Tag, You're Dead

by J C Lane

  “Don’t you talk about my rear,” Amanda growled. She didn’t know why he would, anyway. Amanda had taken pains to make her avatar attractive but modest. No way was she adding one more bosom-busting, bikini-wearing avatar to the land of sex-obsessed superheroes.

  PG13 dropped and rolled behind an upended vegetable stand, but Nerys’ out-of-time laser gun blasted it to splinters, so PG13 darted behind the nearest pillar, upping her shield capacity to its max, and pulled her flamethrower from her rucksack. She spun around the pillar and fired, only to realize Nerys wasn’t at the same spot anymore. Now he stood on the steps of the Coliseum, on the roof of the nearest building, and in the middle of the street, having halted all traffic with a freeze spell. Worst of all, he stood behind her—twice—and each avatar-double pointed a grenade launcher at her head. A cluster of tough, beautiful Kira Neryses, with the added bonus of superhuman—or, well, Bajoran—strength, memory, and fitness.

  “Cheater!” she screeched. “We said no Copycats!”

  “Ah, but we didn’t say no Naruto Shadow Clones.”

  “It’s the same thing!”

  “Afraid not, Goddess, my dear.”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “If you insist, sweetheart. I wouldn’t want to hurt your tender feminine feelings.”

  “Aaaargh!” Amanda flung her headset across the room, but could hear his squawking even as the TV screen blinked to black. “Nerys, you Deatheater!” she screamed. “What are you doing to my system?”

  She could hear his voice, but not his words. She pressed the on/off button for her TV, checked her cords and batteries, and made sure her wireless was on. All in working order. That no good, irritating, scum-of-the-earth Nerys—

  The TV flashed back on, but no longer showed ancient Greece. Instead, an androgynous Asian avatar stared out of the screen, wearing a bright yellow referee shirt.

  Hello, PeruvianGoddess13. You have joined a Game of Tag.

  “I don’t want to play—”

  Your opponent is DarwinSon1. Here are the Rules.

  Scanning the craziness on the screen, Amanda stalked across the room and snatched up her headset. “Listen, you crap heap, I am not playing whatever game this is.”

  “Ah, you’re back, my Goddess. I thought you’d left me,” Nerys answered.

  “Shut up and turn the game back on.”

  “It is on.”

  “Is not. Unless HotNerys666 has turned into an Asian guy. Or girl. A guy-girl.”

  He laughed. “I hardly think so.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m not doing anything. Except waiting for you to resume playing Ancient Greece Battlestar Galactica SIMS.”

  Amanda frowned. “You’re really not doing this?”

  “I don’t know what you’re—” The headset went silent.

  “Nerys?” No response. “Steaming Pile of Goat Dung after a Day of Laxatives?” Still nothing.

  Amanda turned off her game console and unplugged it. The Rules of the Game of Tag still glowed on the screen, so she unplugged it, too. The screen went dark. She breathed a sigh of relief and plugged the TV in again. The Rules came back up.

  “What the heck?” She scanned the Rules, including the one telling her to keep possession of some phone, and decided the whole thing was a stupid scam by that douchebag Nerys. There was no phone, other than her tricked out Droid, tweaked a few dozen ways by hers truly, which lay in full sight on top of her TV.

  “Nerys?” Nope. Her headset was as good as dead. She left it on, just in case, and tried inserting a disc of a different, actual, non-homemade game. But the screen stayed as it was.

  The doorbell rang. Amanda ignored it. She wasn’t expecting anyone, and she hadn’t ordered pizza. Her dad was gone for the weekend, and the neighbors weren’t supposed to check in until at least the next day, if they even remembered. She plugged in her game system, took the disc out of the console, and replaced it with another.

  The doorbell rang again.

  “Okay, fine. Keep your pants on!” She trudged up the stairs, wondering who she should call about her misbehaving game system. HotNerys666 was obviously out of the question, and he was the smartest of her cyber acquaintances. The tech club at school would think they could help, but in reality, if she couldn’t figure it out, there was no way they could.

