a solid thump.

  Steven scrambles to his feet and rushes down the hill, leaving his rifle on the ground next to the pine where he’d been sitting for the past hour. His heart pounds hard in his chest, beating in time to his short legs as they take him down the hill toward the fallen deer. He wouldn’t realize it for several minutes, but fat drops of tears pore from his eyes. He tries to stop before he reaches the fallen buck, but his feet slip on the pine needles and he slides toward the deer on his knees.

  From behind him, his dad shouts, “Stay back! Don't touch it!” But there’s nothing Steven can do, his momentum is too great, the pine needles too slick, and the incline too steep for him to gain any control over his slide. He collides with the deer and comes to a stop. He immediately scrambles away, remembering his father’s warning lesson from their first hunting adventure a few weeks before: Always approach the deer slowly. Their horns and hooves are sharp weapons and if the bullet doesn’t kill them right away, they still have that fighting instinct and will lash out at you. You have to make sure they are dead before you approach, okay?