Twelve times the lights go out; twelve times her ghoulish face appears inches from my own; twelve times I try to kill her with something; twelve times she doesn’t die; twelve times she screams “RUN!”; twelve times I run like my pants are on fire; twelve times I get lost; twelve times I feel her arctic claw reach inside my rib cage and rip my heart out.
Twelve flipping times I want to give up and yell out my return code frequency. But I’m not a quitter. I remember when I was little, maybe eight years old, and I was playing a Zelda game on Dad’s old Nintendo. It took me twenty-eight attempts to beat Ganon, the final boss at the end. I remember begging my dad to fight the battle for me, but all he said was, “Keep at it, Nixinator. Each time you try, you sweeten the victory.” And it was true. That twenty-ninth attempt—that successful attempt—was so incredibly delicious that I jumped on my bed for ten minutes afterward out of pure happiness.
As I prepare for my lucky—ha ha—thirteenth try, I tap into my inventory once again and try desperately to think of some trick, some new thing, something “out of the box” to defeat the Hag of Olay, but once again I don’t have time to think. The lights go out and the ghoulfriend’s in my face again screaming “RUN!”
I haven’t even armed myself this time. I access my inventory and grab the first weapon I can get to. I look down to find the potato gun in my hands. Oh for God’s sake.
It’s so absurd I start laughing. I look right into the banshee’s red eyes and only flinch slightly. I’ve looked into her hideous face so many times now I’m getting used to it. Might as well skip to the chase at this point, or skip the chase altogether, as the case happens to be. “Go ahead,” I say, sticking out my chest. “Just rip it right out.”
We both stand there for a moment—technically, I guess, the banshee floats—and engage in an intense staring contest. I am really good at this game, honed by hours of matches with Moose during eighth-grade study hall. I blow a puff of air into her eyes, and her icy eyelids flutter. “Made you blink,” I sing, mainly to amuse myself while I wait for the heart snatchery that is to come.
Only it doesn’t.
The banshee backs away from me and the lights go back on. I remove my night-vision goggles and see the white wall swallow her up until only her face is showing . . . her horrible, witchy face, which slowly transforms back into my favorite smiling, well-moisturized lady.
“Checkpoint complete,” says the soothing robotic voice. “Checkpoint complete.”
I’m almost too stunned to move.
I don’t know what happened back there, but I’m pretty sure I can now add Blinking Contest Goddess to my college applications.
A door in the white wall slides open and I see what looks like a room full of Meeple on the other side.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mutter, stepping tentatively across the threshold and looking around in wonder.
Yep. I’m in a bar.
Not just any bar either, but a really swank one populated by happy, beautiful Meeple, sitting at a long, glossy counter and raising shiny glasses at each other. They all look fabulous in a sort of half-retro, half-exotic way, like we’re at some kind of tropical sock hop. Some of the Meeple are speaking English and others are speaking Spanish, I think, unless it’s Italian. Or Portuguese. Obviously I need to pay more attention to Señora Jorgen in Español III.
“Welcome to the Floridita. What can I get for you, señorita?” asks a nice-looking, red-coated bartender.
I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. My brain can’t seem to wrap itself around the fact that A) I’m out of immediate danger, and B) I’m in a bar, for Pete’s sake, and apparently, no one’s going to card me.
“Mix the girl a daiquiri, Chucho, and put it on my bill,” says a big, white-haired, white-bearded guy from the end of the bar. He gives me a flirtatious wink, then turns back to the man sitting next to him. I know it’s rude to stare, even if they are Meeple, but I can’t help it. Both men look so familiar.
“Is that—?” I say, hoisting myself onto a bar stool.
Chucho starts pouring rum, lime juice, ice, and something else into a shaker. “Señor Hemingway, sí. Ernesto’s a regular here and he often brings his American guests, like Señor Tracy there.”
I nod, remembering now. We had to read some of Ernest Hemingway’s short stories last year in English class. They were my favorites. Nice and lean, not a lot of extra words. After the dark hell that was Nathaniel Hawthorne’s Scarlet Letter, Hemingway’s stories seemed pleasingly crisp and clean.
