Tag, You're Dead

by J C Lane

  His transmitter had gone off while he was on the road, so he still had some time until It would know he’d ditched the highway. What were his options? Hitch another ride toward Chicago…and that was about it. No rail line. No car rental, since this place was backwater, and he didn’t have his license with him anyway, since he hadn’t taken it to the park that night to play with the guys. So no way would anyone loan him a car. Obviously there weren’t any taxis. He was stuck. He could start running again, hoping to hit another town before his location was transmitted, but he didn’t hold out much hope for that. Towns—or what passed for towns way out here—were few and far between.

  Squeak would know what to do. Or he’d just do it. He’d steal a car. Only he wouldn’t call it stealing. He’d call it borrowing, and he wouldn’t even feel guilty, because it would be for a “higher cause.” But Tyrese didn’t know how to steal a car. More like, he’d forgotten, and the newer cars were harder with all their computer chips and everything. No more jimmying the door with a hanger and yanking a few wires. Except the cars he’d seen in this town so far had been anything but new. He could probably remember. It could work. He’d leave the car in good shape after it got him where he needed to be.

  He banged his fists on the back of the cement block building. He had worked so hard to rise above that life, where he took what belonged to others, rather than what he’d worked so hard to earn. He was not going to let some cowardly, crazy It person push him backwards. He. Was. Not.

  He planted his fists on his hips and closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. He needed to think. He was bigger and stronger than just about anybody. Than whoever It could be. What if he just waited for him? He could fight him. He could beat him.

  But what if just beating him wasn’t enough? What if It showed up with a whole posse? Tyrese was strong, but he couldn’t hold out against an entire group of psychos. He glanced at his watch. What if the watch had more to it than he thought? What if the watch would give him up no matter what, no matter how far he ran? What if the Game made it impossible for Tyrese to win, and the watch would hold him hostage? The Rules clearly stated he should not—no, could not—take off the watch, which meant it was integral to It finding and Tagging him. And if Tyrese didn’t get a move on, It would.

  Tyrese sneaked to the front of the gas station. Other people would be stopping for gas or something to eat. Maybe even another trucker, headed downtown. He could hitch another ride. Arte had left, and there were no more semis, but he saw a minivan, a pick-up truck, and a couple of sedans. Surely someone would be driving into Chicago. The trick would be to look non-threatening. He practiced a smile, felt like a complete idiot, and went back to his usual expression.

  Just when he’d straightened his shoulders and moved out to ask someone, a cop car pulled into the lot and parked by the front door of the Gas-n-Go. One cop stayed in the driver’s seat while the other got out and wandered toward a couple of guys over by the pumps. They were just talking, laughing even, but it didn’t matter what they were doing. Hitchhiking was illegal, and Tyrese had strict instructions against alerting law enforcement to the Game or he would forfeit his right to finish, or even to live.

  He checked his watch. Eleven minutes till the next coordinates transmission. There was still time. Maybe he could wait the cops out. It couldn’t take that long for them to grab a cup of coffee, right? He slipped behind the gas station again, listening for the sound of the car leaving. But it didn’t. Tyrese peeked around the side, just to be sure, but there sat the same cop still in the driver’s seat, checking his phone. The other one was out of sight now, maybe inside getting the coffee.

  Seven minutes.

  If Tyrese couldn’t hitch a ride, he would have to get one himself. He picked his way through the weeds and checked out the space next door, behind the garage. It looked more like an impound lot than a mechanic’s shop. The cars inside the chain-link fence were in even worse shape than the ones out front. He dug out the money Roth had thrown at him. Five hundred dollars. Plenty to buy one of the pieces of crap littering the fenced-in yard. An old Nova. A Grand Am. Some other car he didn’t recognize, it was so old. He hoped one of them would run.

  He split the money into two rolls and hid them in different pockets. No use pulling out all of his money, if half would do. None of the heaps inside the fence were worth even that much. He’d see what kind of negotiating he could do.

