Outlive (The Baggers Trilogy, #1)

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Outlive (The Baggers Trilogy, #1) Page 8

by Chad Leito

Tartuga waved his hand impatiently. “Not from you, from him. I want the big guy to talk.” His blue eyes were on Baggs.

  Baggs remained where he was lying on the bloody floor. Now that he had had a moment to calm down, he felt embarrassed that he had resorted to violence. Hot blood still beat through his face, though. His hands were throbbing from throwing so many punches. “I…uhhh…I want to sign up for Outlive. I came in here to sign up, and I was talking to Julie about it, and this guy—Jimmy—he hit me with a nightstick.”

  “That is not true!” Jimmy cried.

  “Don’t talk, Jimmy,” Tartuga said quietly, but with authority. “Julie, what did you tell him when he said he wanted to sign up?”

  Julie spoke from behind the desk where Baggs couldn’t see her. She sounded like she was crying, though. “I told him we didn’t have any spots! It’s true! Oh, God! Oh, Jimmy, your face!”

  Tartuga looked down at the mess on the floor. “Julie, call someone to come clean this up.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He then addressed Baggs: “What’s your name?”

  “James Baggers. Everyone calls me Baggs.”

  “You still want to enter Outlive?”

  Baggs nodded.

  “Can you be trusted, Baggs? If I ask you to come upstairs with me to have a little chat, can I trust you not to go commando on me and beat me to a pulp?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “C’mon, then,” he said. He turned, opened the door, and waited for Baggs to stand up. Baggs stood up slowly, not quite believing all that had just happened and began to walk towards the door, feeling the blood beneath his bare feet. Jimmy was shaking angrily as Baggs passed, but didn’t dare try to impede Baggs. Baggs walked into the hallway with Mr. Tartuga and let the door fall shut behind him.

  2

  Tartuga led Baggs towards a spacious elevator that only opened with a key. The inside was covered in windows and had polished metal handrails.

  “After you,” Tartuga said.

  Baggs hesitated, looking down at his bloody feet and then at the clean marble inside of the private elevator.

  “Don’t worry about it. Just go on in, someone will clean it up.”

  Baggs obeyed and stepped in. Tartuga followed him and the door shut behind them. Baggs still didn’t know what to make of what had just happened. He had beaten up a police officer in a fit of rage and now he was being taken somewhere by this man in an expensive suit.

  “I never properly introduced myself,” said Tartuga, his eyes crawling over Baggs in an appraising way. He didn’t seem to be the least bit scared of being inside the elevator with the giant that had just lost his temper. “I’m Vinny Tartuga—I’m Head of Entertainment of New Rome. Uhhh… I’d shake hands with you, but I don’t want to get blood on my hands.”

  Baggs grunted.

  “You beat the hell out of Jimmy down there. Really beat the hell out of him. I’m impressed. I only saw the tail end of it, but what I did see convinced me that this wasn’t your first time around the carousel. You fight often?” Tartuga looked up at Baggs’s face.

  “I’ve been in fights before, yeah,” he said. He didn’t like to talk much about his violent past. He wanted to leave those bloody memories behind. Tartuga was looking up at him with greedy dark eyes, the way a jeweler might examine his prized diamond. It made Baggs feel terrible. He was ashamed of his past—and often tried to hide it from himself and from others. What happened in the lobby accentuated those traits that he was ashamed of in a big way.

  “God!” Tartuga said, and he balled his hands into fists and began to punch at the air while he talked. “You were like powpowpowpow pow pow POW! KNOCK OUT! Incredible!” He breathed for a moment, smiling and reliving the fight he had just seen. “This is our stop.”

  The elevator dinged, the doors opened and they stepped out into a hallway that was much nicer than the one they had walked through on the first floor. From outside large, clear windows Baggs looked out at a bird’s eye view of London. Tartuga walked quickly and decisively down a hallway and Baggs followed him. He was about to open his mouth and ask, What are we doing? Why did you bring me up here? but then Tartuga spoke.