  The doorbell rang again. “I’m coming!” She squinted through the spy hole, but couldn’t see anyone. “This better not be a prank!” When she got no response, she opened the door a crack. Still no one, and she didn’t see any shadows darting away on her sleepy Milwaukee street. “Who’s ding-dong ditching? Show your faces, you creeps!” All was quiet. No one’s face appeared. But there was a package.

  “Steaming hot dog poop,” she muttered, already blaming HotNerys666.

  The package was a cube, smaller than a shoebox, maybe six by six. It was covered in brown paper like an old-fashioned parcel and tied with string. Impossible to tell what was in it.

  She grabbed an umbrella from the front closet and poked the box. Nothing exploded. Nothing oozed out. Using the crook of the umbrella she dragged the package closer, and finally picked it up by hooking the umbrella handle under the string. She could read her name, but nothing else was written on it. Not even her address. Definitely no return address, not even a postmark. But it’s not like regular mail came in the middle of the night.

  With a final glance at the front yard, she pulled the package inside, closed the door, and locked it. She studied the parcel, but couldn’t see anything to tell her where it came from. Carefully, she took it to the kitchen and set it on the table. She put on rubber gloves from under the sink, as well as safety goggles from the garage. Standing as far away as possible, she opened the box and took out what was nestled inside.

  A new smartwatch. Holy crap. A phone, just like the Rules on the TV had said. And five hundred dollars in cash.

  Amanda carried the phone and money downstairs, where the Rules of the Game of Tag still filled the screen. Amanda started back at the top and read more seriously.

  This is the Goal of the Game of Tag. You must reach Home Base before It Tags you. Your opponent has purchased the Deluxe edition of this Game of Tag, so you are in no physical danger should you be Tagged. Good luck.

  In no physical danger? Obviously. She was alone in her house with the best alarm system known to humankind. She knew, because she’d built it herself. Besides, even if the Rules were speaking metaphorically and her avatar got killed, it wasn’t going to affect her actual physical body, except maybe emotionally. The grief would be devastating, and she wouldn’t be able to eat or sleep for weeks. But she would recover. Eventually.

  Your Home Base coordinates are set on the GPS on this phone.

  For real? Amanda checked the location on the GPS. Chicago. Union Station. Track Six. What the heck? Chicago was what, seventy-five miles? No, according to the GPS it was seventy-seven point three. Like she was going there at three-thirty a.m.

  These are the Rules of the Game of Tag.

  Amanda skimmed the rules, more certain every second that HotNerys666 was at the root of this invasion. If he thought she was taking one step out of her cozy little basement to play some stupid children’s game, he was crazy. He was just as insane to think she’d be strapping some unknown gadget to her wrist. She pulled up her list of contacts on her computer and plugged in the name of her arch nemesis. Within seconds, he was there.

  Thought you’d left me, Goddess.

  What did you do to my system?

  Only what I always do. Dominate.

  Seriously, get your stupid new avatar off my screen, or you will so pay for this.

  Goddess, I repeat, that avatar is not mine.

  Nobody else would mess with me like this.

  Believe me, I would love to mess with you, and I have on many occasions, but
I swear, THE ASIAN DUDETTE ISN’T ME.

  Yeah, you keep on denying it. When I figure out how to delete him-her, I’m coming after you.

  Goddess, I don’t know what—

  PeruvianGoddess13 turned him off. She wasn’t going to play his game. She stomped back up the stairs and gazed into the refrigerator, wondering what would be good to eat that late at night. Nothing looked appetizing, except maybe ice cream. That was always good.

  She was reaching for the Chunky Monkey when the new phone rang.