  Tyrese’s watch vibrated. Who knew how close It was? Maybe It had driven past the exit; maybe It was just now getting close. Either way, the time had come to get moving.

  He turned to find out if the owner was in the garage, but froze in his spot.

  He wasn’t alone.

  9 a.m.

  Amanda

  Her eighth train. Amanda yawned and stretched. She’d played a million games of a pirated, off-the-market app, which was so last year, but she still liked it. She’d also stolen a few naps, eaten one of the chocolate-covered granola bars she’d stashed in her bag, and avoided talking to any other passengers.

  She was bored to death.

  Time for a change.

  She texted a taxi service and arranged a pickup.

  Laura

  Out of breath, Laura trotted up the wide steps of the art museum and hunkered behind one of the big lions, where she took a few moments to pray really, really hard. People flowed all around her—daycare groups, old people, individuals carrying sketchpads. She peered around the lion, first one way, then the other. No sign of crazy It girl. Laura wanted to sag against the lion and cry, but was way too exposed to sit still. She waited. When a group came close, chattering and laughing, she snuck up to the front doors in the midst.

  Inside the museum she broke off on her own, bought a ticket, and headed upstairs. The maze of rooms would be helpful should It stumble across her location before Laura expected her. She scooted through several sections, avoiding the guards’ attention, and ended up in a room with pieces she recognized from art class. The purples and blues of the closest painting swirled together, almost convincing Laura she was dreaming. She had only a few minutes until the next transmission of her coordinates, and It would get there quickly, since Laura’s last position was in the surrounding park. She needed information to know how to proceed.

  Laura sat on a bench and keyed Inkrott Investment’s name into the search engine of the smartwatch. Moments later she found the girl she’d locked eyes with across the Union Station platform. The girl liked to be in the public eye, so there was plenty for Laura to look at online.

  Wealthy debutante from Madison, nowhere Laura had ever been. Daughter of a successful businessman. Laura didn’t think she’d ever met anyone from Madison, let alone this girl who wanted her dead. “Brandy” was everywhere on social media and Google. Selfies and group shots and tags all over other teens’ pages. She surrounded herself with people, always the center of attention, always dressed to impress. The people in the groups seemed to be mostly the same, but that was the thing. It was one or the other—a photo of Brandy by herself, usually taken by herself, or Brandy in the midst of a crowd. No BFF. No “so-and-so and me at the game.” A girl surrounded by props.

  Laura thought about her own friends. Rosie, of course, and Brie. Amy and Mel. She felt comfortable with all of them, or any one of them. And lots more girls, too. And of course there was Jeremy, her best friend of all, whom she’d known practically since she was born. This Brandy was hardly ever photographed with a guy, and if she was, it was several of them at a time. No one special that Laura could see.

  One obvious thing about Brandy was the money. Cars. Clothes. Jewelry. Even her makeup looked expensive. And those shots of her parents? Ewww. Laura couldn’t imagine growing up with mannequins like those.

  She refreshed her phone, trying to think of any reason a rich, spoiled, unlikeable girl from Wisconsin could possibly hate her. Or even know about her. It made no sense at all.

  A teena
ge girl bumped the bench and fell onto Laura’s lap. “Eek, sorry!”

  Laura gave a small smile. “You’re fine.”

  The girl laughed, playfully pushing a guy away before sitting with a thump. “Guys. They’re so clumsy. And they forget how much bigger they are.”

  Laura wanted to laugh with the girl, but kept her expression blank.

  “Hey,” the girl said, “you okay?”

  Laura turned away. The last thing she needed was someone becoming involved and getting hurt because of her. “I’m fine.”

  “You don’t look fine.” The girl leaned over, looking up into Laura’s face. Her own face was open and friendly, with sparkly silver eye shadow and bright pink lipstick. A super long pair of feathered earrings reached her shoulders. “Your friends ditch you?”

  “No, I came alone.”