  “Do you like lobster and eggs?” He asked. They walked by offices, and people who noticed Tartuga walking waved at him. All the women and men that they passed wore clean suits, and had neatly trimmed hair. They didn’t scowl at the huge man walking barefoot and bloody through the hallway because he was with Tartuga.

  “Never had it,” Baggs said. They passed a vending machine that accepted CreditCoins and kept walking.

  “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me! It’s the best! It sounds kind of weird, but chopped lobster on a fried egg is my absolute favorite breakfast. I insist that you try it. It’s got a lot of protein, too. It’s good for you.”

  They walked on for a bit, and a mousy young woman with glasses ran up beside Tartuga to speak with him. “Sir! I wanted to know if I could get you anything?”

  Tartuga didn’t even turn to look who had come up beside him; he knew who it was, and didn’t dignify the servant with even a sideways glance. “Lobster and eggs for me and the big guy behind me. Make him double-NO!-triple what I normally eat. His name is James Baggers, but you can call him Mr. Baggers.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Tartuga went on: “I want you to bring up a thermos of Americano coffee. Make that two. No, three thermoses! Then, some doughnuts. Pigs in a blanket. And I want sliced fruit.”

  “What kinds, sir?”

  “What I usually get,” Tartuga said, annoyed at the question.

  “Right away, sir,” said the mousy assistant, and she hurried down the hallway in another direction.

  Tartuga led Baggs into a room that Baggs would have assumed was a library if he hadn’t seen the sign outside the door. “Office of Head of New Rome Media: Vinny Tartuga.” The room was spacious, with a three-story ceiling, and a stone floor encrusted with triangles of sparkling jewels. There were huge, oak tables in the center of the room, and along the walls were shelves containing thousands of books. There was a series of eight stairs further back in the room that led atop a stone platform on which a large wooden desk sat.

  “Make yourself comfortable. Jodi will be back in a moment with breakfast. I’m going to work for a bit.”

  Baggs looked around. “Mr. Tartuga, with all due respect, what am I doing here?”

  Tartuga turned, looked at his watch, and then looked up at Baggs. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean—am I going to get to enter Outlive? I thought all the spots were full.”

  Tartuga smiled slyly. “They are! But I bet that you’ll get to enter.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Tartuga looked at his watch. “I’ll tell you what—I’ve got an email from Emperor Daman that I need to respond to. Let me go do that, then we’ll have a talk about it all, and maybe you’ll be able to make sense of what I say.”

  Baggs nodded, but was confused by the words ‘maybe you’ll be able to make sense of what I say.’

  Tartuga turned and walked briskly up the stone steps to his desk, directly behind which were corner glass windows that gave a spectacular view of one of the least dilapidated areas of the city. Baggs wondered if perhaps Tartuga had feeds from security cameras that displayed on his computer; Otherwise, what was he doing down on the first floor? Baggs’s feet were hurting from walking on hard surfaces without shoes on; this seemed to always exacerbate his plantar fasciitis. He never went without footwear, even in his own home. He wanted to sit down at the table, but more than that, he wanted to explore the library.

  He spent a moment walking around, looking at all of the hardcover and leather-bound books. Tessa would love this, he thought. The library was divided up alphabetically by author. Baggs looked and saw a book that Tessa had wanted to read for years: How the Mind Works by Steven Pinker. None of the libraries had it. Baggs touched the back of the volume, wondering if he could talk Tartuga into letting his wife borrow the book.
She found Pinker fascinating. He was, in her opinion, the last great psychologist. No one rivaled him since, due to the problems with the education system. Baggs walked a few paces from the “P” section to the “R” section and saw Rowling’s Harry Potter series next to the huge mass of the other books she wrote in her lifetime. Baggs felt a lump in his throat, thinking of Maggie having to read the rest of the series to her sister. They’ve probably found the note by now, he thought. He wondered who found it. Probably Tessa. She’s such an early riser. He wondered how she told the news to their daughters.

  Baggs continued to walk around the room until Jodi returned with breakfast on polished silver trays. A young man followed her in, also carrying trays of food and coffee. Baggs couldn’t believe all they brought. The lobster and eggs looked delicious, as did the sliced fruit. Baggs saw pineapple, and his mouth watered at the thought of getting to have it a second time. The doughnuts were still hot with glazed sugar glistening atop them. The coffee was in three silver thermoses that sat along side delicate cups with different patterns on them. There were cups of cold milk, cups of sugar, and cups of cream that could be added to the coffee. There was a bottle of orange juice, and dew-covered glasses of ice water.