“He can buy me a drink and wink at me anytime. He’s earned it,” I say to Chucho, whose Meeple script doesn’t know how to respond to this last utterance of mine.
Chucho just smiles at me and shakes my drink in a metal canister. I like the sound it makes.
“And Señor Tracy?” I ask, not recognizing the name. “Who is he?”
“That is Spencer Tracy, señorita, the big movie star from America!”
“Oh, right,” I say, taking another glance down at the end of the bar. No wonder I had a hard time placing him. I’ve only seen Spencer Tracy in black-and-white movies, when it’s Chang’s turn to choose the lineup for our weekly Friday-night TV binge.
Chucho slides me a martini glass filled with an icy lime-green concoction. Even though you can’t taste things in the MEEP, it feels impolite not to take a sip.
I do, and nearly choke. “I can taste this!” I exclaim, making the men chuckle at the end of the bar.
“Chucho makes very good daiquiri, no?” says Chucho himself, his eyebrows raised in question.
“It’s delicioso,” I assure him, then take another sip of the cold liquid, sweet and tart at the same time. How is this possible?
“Chucho, where are we? Is this Miami?” I ask, looking around at the smartly dressed Meeple, especially the women with their beehive hairdos and penciled eyebrows. “And when are we, for that matter?”
“Señorita, we are in the one and only Havana, Cuba. The year is 1958. Another drink?”
“No, no thank you,” I say, finishing off the last few drops of my daiquiri and hopping off the stool. Thankfully, I don’t feel tipsy at all from the virtual alcohol; I’ve wasted enough time. I need to figure out what the hell is going on, and fast. If this is the custom world that Wyn has created, he’ll be here somewhere. I spin a quick 360 to take a good look at the rest of the bar. There are two doors in the back, including the one I came through, and another big door in front.
“So that’s Havana out there?” I ask, pointing my chin toward the front door.
“Sí, señorita.”
I smile at Chucho. He is starting to look familiar too, somehow. “Anything I need to worry about out there? Anything . . . dangerous?” I ask, trying to remember the date of the Cuban Revolution. Maybe Wyn’s fantasy is to be some Che Guevara revolutionary type.
“No, no, a few tough guys here and there, but they shouldn’t bother you,” Chucho says. “You go to the Tropicana, watch a show, maybe dance a little. Tell the doorman Chucho sent you and he’ll take care of you, no worries.”
I look at Chucho’s smooth coffee-with-cream complexion, his warm brown eyes, his long lashes. Maybe I’ve seen him in an old movie too? I look a little longer and then it hits me. He’s the spitting image of Mama Beti. Younger, and male, of course, but the similarities are definitely there. This has to be Wyn’s custom world.
“You don’t happen to know a guy named Wyn Salvador, do you?” I ask the smiling bartender.
“Claro que sí, señorita, Wyn is a regular around here. Nice fellow.”
Bingo. “Do you know where he is now?”
Chucho looks at his watch. “No, but come back again tomorrow. I tell him to wait for you here, Señorita—?” he asks, waiting for my name.
“No need, Chucho! Gracias!” I say, showing off one of the few Spanish vocab words I can remember a
t the moment. “Adios!” I add, to further impress him with my fluency.
I wave to Ernesto and Spencer and head through the front door. I’m shocked to realize it’s nighttime, and I wonder if this MEEP’s time zone has been synced to real world time. If so, I’ve been gone longer than I thought.
I’m at the corner of an intersection, where streetlights and headlights and neon signs light up the tall, balconied buildings lining the streets. The cars are big and wide and old-timey, with giant chrome fenders and hood ornaments, and painted with pretty pastel colors. Meeple stroll the streets, smiling and laughing, like they’re all off to a party and not just strings of code. The air is warm, but a cool breeze blows, smelling of the sea. Again, I am astounded. I can smell things in this MEEP, feel and taste things. I’m also confused. I have no idea where to go, or how this world has been mapped. Also, given the dozens of Meeple walking around, Wyn could easily hide himself among them.
