by JD Heath
We don’t speak. We just move. Our hips brush together and our hands stay joined. We move forward, side by side, down the tunnel. Happiness, so huge and fierce that it beats against my ribs, makes my heart swell and knock at the bones of my chest, roars through me. We’re free from the trap. We’re alive.
The tunnel banks to the east and we go that way because there’s no other way to go. We’re moving up, following the incline. The tunnel rises again and I say, “Is it just me or does the air feel fresher?”
She takes in a large breath. “I think it is.”
We walk faster, still going at an upward angle. Then the tunnel levels out. I pause for a moment, trying to get my bearings. Just ahead there’s another exit sign.
Norton says, “There you are. Good. I was afraid I’d have to leave you two alive.”
I turn just in time to see him level the gun and aim it right at Gina. I sweep one arm out and push her behind me.
The gun goes off. I know the bullet’s coming but I can’t move. If I do, Gina will die.
Gina moves, and we go sideways. Something hard and powerful slugs my ribs. Every shred of breath expels from my body. I stagger and then I’m going down. My head hits pure concrete. Agony flares all over my skull and there’s a short, sharp scream from somewhere then everything is gone.
CHAPTER 17: GINA:
“Morgan!”
That cry works its way up my throat and comes out as a vicious, wounded scream. Blood’s trickling from his head and there’s more of it on his shirt. I know I need to see if I can help him but Norton’s still shooting, tracking me as I pitch my body across the floor, rolling and spinning in a desperate attempt to stay alive.
Morgan!
My heart squeezes down so painfully that I wonder, for a moment, if I’ve been shot. Liquid runs down my face. I don’t know if it’s blood or tears. It’s warm and smells of salt so it could be either, or both.
Norton stalks toward where I lay, breathing hard and stunned by the hard wall meeting my body. He says, “It’s a shame, really. You two were great players. In the old days we really would have let you live, and play in the next game. But those days are gone.”
He crouches a bit. His smile is wide and sunny. The barrel of the gun lodges against my temple. His gaze meets mine. “They’re closing me down.” He sounds incredulous. “People just aren’t as interested in the Dying Game anymore. They’ve found other amusements to enjoy as of late.”
I manage, “That’s a shame.”
He sighs. “It is. It really is. I did a service, a necessary service here. Let’s face it. All of you, the players of the Dying Game, deserve to die for your sins.”
“I didn’t kill that man.”
He grins at me. “I know, and I don’t care.”
He doesn’t care. He knows I didn’t kill that man. Paisley was right. I was the lamb, the meat for the wolves. What he doesn’t know, what nobody in this game knew, was that I’ve done things so awful, so terrible, that killing that man in the bar would have been a petty crime when weighed against my true sins.
The metal of the gun warms against my skin. I look past him and toward Morgan. He’s probably dead, or dying. There may be no way to save him now. Even if I can get Norton away from me and disarmed organ just might die. He hit his hard, so hard that I’d heard the ring and thump of that blow and concrete is incredibly unforgiving.
But he just might be alive and if I can get him help he might just stay that way.
I won’t know if I just lie here and let Norton take my life.
Norton says, “You cost me a lot of money you little bitch.”
His free hand pats at the pocket of his dress shirt as he speaks. His eyes are filled with rage and I know he’s not even aware of what he just did. He’s just given himself away. “You were supposed to die, be feed for Baumer or get yourself raped by Brallen before he killed you. The odds were good that that would happen. But instead you lived.”
The gun barrel grinds deeper into my temple as he speaks. I have one chance and I have to take it, and now. My hand finds the knife, pulls it free from the sheath. I move, a dicey thing to do but it’s my only chance. I move fast, my legs wrapping around him and the knife going deep into his wrist as I do. Norton screams. Blood flows across the blade. I manage to get my kneecap up and push arm up and to the side just as the gun goes off. The bullet strikes a wall, comes whining back.
Morgan! Did he get hit with either the bullet or the ricochet?
I straddle Norton’s body, keeping the blade pressed to his throat with one hand. My kneecaps pin his palms to the ground and my weight’s on his chest, cutting off his breath and with it his ability to really move.
People can’t think when they’re pinned down and breathless, it’s a truth that’s always been my best defense when dealing with people faster and bigger and stronger than me. Get them down, take their breath. It’s a move I learned too early and well, back when it was used on me.
I grab for the gun and his injured hands spasms once but then loosens and I send the gun skittering away from us, out of his reach.
I say, “I’m sorry to disappoint you Norton, but I don’t intend to die here.” I reach into his pocket and take out the little heavy plastic packet. It holds several USBs. Every numbered account is on those things. Every dollar he earned killing is there, proof of his crimes.
But, more importantly, all the names of those who bet on us, who bet against us, are there.
