Tag, You're Dead

by J C Lane

  Her knee dug in a little harder.

  “Mr. Jackson wonders, ‘Howz it going?’ Shall I reply? Oh, I’d better not, since I’m at the wheel. It really is dangerous to text and drive, and I wouldn’t want to do anything contrary to the law.”

  After a minute, the phone chimed again. “Mr. Jackson a second time. ‘Text me back bro.’ Are you brothers? I didn’t realize.”

  Squeak will know something’s wrong, Tyrese realized. He’ll start looking for me. Get things in motion. A few minutes later, the phone went live again, although this time it sang the school song for Indiana University, where Tyrese was planning to play the following year. The signing was supposed to be in two weeks, before his senior high school season began.

  “My, my, Mr. Jackson is persistent,” Roth said. “I believe I will need to break the law, just this once.” Holding the phone on the steering wheel, he texted back to Squeak. “I’m telling him, ‘I’m cool, tell you later.’ That should satisfy him. It’s a consistent message with the ones you usually write. Tonight I’ll send him another one, explaining that Roth—myself—will be hosting you overnight at a splendid hotel, although of course I won’t use the word splendid, because that’s not what you boys say.”

  Tyrese deflated, but tensed again as his movement triggered Regina to tighten her hold.

  A long while later Roth pulled to the side of the road, keeping the motor running. “You may let him sit up, Regina.” When she didn’t release him, Roth hardened his tone. “Regina. Let him up.”

  With a jerk, Regina’s weight was removed. Tyrese was afraid to move, but Roth encouraged him. “Come now, Tyrese, sit up. She’s not going to shoot you just yet.”

  Tyrese painfully wedged himself into the corner and stared at the end of the gun barrel. Roth twisted sideways in his seat. “Now, that wasn’t so bad, was it? You’re still alive.” He reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a smartwatch. “I’m trading you phones, Tyrese. I will keep yours. You will take this one. It will tell you everything you need to know about your present situation.” He smiled. “You’ll be disappointed, I’m sure, that Regina and I will be leaving you here. This will be the last time you see either of us. And we’ve had such a lovely time. Put the watch on.”

  Tyrese didn’t move.

  “Does Regina need to help you?”

  Tyrese put on the watch, snapping the band together.

  “Very good,” Roth said.

  Tyrese already felt claustrophobic with the phone around his wrist. He would take it off as soon as the psychos were gone. “Where am I?”

  “Somewhere in the middle of Illinois. The name doesn’t matter. In fact, I’m not sure this little tract of land even has a name. Perhaps you can find out. You have questions, but I’m not going to entertain them. Anything you need to know will be on the phone. Regina, if you will do the honors, you can let Tyrese out here.”

  Keeping the gun trained on him, Regina opened her door and slid out, gesturing that he should follow. When he didn’t respond immediately, she leaned across the seat and dragged him out. Tyrese wanted to block her hands, but realized he would be asking for a bullet.

  Regina gestured for him to move onto the shoulder of the road. He complied. When she was satisfied she nodded to Roth, who opened his window and threw out some cash, which fluttered to the road in a loose circle. “Use it however you see fit. Good-bye, Tyrese. Good luck.” His window slid shut.

  Regina folded herself into the backseat, throwing Tyrese’s jacket out the door, before the Cadillac eased away. When its lights had faded into the distance, Tyrese dropped into a squat, balancing himself with the tips of his fingers. He took several deep breaths, steadying himself, trying to make sense of what had happened. He glanced up and down the road, looking for traffic, or houses, or movement of any kind, but all he saw was darkness. Was this all a ploy to keep him away from home for the night? Why? Nothing was happening. No games. No parties. Nothing. What about his grandma? Was she safe?

  Maybe it was a rival high school team. But, again, why? Basketball practices didn’t even start for a couple weeks, let alone games. It made no sense.

  When he was ready, he stood up and pulled at the watchband to take it off. It wouldn’t detach. A scream rose in Tyrese’s chest as he yanked and twisted. Nothing worked. The phone was on for good. Or at least until he found some wire cutters.

  All the action woke up the screen on the phone.

  Hello, Tyrese.

  These are the Rules of the Game of Tag.

  Something inside Tyrese eased. Rules and a game. Now they were speaking his language.

  12:30 a.m.

  Laura

  Laura screamed, swinging the car to the right. She lurched over the curb, jolting the car so badly she thought it would fall apart. She got it back on the road before reality caught up to her. Was that a gun against her neck?

  “Don’t stop,” the man said.

  “Who are you?”

  “Drive.”

  “What do you want? You can have my bag.” She flung it into the backseat, spilling its contents in a wild arc.

  The gun jabbed her neck. “Don’t try that again. Give me your phone.”

  Laura didn’t release the steering wheel. What was it they always said about self-defense? Don’t give in to demands or you’re dead? Or was it, don’t get in the car or you’re dead? Great advice, seeing how she hadn’t known anybody was even in her car until she was already driving. She glanced in the rearview mirror, but all she could see was shadow. The person’s face was blocked by the headrest.

  The gun pressed harder. “Give me your phone!”