  “Well, there’s your problem. Except I don’t think that’s all. Guy troubles?”

  “No. Look…” She glanced over at the girl, sort of blinded by her silver shirt and sequined boots.

  “Sydney.”

  “Sydney.” Laura couldn’t help but smile, just a little, at the girl’s eagerness to bond. “I appreciate your asking, really, but I can’t…you need to leave me alone.”

  Sydney frowned. “It is a guy. I knew it. He’s jealous. He doesn’t want you talking to anybody else.”

  “No, I told you, it’s not a guy.”

  “It’s a girl?”

  Laura closed her eyes. “Yes. She’s going to kill me if I get too friendly with you, or anybody else.” It wasn’t like this girl was actually going to take her literally, right?

  “Kill you? For talking to another person? What kind of friends do you have?”

  Good ones. The only problem was, they were hundreds of miles away, and had no idea what was happening to her. “She’s not my friend. And she might kill you, too, if she sees us together.”

  Sydney rolled her eyes. “So dramatic. Nobody’s going to kill us in an art museum. That would be so gross. Now, come on, you can’t sit here all sad when you’ve got tons of neat paintings around.” She grabbed Laura’s arm and hauled her up, linking her hand through her elbow. Laura kept a look out for unwelcome faces, but decided having a partner was good cover, at least for a few minutes.

  When they’d made the circuit of the room, Sydney said, “Come meet everybody. We’re gathering in the Impressionist rooms to head back to the bus, because it’s the tour guide’s favorite. Looks like just about everybody’s here.”

  Laura didn’t have the strength to fight her, and besides, being part of a crowd could help her exit the museum. Plus, the Rules said civilian casualties were forbidden. Laura assumed that meant that as long as the civilians remained unaware of the Game, they were safe. She would just have to make sure Sydney remained ignorant as long as Laura was with her.

  Sydney pulled her into the growing crowd of teenagers, some talking, some quiet with earphones already on. It seemed like a normal, friendly group, everyone a bit messy and sleepy-looking.

  “We drove all night to get here,” Sydney said. “From Iowa. Left late last night, got into the city about seven-thirty this morning, have been roaming these halls ever since. Next we go to the Sears Tower, you know, it’s actually the Willis Tower now, but no one calls it that. Then out for lunch, then a bunch more museums this afternoon. My feet are killing me already. After the planetarium and dinner we’re going to a play on the Navy Pier. A hip-hop version of Othello. Awesome, huh?”

  Laura checked her clock. Two minutes to transmission. She had to ditch this nice girl and get somewhere else fast, before It saw her, and before she got these people hurt. She slid her elbow off Sydney’s hand.

  “Find another stray?” A guy—maybe the one who had pushed Sydney onto the bench to begin with—smiled down at the two of them. His sandy brown hair fell in his eyes, and his teeth were just crooked enough to be interesting. A few light freckles dotted his nose, and he wore the kind of jersey Jeremy would have liked. Loose-fitting, with wide green stripes. Seeing him brought back the ache in Laura’s chest she felt when she wondered if she’d ever see Jeremy again. He had the same honest, warm quality, like she could get lost in him without any fear.

  hic

  Darn it.

  Sydney grabbed Laura again and squeezed her arm. “Adam! This is…I never did get your name.”

  “Hi,” Laura said to the guy named Adam. “Sydney didn’t think I should be sitting there alone, staring at the paintings.”

  “Of course not. Because Sydney doesn’t want anybody to be by themselves. Ever. It’s against the rules of the Sydney universe.”

  “Stop it.” Sydney hit his arm.

  He flinched and held up his hands. “No! Don’t beat me up!”

  Laura laughed. He really was like a Jeremy double.

  “I know,” Adam said, laughing along. “She’s scary.”

  “Am not,” Sydney said. “She’s the one who’s scary.” She meant the tour guide who was trying to get the group’s attention by waving a flag with a pirate on it.