  “What’s that?” Baggs asked, pointing to a pile of steaming croissants wrapped around hot ham and melted cheese.

  “Pigs in a blanket,” Jodi told him. Her eyes shifted nervously to Tartuga, who was a shadow, typing on his computer in front of the large, bright windows. “Mr. Tartuga, your breakfast is here,” she called.

  “Go ahead and eat, Baggs. I’ll be down in a second. You can read the books, you know. They’re not just for looking at. Wash your hands first; they’re still bloody. Use one of the wipes Jodi brought.”

  “Okay, thank you,” Baggs said; he opened up one of the packets of wipes and cleaned his hands off. The smell of alcohol stung his nose.

  Jodi looked quizzically at Baggs’s bloodied shoulder beneath his ripped shirt and then left the room.

  Baggs’s mouth was watering heavily as he took a seat in front of the mounds of food. He poured himself a cup of coffee, which was dark black and gave off a rich aroma. He took a small sip and moaned quietly to himself. He used to be a daily coffee drinker, but hadn’t had a cup in a few years because he didn’t have enough money to buy such things. This was undoubtedly the best cup of coffee Baggs had ever had. He piled one of the small tea plates with pigs in a blanket, lobster and eggs, doughnuts, and fruit. He draped a napkin over the top of his pants, which were already dirty enough that spilling food on them wouldn’t change their appearance much, but he felt the napkin in his lap would be polite, anyways.

  Tartuga continued to type at his desk, and Baggs was partially thankful for this. He wouldn’t have been able to talk much with all this food before him. The food was just as good as it looked—he saved his pineapple for last, and was pleased to find that this fruit was much sweeter than the fruit he had eaten the night before. He stirred creamer into his coffee and drank it slowly, savoring the taste in his mouth. He ate until his stomach protruded. He thought to himself, If Tartuga thinks I’m big now, he should see me after a couple weeks of eating proper portions. When food was more plentiful, Baggs could weigh a dense two hundred and fifty pounds.

  When Baggs was finished with the pineapple, he pushed his plate away and cleaned off his hands with his napkin. He stood up and walked around the room, looking for a book to enjoy while Tartuga finished the lengthy email to the emperor. He picked Under the Dome by Stephen King. He had read the novel twice already, and he sat down at the table and opened the book in the middle, wanting to start from a random spot. He poured himself a third cup of coffee—his brain was buzzing with caffeine by this time—and began to read.

  He read four or five pages before stopping, and looking around him, taking in where he was. It was incredible to Baggs that some people lived like this—assistants to take their orders, prime food brought when they asked, an office stocked with thousands of books you’ve never read—when people were literally starving to death. The accommodations were enjoyable—there was no arguing that—but were they enjoyable enough to justify others starving? Baggs thought of Maggie’s ribs. Surely not.

  Baggs poured himself a cup of orange juice and read for a few more minutes before Tartuga stood up and began to make his way to the breakfast table. Baggs was almost upset at being interrupted—he was getting into the story.

  “Good?” Tartuga asked. He took one doughnut and a cup of coffee. Baggs guessed that whatever wasn’t eaten was simply thrown away.

  “Amazing. It was wonderful.”

  “What was it we were talking about, again?” Tartuga asked through a mouthful of doughnut.

  “You were saying that you thought there might be an opening in Outlive for me.”

  Tartuga smiled. “Yes. Yes, that was it.”

  “But all the spots are filled. I don’t understand. Are you going to have me sign up for the next season?”

  Tartuga shook his head.

  Surely he’s not thinking of letting me be a gladiator, Baggs thought. Becoming a gladiator would be just as dangerous—if not more—than being a competitor in Outlive, but his family would be sent five or six times as many CreditCoins. Gladiators were all male, and some of the best athletes in New Rome. The most popular among them were paid millions of CreditCoins per deathly appearance.