My fingers brush deep against the lining of his pocket. There’s some sort of round, metal object at the bottom, pressed hard against the seam. I pull it out. It’s a gold coin, roughly-milled. There’s a crucifix carved into one side and the face of what looks like Jesus on the other.
I poke my fingers into the leather sheath that carries the blade when it’s not in use. Leather’s mostly waterproof, and the blood I spilled might have soaked into it but it won’t have penetrated enough to ruin the files. Between the leather and the plastic the USBs will be fine.
I press the knife deeper against his flesh. A small bit of blood traces down his neck. His Adam’s apple bobs. He thrashes but stop when he realized if he keeps struggling he will impale himself on the blade.
I ask, “What’s with the coin?”
He gasps out, “The ID marker, you have to present it to the banker. Listen, we can be a team. Me and you, we can be a team. Let me live and I can give you the rest of it too.”
My knee slides over his body and hoists up into his groin. He screams, a long and wavering thing that reaches stellar pitches. Tears run down his face. I know he wants to cup his abused testicles but my leg moves again and my knees press into his palms. Hard.
I need to know what he has to say right now. I say, “All right. Deal. Maybe.”
Hope covers his face. He’s a man used to standing aside when violence happens, and he has no stomach for it when it comes for him. This makes my contempt for him grow in leaps and bounds. He asks, “Maybe?”
“Yeah, maybe. For all I know whatever you’re trying to bargain with isn’t worth it.”
His head moved up and down. He gulps out, “It is. I swear it is.”
“Then tell me.”
“You’ll kill me if I tell you.”
Jesus Christ. I’m out of time. Morgan could be dying right now. I say, in my sweetest tone. “Just give me the rough outline.”
He pants out, “The people who helped me do this. They won’t take lightly to this.”
“I bet. I know all about Control. What Control didn’t know, before they had me brought here, is who I used to be.”
“I don’t understand.”
I lean in close. I whisper words into his ear. A sharp cry breaks from his mouth. He shakes his head. His chest moves up and down. He stutters out, “That’s impossible!”
“Is it?”
He stares at me, trying to figure an angle to work. I say nothing. He caves. “I can give you the key to the code.”
It hits me that I al
ready know how to break that code. I know how because I know Norton, that Bible-thumping bastard. The coin was a dead giveaway. Not to mention that he’d quoted verses of the Bible at us so often, and with a real and sadistic pleasure, during the days before the Dying Game began in earnest.
I recall every verse. And I know, know, those verses are somehow part and parcel of that code that will open to reveal the names of those who bet on the Dying Game, and the names of those who helped him to create it.
I say, “No deal.”
Norton’s eyes go wide. They go wider still when I let the knife dance across his skin. I want to kill Norton slow, make him suffer like he made so many suffer, but there’s Morgan to think about.
Norton cries out but my hand presses over his mouth and nose, shutting those cries off. I shift my hand a bit and then my fist in his mouth, opening it. His teeth slam down, bringing glorious pain into my fingers and the meat that lies below my thumb.
I don’t let it distract me. I find the slippery length of his tongue and yank it past his teeth, forcing them open with my fist and a moment later the blade slides through that thick muscle, severing it. His eyes, wrapped with white rings of utter shock, stare up at me. The sounds coming from his mouth are guttural, tinged with agony. Blood bubbles out of his mouth and runs down his chin as I tuck the tongue into his pants pocket and wink at him. “Welcome to the Dying Game, Norton.”
My hand covers his mouth again. He thrashes about, struggling to breathe. I wait a few seconds. Then I do it, go for the throat. My blade goes right to the jugular and blood sprays upward. I get my head back just in time to avoid being splashed with his blood and I’m glad.
He thrashes a little longer then goes limp. The blade goes to his stomach. The buttons of his shirt slice away, making a soft musical sound as they land on the stone floor. I carve a half-moon deep into his belly, one that matches the tattooed one on my shoulder, and then I leave Norton’s body.
Morgan hasn’t moved at all. I let my bloody fingers go to the pulse in his throat. It’s there but thready and weak. I get my hands under his arms and start dragging him. There’s heat in his body but it’s not as warm as it should be. Will he die before I can get him some help?
I don’t know. I stagger backward along the tunnel, toward that exit, pulling him along with me until I spot something so bizarre that I’m sure, positive in fact, that’s it’s just a dream. I nearly drop Morgan, I’m so stupefied by it.
A truck! It’s dun-colored and has fat tires with thick tread all the way around. There’s some sort of canvas tarp covering the back and space for passengers up front. I manage to haul him a little further. My hand meets the side of the truck and I want to weep it’s so real and solid.
Getting Morgan into the truck is a feat that takes most of my flagging energy. I’m panting and sweating, sick and shaking, before I manage it. There’s keys in the ignition, something that brings more tears to my eyes.