  Fingers shaking, Laura fumbled her phone from her pocket and held it up. A gloved hand reached over and snatched it. “Turn right here. Right!”

  Laura slowed, put on her turn signal, and made the corner. “Where are we going?” She hated that her voice shook.

  “Straight.”

  “No, I mean where are you taking me?”

  “Drive. No more talking.”

  “I just want to know—”

  The gloved hand covered her mouth, stinking of damp leather and dog, and jerked her head against the headrest. “I said, no more talking. Understand?”

  Laura nodded, and the hand released her, leaving her breathless. Her chin trembled, and tears blinded her. Was she being kidnapped? Obviously. She had no idea what to do. Crash the car? No, in a car like hers she would die, or get trapped under the dashboard, both legs broken. That wouldn’t help.

  She could pull into someone’s driveway and honk the horn. But people would come out, and the guy would shoot them all. Or just her. Or just them.

  A hiccup wracked her body. Darn it. Not now. They always came at the worst times, when she was nervous. She held her breath. Not that it would help. It never did.

  She could drive really fast, and a cop might come after her. But where would she find a cop? And wouldn’t the guy shoot her before she signaled one?

  hic

  She watched for a police car anyway, but couldn’t locate a single cruiser, even this late at night. Weren’t they supposed to be patrolling? Watching for drunk drivers? She swerved the car across the middle line, hoping she looked suspicious.

  The man jabbed her. “Stay in your lane.”

  She drove according to his directions until they were on the far side of town.

  hic

  “Follow the sign to the Interstate.”

  Laura took the exit and merged with the late-night traffic, which meant a flood of two cars that sped around her. They were alone, headlights far in the distance both in front and behind. She clutched the steering wheel and concentrated on driving a straight line. Glancing in the rearview mirror, she saw a glow—the man was going through her phone. He wasn’t watching her, but the barrel of the gun still nestled in that little dip on the back of her ne
ck.

  “Watch the road,” the man said.

  He could tell the movement of her eyes? She stared straight ahead.

  hic

  The headlights coming toward her were growing closer. The car was three lanes away across the median, but she could still get its attention. She slid her foot over to the bright light button, embedded in the floor of the old car. When the oncoming car got in range, she flicked the light on and off, on and—

  “Cut it out.”

  She stopped. Hopefully twice was enough.

  hic

  “They’ll be surprised when there’s not a cop waiting to catch them speeding,” the man said. “And they’ll forget all about your flashing lights.”

  He was right, of course. She held her breath again, hoping to stave off the hiccups, but quickly grew lightheaded and had to stop.

  hic

  They drove for almost an hour and a half. Her hiccups eventually went away. The gas gauge hovered over the E by the time they pulled into the empty Manhattan, Illinois, train station. Apparently, trains no longer ran this late at night, so there were only two cars parked at the far end of the lot.

  “Get out.”

  Laura reached for her keys, remembering the recommendation to use them as weapons by sticking them between your fingers.

  “Leave the keys on the passenger seat.”

  Laura left them.

  “Out.”

  Laura opened the door, but forgot to release her seat belt, and snapped herself back. With trembling fingers she unlatched it, and stumbled out of the driver’s seat.

  The man climbed out of the tiny backseat, holding the gun. He smiled. “Welcome to the Game of Tag.”

  “We’re going to play tag? Here?”

  He laughed. “Not you and me.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Of course you don’t. This will help.” He handed her a phone, one of those new ones that looked like a watch. “This is your lifeline. Guard it with that same life. Put it on.”

  Laura stared at it. She’d never seen such a fancy phone. She’d only gotten a regular smartphone the year before, when the phone company wouldn’t sell basic ones anymore. She’d used the free upgrade, and shared a limited data plan with her parents and brothers.

  The guy grabbed the watch and buckled it around her wrist.

  “Ouch. It’s too tight.”

  hic

  Darn it.

  “It’ll loosen up.” He placed cash in her hand. “This will help you reach your goal.”

  “What goal?”

  He gestured to the phone. “Read the rules. They’ll explain everything.”

  “Who are you?”

  “A pawn. It’s been a pleasure, Miss Wingfield. Good luck. And may the best player win.” Still pointing the gun her way, he ducked into her car and drove away.

  Laura shivered and hiccupped. What in the world was happening? Who was the man? What was the game? Where was she?

  The phone buzzed, and a text popped up.

  Good morning, Laura Wingfield. Welcome to the Game of Tag.

  She glanced around. Was someone watching her? There was no movement, although she wondered about those cars at the back of the lot. She moved under the shelter where people waited for the train, blocking her from the cars’ sight lines. She sat on the bench and studied the rest of the message.

  This is the Goal of the Game of Tag:

  You must reach Home Base before you are Tagged by It, or you are Out.

  If you reach Home Base before It, and before you are Tagged, you become It. Your Home Base coordinates are set on the GPS on this phone.

  These are the Rules of the Game of Tag:

  You must keep this phone on your wrist at all times, or you are automatically Out.

  You may not contact your family or friends at any time, or they become vulnerable to being Tagged.

  Do not contact law enforcement, or your friends and family become vulnerable to being Tagged.