  Brandy

  “When will the Ref call?” Brandy Inkrott eyed her new smartwatch, checking it every two minutes to be sure she hadn’t missed anything. No texts. No calls. Nothing. It had been hours since she’d made her selection. If she’d known it was going to be this long, she would have gone to bed. Now it was pointless. “She said she would be in touch soon.”

  “Now, sweetheart…” Her mother roused from her own doze. “…why don’t you eat something?”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “You’ll need your strength once the Game starts.”

  “If it ever does.” She threw herself onto the softest chair in the room, and her mother’s poodle jumped up, sniffing Brandy’s face. Brandy shoved him off. He squealed when he hit the floor.

  Her mother scooped up the little dog. “Brandy! It’s not Sugar’s fault.”

  “Well, keep him off me. Daddy, when’s she going to call?”

  Her father glanced up from his computer. “Anytime, sweetheart.”

  “Thanks a lot. That helps.”

  She resumed pacing to the wall with the TV, back to the wall with the bigger-than-life photograph of her at her Sweet Sixteen party. The photo didn’t look much like her after Photoshop, but she didn’t care. It showed how she wanted to look. How she deserved to look.

  Her phone rang. She answered without looking at the screen. “Hello? Ref?”

  “Bran?”

  She let out her breath in a huff. “Chanel, I told you not to bother me.”

  “Didn’t call yet, huh?”

  Chanel, a girl from the country club, had played the Game a month earlier, and recommended Brandy to the Referee. She knew the Game was something Brandy would love, and the Ref rewarded anyone who brought a referral with a shot at an extra Game.

  “It’s taking the Ref forever.”

  “She’s got to get everything in place. She’ll call when she’s ready, I swear.”

  “You better be right.”

  “I am.”

  Call Waiting beeped. This time Brandy looked. It was the Ref. “Gotta go, Chan.”

  “Good luck!”

  Brandy took a deep breath and answered the call.

  “It is almost time for the Game to start,” the Referee said. “I’m transmitting the Rules to your phone. Be sure to follow them each to the letter, or you will be penalized.”

  “Yeah, whatever. When can I Go?”

  “Your Runner is receiving the Rules as we speak. When she is in place she will Go. You will be released when it is time.”

  “Where is Home Base?”

  “That will be transmitted when you are sent.”

  Brandy frowned. She could get a head start if she knew the coordinates.

  “Knowing the Home Base coordinates would not give you an advantage,” the Ref said, as if reading her thoughts.

  “I could just wait for her at Home Base.” No reason to kill herself chasing the stupid girl.

  “Yes, although you would almost certainly lose if you used that strategy.”

  “But I win when I Tag her, right? She has to show up at Home Base to stop the Game.”

  “You will achieve your Individual Goal when you Tag her, but not the Ultimate one.”

  “What’s that?”

  The Ref’s smile was evident in her voice. “Read the Rules, Brandy.” And she was gone.

  Brandy gasped. “She hung up on me!” She erased the Call Terminated message and hit Return Call, but received a recording, saying that number was no longer in service. “Daddy!”

  “Yes, honey.”

  “I can’t call her!”

  “What did she tell you to do?”

  “She said I would lose!”

  He frowned. “In those words?”

  “Well, she said I could lose the Ultimate Goal.”

  “Which is?”

  “I don’t know. She said I should read the Rules.”

  He waited, but she didn’t say anything else. He sighed. “Do you have the Rules?”

  “Oh.” She glanced at her phone, which showed one new text. She opened it and skipped down to what she wanted to know.

  This is the Ultimate Goal for the Game of Tag

  Although you win your Individual Goal by Tagging your Runner before she reaches Home Base, you are also playing against two other Its. Whoever Tags his or her Runner first wins a free Game. Whoever is the last to Tag his or her Runner will be turned over to the authorities. Contract and payment details will be supplied to law enforcement as proof of conspiracy to commit murder by stalking and killing another person in a live hunting game.

  “Daddy!” She showed him her phone. “Did you know this?”