I start following a group of young Meeple up the street. The young men are dressed in lightweight suits and ties, while the girls wear smoking-hot dresses that cling to their curves. Maybe they’ll lead me to Wyn. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about levelling teenage boys, it’s this: when in doubt, follow the hot girls.
We turn down a few more streets and now I can hear music throbbing from several clubs—bongo drums, maracas, and pianos all at once. I wonder if one of these clubs might be the Tropicana place that Chucho mentioned.
“Don’t turn around,” says a gruff voice from behind me as I feel cold metal on the back of my neck. “Keep walking and keep quiet.”
“Oh please,” I mutter under my breath. I was almost enjoying this custom MEEP world, but now I’m being mugged by some virtual Cuban thug. Oh well, it’s better than a shark tank, and maybe this will lead me to Wyn. He’s probably made himself a mob boss or something.
“Where are we going?” I ask, as he pushes me down a narrow alley. “And do they serve daiquiris there?” I joke, more for my own amusement than his. Most Meeple have a limited capacity to understand sarcasm.
“In there,” the voice says, directing me toward a door at the end of the alley. I open the door and the thug pushes me through a dark hallway and into another room. It appears to be a dressing room, and by the looks of the clothing strewn about, the woman who dresses here wears a lot of sequins, feathers, and . . . not much else.
“This must be your mother’s room,” I remark, wondering how the MEEP thug will reply.
“My mother’s dead, but she preferred cottons while she was alive.”
I twirl around then, not caring about the gun on my neck. Meeple don’t talk like that. I recognize him immediately and fury overwhelms me.
“Wyn Salvador, you little pantywaist,” I say, and charge him, despite the gun aimed directly at my head.
NINE
SURPRISE IS ON MY SIDE, FORTUNATELY, BECAUSE WYN SALVADOR isn’t quite the pantywaist I just called him. I’m tall, but he’s still got several inches of height on me, and seems pretty athletic.
I’ve got speed, though, and I know where to land a kick.
I kick hard.
The blow makes him drop the gun, which I snatch up and aim at his head this time.
“Your twisted game is over now,” I say, as he slumps back against the wall and contemplates me. “I suggest you activate your return frequency this minute before I shoot you back home.”
“Who are you?” he asks in a demanding tone, his face unreadable.
“Doesn’t matter,” I say, waving the gun at him. “You’re wanted home immediately. Your family’s been worried sick about you while you run around in your playground like a little brat.”
His face changes now and I see anger in his brown eyes. He has the same chocolaty eyes as Mama Beti and Chucho. “What do you know about my family? Who sent you here?” he demands, straightening and taking a step forward.
“Your father hired me.” I sigh, exasperated by the time we’re wasting. “And I’m ready to collect my paycheck, so let’s move it, bad boy.”
Wyn stares at me in disbelief. “My father hired you? A teenage girl?” he asks.
It takes all of my self-control not to give Wyn Salvador another swift kick. I keep steady, but can’t stop my mouth from tearing into him. “Yes, he did, in fact, hire me, a girl. Nobody else could get through your creepy maze, you freak show, and believe me, you’re making me sorry I ever tried. Next time you run away, maybe you should think about all the people you’re hurting first. Like Mama Beti. She’s been sitting by your bedside night and day, you know, missing you, not to mention your dad and all the guilt he feels from your suicide note, or whatever it was.”
As I yell, Wyn’s face turns from anger to confusion. “They think I ran away?”
“Well, didn’t you?”
Wyn doesn’t answer my question. Instead he walks toward me, ignoring the gun, and grabs my shoulders. “Take me back right now. Show me how to go home.” His face is scary intense and he’s making me nervous.
“Wait—what for?” Now I’m confused.
He lets out a frustrated grunt. “Show me how you got in.”
“I told you, I went through your damn maze.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. A maze? Where? How does it work? Can we go back through it?” he asks, his hands still gripping my shoulders, his face inches from mine.
The maze . . .