  Laura thought the guide looked perfect. Glasses, rosy lipstick, a rounded figure in a fuzzy blue sweater. She reminded Laura of her mother, who was back home, completely unaware that her daughter was running for her life. At least, Laura hoped she didn’t know. Although if she knew, maybe help would arrive without Laura even asking for it.

  hic

  Laura’s wrist buzzed, sending the nine a.m. transmission. She covered the watch, hoping no one noticed the sound.

  “Are we missing anyone?” the woman who wasn’t Laura’s mom said.

  “Patrick!” someone shouted.

  “And Chrissie!” said someone else.

  “They’re probably together!” the first person said, laughing. “Checking out the slide show in that dark room.”

  Laura scanned the area, wishing they would leave so she could dart off without seeming rude, or bizarre.

  “There they are!” someone said.

  Laughter and teasing filled the room as the two arrived, the girl blushing, the guy more smug than embarrassed.

  “Okay, come along, everyone!” the woman said. “Time to load the bus!”

  There was a general grumble among the group, and Sydney and Adam moved toward the balcony overlooking the front entrance, pulling Laura with them. Sydney’s grip loosened on Laura’s arm. “I guess this is good-bye.”

  Laura’s buffer zone after the transmission was definitely up, so yes, their brief acquaintance was over.

  Sydney slid her hand down to Laura’s and gripped it. “You sure you’re going to be okay?”

  Laura averted her eyes guessing that Sydney—or at least Adam, who could have Jeremy-like intuition—would see the lie. Her gaze drifted across the museum entrance.

  And she saw Brandy Inkrott.

  Tyrese

  Three guys stared at Tyrese, one holding a crowbar, one standing stock still, and another with his hand hovering around his waist, like he had something hidden that Tyrese for sure didn’t want to see. The last thing he needed was to get shot by some redneck before It even had a chance to find him. All three seemed out-of-shape and scraggly, lots older than Tyrese, and all shorter. Not exactly dangerous. Except there were three of them. He couldn’t fight three people, but he figured he could easily outrun them.

  Could they possibly be It? Were they wannabe hillbillies out to kill the black guy? He glanced at their wrists, searching for a watch to match his, but all of them wore long-sleeved flannel shirts.

  “What are you doing back here?” Crowbar Man said.

  “Looking at cars.”

  “Told you he was sneaking around,” said the guy with the itchy hand. “Gonna steal something.”

  “No way, man,” Tyrese said. “I mean, I wasn’t. I want to buy one. Are you guys the owners? Is one of you Mike?”
The name on the garage’s sign.

  The third man, the only one without a visible weapon, was by far the biggest and oldest of the three and wore the shrewdest expression. He looked Tyrese up and down, taking in his sweat-stained, dirty warm-ups and dusty basketball shoes. “With what money?”

  “He don’t got no money,” Itchy Fingers said. “He’s gonna take one.”

  Rage burned in Tyrese’s throat. “I don’t steal cars.”

  “Not these, you won’t.”

  “Cops were out front of the gas station,” Crowbar said.

  “Go check,” the big man told him.

  “No cops,” Tyrese said.

  “My plan, exactly.” The big man didn’t move, except to jerk his chin at Crowbar. “I said, go check.”

  “Yessir.” With a last threatening wave of the crowbar, the guy waddled to the front of the Gas-n-Go.

  Tyrese considered his options. He couldn’t let the cops get him, but the one guy obviously had a gun he was dying to pull out. The big guy just looked mad. They obviously weren’t It or they would’ve said something by now. Instead, he’d been unlucky enough to run into three idiot bullies, and if they got the cops involved—

  “What you need a car for?” the big man said.

  “Get to Chicago.”

  “How’d you get here?”

  “Hitched a ride.”

  “They dump you ’cause you’re trouble?”

  “Driver wasn’t going downtown. He dropped me here and kept going his way.”

  “No one else will take you, huh? Can’t blame them, guy like you.”

  “Cops were out front, remember?”