  Any person you directly involve in the Game becomes vulnerable to being Tagged.

  There may be no direct communication between you and It.

  You may call the Referee one time only.

  After the signal to Go, and a thirty-minute head start, your location will be transmitted in thirty-minute increments to It. That means wherever you are, It is thirty minutes—or less—behind you.

  Tag? Really? What was the point? Who was It? Why abandon her at a dark train station?

  hic

  Was she really supposed to run? Literally? Was someone going to race up and touch her, screaming, “You’re out”? Again, she scanned the area, peering between the advertisements on the shelter’s plastic walls. No one there that she could see. Not surprising, since it was super dark.

  She scrolled to the next page.

  Your version of the Game of Tag:

  Laura Wingfield, your It has purchased the Elite package for this Game of Tag. This means the Game will end only when one of you has been Tagged, and in the Elite package that means one of you will be dead. There is no time limit.

  Dead? Seriously? Literally? Why? Who would want to kill her? Who would even think of this? No one she knew.

  She began to shake, and tucked her hands under her arms, the watch digging into her side. What were her parents thinking since she hadn’t come home? And Jeremy? Thank God the kidnaper didn’t grab her while she was still babysitting, so at least the Wenger kids were safe.

  One of you will be dead.

  It was insane.

  The phone vibrated, and a new text message arrived:

  You may access these Rules at any time on this device.

  When you are done reading the Rules, await your signal to Go.

  Good luck, Laura Wingfield. May you give It the chase of Its life.

  1:30 a.m.

  Charles

  The androgynous avatar gazed out from the screen. It had brown hair, brown skin, and brown eyes. The only item of color was the bright yellow referee shirt with a crest on the breast pocket. The whistle around The Referee’s neck was a shiny silver. The voice, recognizable neither as male nor female, was a modulated retro-computer sound. The words also appeared as a dialogue bubble beside the avatar’s head.

  Desired Attributes Found.

  22 matches

  Do you wish to narrow the field?

  Charles Akida, or DarwinSon1, studied the screen. Twenty-two matches? Impossible. The candidates couldn’t all have the same ability, not at that level. No one out there could meet each one of his thirty-five criteria. He hit EDIT and scrolled down to the ACT test score requirement, where he changed the thirty-five to thirty-six. His opponent should really have a perfect score. He had originally indicated the lower number because so few people achieve the highest score, he didn’t think there was any way he could find someone with all of the other attributes along with a perfect thirty-six. He was pleasantly surprised at this unexpected event, realizing he had almost sold himself short. He refreshed the parameters.

  The avatar spoke again.

  Desired Attributes Found.

  11 matches

  Do you wish to narrow the field?

  Still eleven? Unbelievable.

  Charles gazed at the framed documents and figurines his parents had used to decorate the tech room. His awards, grades, honors, scholarships, medals, trophies. Everything that proved to them, and everyone who visited, that he was the smartest, the best, the brightest. As if any of that mattered when it came to real life. None of those trophies were for athletics, or Quiz Bowl, or student council, or even something as normal as a spelling bee. He had spent his school years excelling at things nobody else came close to understanding. There were other smart kids, sure, as he was seeing in the computer’s calculations, but they weren’t anywhere close
to his league.

  Charles hit EDIT again and scrolled down to the Video Game Profile section, where he changed the field to accept only perfect, top-five scores in a dozen specific video games. Lots of smart kids played video games, but very few could keep up their grades and also remain victorious in the cyber stadium. This change should separate the winners from the losers.

  The avatar responded to the new request, neither happy nor sad at its findings.

  Desired Attributes Found.

  3 matches

  Do you wish to narrow the field?

  Charles steepled his hands in front of his face and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. Should he cut it down further, or allow the computer to choose his opponent? There wasn’t much room left for Charles to change anything worthwhile. The computer knew the candidates’ abilities, and was well aware of his own, while Charles had no idea who the possible choices were. Charles did not care about race, gender, religion, or even age. All he cared about was the brainpower of his opponent, and the ability to challenge him not only in logic, but also creative thinking. Perhaps it was time to let the machine do its work.

  He hit DONE EDITING, CHOOSE RUNNER.

  The avatar, as blank as before, made its pronouncement.

  Match Found

  Do you wish to view profile?

  “Yes, I do,” Charles said.

  A split second later, he received the information. His Runner had been chosen.

  3:30 a.m.

  Amanda

  “You’re going to die, Nerys!”

  “You promise?”

  Amanda Paniagua, or PeruvianGoddess13 as she was known to her online acquaintances, chased HotNerys666 down the virtual street, only to lose him in the ruins of ancient Greece. “Come back here, you desiccated turd!”

  “Oh my, Goddess, you are scraping the bottom, using such hardened language.” His voice grated over the headset. Amanda’s annoyance turned physical, traveling up her throat.

  “Shut up, Devil spawn.”

  He laughed—for he was a “he,” even though he was named after a very female Deep Space Nine character—and popped up behind Amanda’s avatar. “Better duck, darlin’. I really hate to see your perfectly shaped behind de-pixelized.”