  He regarded the screen through his reading glasses. “We knew there would be risks. Besides, the Ref could also be compromised, so I can’t imagine she would follow through with these threats. Now finish reading your instructions. Please.”

  “But I didn’t know I could go to jail!”

  He sighed again. “I guess you have to make sure you’re not last.”

  “You can fix it. You can pay them.”

  “Some things can’t be bought off, sweetheart.”

  “Peter…” her mother said. “I didn’t know this, either. Do you still think we should go through with it?”

  “We knew there would be risks,” he said again. “Now finish reading your instructions. Please.”

  Brandy took a deep breath and scrolled down on her phone.

  These are the Rules for the Game of Tag:

  You are It. You may use any resource to Tag your Runner, remembering that the Game you are playing is against the law, and should you be caught, the Game will offer no legal protection.

  There is to be no direct communication between you and your Runner.

  You may harm no one outside the Game. Civilian casualties will serve as an automatic Out, and you will be turned over to the authorities.

  There is no stopping the Game once it has begun. This is your last chance to opt out. If you wish to opt out, reply Opt Out to this message. You will not receive a refund of any monies paid for Game setup.

  “Daddy.”

  “Hmm.”

  “I can still opt out.”

  “Do you want to?”

  “I don’t know…”

  He turned his computer toward her, with the photograph of her school’s Homecoming court, elected just that week. Brandy was not in it. Some “nice” girl, without a Name, without anything, stood in her place.

  “You may opt out if you like. I don’t mind the lost money. But I won’t enter you in a Game like this ever again.”

  “I still don’t understand how that girl beat our Brandy,” her mother said. “Look at her hair. And she’s not even wearing foundation.”

  “Mom, nobody wears foundation.” Except her mother, for whom foundation was the base of her entire cosmetic wardrobe. “But you’re right. There’s no way she should be on that court, instead of me.”

  “So, you’re staying in?” her father said.

  “I’m in.”

  She flipped to the next page.

  The Start of the Game of Tag:

  When your Runner has been Gone for thirty minutes, you will receive the Go signal, your Runner’s starting point, and the Home Base l
ocation. From there on out, your Runner’s position will be transmitted every half hour. You must anticipate her movements to catch up to her and make the Tag. Again, you must be the first to Tag your Runner to win the Ultimate Goal.

  Good luck, Brandy! May the best It win.

  Brandy decided her mother was right. She needed her strength for the Game.

  “Mirabelle!” she yelled.

  The maid scurried into the room, the late night showing in her face. “Yes, Miss Brandy?”

  “I want pizza. With lots of extra cheese.”

  Laura

  Laura wasn’t going to run. She couldn’t. It was the middle of the night, three-thirty, and she was already exhausted, scared to death. Her parents must be frantic by now. How would she explain to them that she was alone in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by cornfields, and her car had been stolen?

  hic

  That was it. It was a carjacking. All this weird stuff about Tag was a cover. A really crazy, elaborate cover for stealing an old Bug.

  She turned her wrist over and pulled at the watch’s clasp. It didn’t open. Nothing she tried worked, and it wasn’t getting any looser, as the man had promised. She pulled and twisted and yanked, but nothing she did got the watch any closer to being off her arm.

  She studied the phone. If she couldn’t get it off, she would use it. What was to keep her from calling her family? Sure, the Rules said she couldn’t, but come on. The whole thing was a joke, right? A sick, terrifying joke. She would call her folks, they’d freak out, and they’d come get her. End of story. End of Game.

  She punched in her parents’ number, which she remembered from her grade school days, before she had a phone and had relegated them to speed-dial number 2, but instead of ringing on the other end, she heard a voice.

  “Hello, Laura. This is the Referee.” It was a woman’s voice, even, unemotional. Commanding.

  “Who?” She hiccupped.

  “I understand you’re scared, Laura, I do, and I understand you really have no idea what’s going on right now. But you did read the Rules, correct?”