I remember that flame-eyed witch ripping through my skin—the burn of her icy-cold fingers. If I have to feel that one more time, I . . .
I pull away from him. “No way. I am not going through that again. Look, just reverse whatever frequency you used to get here in the first place.”
“Don’t you think I’ve tried that?” he asks, his dark eyes flashing at me. “I’m trapped here. I’ve been trying to escape for days. Somebody’s keeping me imprisoned here and I don’t know why. Now show me the maze. Please. I’ve tried everything else I can think of.”
I open my mouth, then close it again. So Wyn wants to go home?
The story of the wayward billionaire’s son just got a little more interesting, but I decide to wait and ask for details once we get home. Right now we’re on a tight schedule.
“What if I just shoot you?” I ask, waving the gun at him. “Maybe that will reset you back at the Landing.”
Wyn shakes his head impatiently and taps his temple with his forefinger like it’s the barrel of a gun. “Tried it. Doesn’t work. I just blank out for a minute, then wake up in exactly the same place I started. With a wicked headache.”
Whoa. I have never heard of anyone committing suicide in the MEEP before. And if the ordeal of the white witch was any indication, Wyn’s actions caused him a not-inconsiderable amount of pain.
What he is saying begins to seep through my thick skull and into my cortex.
“You’re really . . . you’re trapped here?”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, yes!”
My mind begins to race. Everything is different now.
“There must be another way out, something you haven’t thought of,” I say, dropping the useless gun and looking through my inventory. “Let me think.”
“I’m telling you, there’s no other way.” He stares at me and begins to speak very slowly, as if I’m a small child. “Someone has trapped me here. I have been trying to escape for days. Show. Me. The. Maze.”
I blow out my breath. “Fine, I’ll show it to you, but we’ll never make it through. I blew nearly all my ammo getting here, and I don’t suppose you’ve got an unlimited supply either if you’ve been shooting yourself in the head.”
Wyn glares at me. “I don’t usually bring weapons to the MEEP. The gun’s all I have, plus a few rounds of ammo.”
I almost laugh. “Yeah, well I’m afraid that sharks and giant scorpions require a little more than a
Colt .45.”
Wyn tilts his head in disbelief. “Sharks. And scorpions?”
“Oh, that’s not the half of it. So cool your jets for a minute and let me think, okay?”
Wyn paces for a few seconds in frustration, then leans against the wall and slides down to a sitting position. He rubs a hand over his face. “So how were you planning to return yourself, if not by the maze?”
“Your father gave me an emergency code. It won’t work for you because you’ve tampered with your ear trans.”
Wyn lifts his head. “I’m not the one who tampered with it.”
“Either way,” I say. “It won’t work. It’s not coded to your trans.”
“Why don’t they just shut down the game for a few minutes?” asks Wyn. “If everyone is as worried about me as you say, why doesn’t my father just turn off the MEEP?”
I snort. “I see your father has kept his dirty little secret from you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Apparently there’s a pesky side effect.” I push some bright, feathery boas off a wooden table and hike myself onto the surface, sitting cross-legged. “Anybody playing the MEEP using nonregulation frequencies could suffer brain damage if the game is shut down.”
Wyn grimaces, though he does not look very surprised. “I wondered about that,” he says. “The brain’s incredibly complex. . . . My father’s people have done a lot of research but our neural paths are like an infinite universe.”
“Yeah, well, easy to say now, Einstein. Maybe your father and his people should have let players know about the dangers involved instead of treating us like guinea pigs.” I think of Chang and Moose, and wish they were here right now to help me figure this out.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about. My father’s brain stem research has the potential to change the world,” Wyn says. “True innovation always involves a certain amount of risk.”
I get mad all over again. “Look, hotshot, you have no idea what I just went through. I’ve always loved the MEEP, as a game . . . but in one single day I’ve made two important discoveries. First, your father’s ‘innovation’ has the potential to put people—people like us—in a coma. And second, it can be used to torture people. That maze would send most people into lifelong therapy.”
The Leveller Page 7