  “Do you think that I’ll be able to sign up for this season of Outlive?” Baggs asked.

  “Yes. I do.”

  “I’m confused.”

  Tartuga nodded. “Naturally. There’s a lot of confusing political things when you get high up in the pecking order.” He smiled more. Baggs thought that Tartuga had a secret that he wanted to tell. Baggs was very observant of trends with people. People often called him intuitive. He had taken special note of Tartuga’s office. Why have such a big office with so many chairs? he had asked himself. To show it off. And that’s why he ordered all this food. That’s why he wears such nice suits. He likes to show other people what he’s got—he likes to brag. Now, he’s trying to show off by letting me know that he has high up connections. He knows something that he doesn’t want to flat out tell me. But he wants me to know he knows.

  Baggs sipped his coffee. “There’s something you don’t feel comfortable telling me.”

  Tartuga shrugged, but his smile grew.

  Baggs remained silent for a moment, just staring at Tartuga. After a few seconds, Tartuga gave a clue. “As you know, contestants for Outlive are divided up into different teams. Each team has an owner—usually someone very powerful. Very powerful. Do you kind of see where I’m going with this?”

  Baggs thought for a moment. “I honestly don’t.”

  Tartuga smiled giddily and rocked left and right in his chair. He looked very boyish, even though he was graying and held a position of such authority that he had Emperor Daman’s private email. That’s another thing, Baggs thought. He could have just said, ‘I have to send an email,’ but instead he let me know that the email was to the most powerful person in New Rome, possibly the world—Emperor Daman. He likes to show off.

  Tartuga started to talk again: “When you have so many powerful people playing a game, the game isn’t always what it seems. I know I’m not making myself clear, but, uhhhh, it’s not in my best interest to make myself clear.”

  “I’m not supposed to know what you know.”

  Tartuga nodded, but said happily, “I didn’t say that, Baggs! But, if you were to be drawn to that conclusion, so be it. You believe that there is something that I’m not supposed to tell you. But you’re a smart guy, aren’t you? I can tell. I know a smart man when I see one. And, as a smart man, if you were to deduce what’s going on from events around you, that’s not my fault. And it’s not like you would tell, right?”

  “Of course not. Even if I did, who would believe me?”

  Tartuga took another bite of doughnut. “Exactly! You’re exactly right!” Tartuga paused, che
wing thoughtfully.

  “You were saying that the owners are powerful people. And when powerful people play the game, ‘the game isn’t always what it seems.’ I’ve heard that the competitors assigned to each team are chosen at random. Am I right in guessing that perhaps it’s not as random as the average Outlive viewer is led to believe?”

  Tartuga made a funny clucking noise. “Mmmmhhh, no. Not exactly. Not at all, actually. A computer chooses the contestants from a pool. We have a certain number that we can put into the computer, and then the program randomly assigns them to different owners.”

  Baggs sipped on his coffee some more.

  Tartuga made the clucking noise again before continuing. “However, there are certain circumstances in which contestants have to be replaced. Because, as you know, contestants are sometimes chosen two weeks before the event—accidents happen. Some of the contestants are old, and some have pre-existing medical conditions. It’s not unheard of for one of them to die while waiting. And, as you also are probably aware, a lot of money exchanges hands during the Outlive contests. Owners of good teams are handsomely awarded. And there’s a lot of outside betting, too. It wouldn’t be fair for one team to enter the Colosseum a man short simply because of some awful tragedy.”

  Tartuga was almost bouncing in his chair. He took another doughnut—one of the cream filled ones—and began to chew on it. Baggs didn’t respond to what Tartuga had just said, and so the man gave even more information.

  “And, if such a tragedy does befall some poor soon-to-be contestant, I’m the one in charge of replacing them. The rules state that I’m supposed to wait for the first person to come into the Outlive office, and that person replaces the dead one. But—here we enter the realm of the hypothetical, Baggs—imagine, for instance, that one of the owners isn’t particularly pleased with one of his randomly assigned participants—an old woman, say. It would be incredible, then, if the old woman died at one o’clock today and you walked into the Outlive office fifteen minutes after she passed.”

 

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