I can’t afford to cry, not now. I turn the truck on and let cool air run out of the vents. I get out and run to the back, flip up the canvas cover. There’s nothing back there but a set of folded blue coveralls, a large can of gasoline, and a case of water. I strip and use a bottle to wash the blood away as fast as I can and then I put on the coveralls. They’re far too long and tight, they were clearly meant for Norton, as was the truck.
He’ll never need them.
I carry a few bottles of water with me and as I settle into the driver’s seat Morgan groans. I look down at him, trying to think what to do next. I rest a hand on his chest. His heartbeat is thin and weak but there. He’ll make it, I hope, if I can get to help in time.
There’s a radio but I don’t dare use it. I can’t. I have to get him to safety but I also have to keep my freedom.
I drive There’s only one direction to go in. I take the twisting turns through the echoing steel hallways and suddenly I understand exactly where we are. It’s an old missile silo of some sorts, or an underground bunker, probably one designed to hold important people in safety if there’s ever a nuclear war.
Morgan moans and shivers. I don’t dare stop yet but I glance over at him. He’s so pale! My heart contracts and loosens. I have to go, have to get him to safety, to a hospital, but what will happen to him after that?
He’ll be a target for those who helped to run the Dying Game. We’re both their targets now. I can go underground. Can he?
Maybe he won’t have to. He’s a federal agent and this was his job, to find the Fortress. There will be press. He’ll be a hero. But that won’t keep him safe.
Parnham.
The man who’s Morgan’s contact and the only one who knows where he went. Who set Morgan up to be taken to the Fortress. I can’t think and I have to, because Morgan gave me those digits to memorize for good reason.
I come to a massive, vaulted door. My stomach sinks as I grind the truck to a halt and stare at it as Norton’s offer hits me like a fist to the belly. This was the code he was willing to give me! I’d been too hasty in killing him. Dammit! I killed the only person who knew the code to open that door! Have we come all this way just to be trapped here?
I get the truck into park and jump out. All my senses are on high alert as I go to the door. Anxiety scrolls through me. There’s a keypad. What’re the magical digits? How many chances will I have at opening it before it follows some internal command to lock me out of the opening system permanently?
Think.
Think about this and only this.
Stop thinking about Morgan in the truck, probably dying.
Stop thinking about what comes after the door’s opened.
Find the flaw in the trap and you can escape the trap.
I should know.
I escaped a trap even worse than the Fortress once, a long time ago.
My breath comes on a shivering gasp. I block out everything but this. The keypad. The numbers. The need to break a code. The need to open this fucking door and find my freedom and help for Morgan.
Stop thinking about Morgan!
Okay. Find the flaw in the trap. I study the keypad again. The numbered pads give me no clue. There’s no significant wear on any of them, which would be a giveaway as to which numbers make up the code, if not the order the code follows.
Norton gave me the code to the files by his words and actions. Maybe Norton set the keypad codes, and if he did I might already have the key to that code, if I can just think. I try to summon up all the numbers I ever saw while imprisoned in this place. I’m not sure if any of them count.
Then I remember something, something that always struck me, and right from the first.
The symmetry of it all.
Ten prisoners. Five in a row. Two rows. Ten prisoners. Five cells to each row. Two rows. Five days to train, going two at a time—or there would have been two at a time if the number of players had stayed at ten, like Norton wanted.
“So the overseer of the palace, the overseer of the city, the elders, and the guardians sent a message to Jehu: "We are your servants, and we will do whatever you tell us. We will not make anyone king. Do whatever you think is right.”
2 Kings. 10:5.
Norton’s favorite verse. His way of telling us that he was the overseer there, he was the guard of this particularly hellish palace, and he would damn well do whatever he thought was right, which was force us all to fight or die.
His preferred that set up as well. Two, ten, five, He’d had to have that exact pattern. He’d let McKenzie be blown up by his ankle cuff to show us what would happen if we tried to escape. But he’d brought in a tenth player in. One the second day.
He’d released in groups of two. Five teams. Ten players.
Five, ten, two.
Those are the numbers. I just need to figure out the order they go in so I can open this fucking door. There’s only one way to find out if I’m right. I lift my fingers and press the keys.
Nothing.
Disappointment crashes through me. The doors st
ay shut. My heart beats too fast and I fight back tears, fight through that crushing disappointment, trying to think, to try again.
I try a different combination of the same numbers. The keypad beeps and hope crashes in then away again as a warning light and an incorrect entry warning pops up. It hadn’t happened the first time. This isn’t good.
I might have one try left. Might. I’m sweating harder and crying now, my chest heaving up and down as I sob out, “Come on you motherfucker! I won fair and square!”
Think, I tell myself. You know it’s these numbers. Norton had some sort of fetish for these numbers and there’s only so many ways you can combine them. You’ve tried twice. Pull back, regroup and try again. If it doesn’t work then just ram the door. Or find a new way out.
How long would that take? Too long. Morgan doesn’t have much time. He’s got to have real medical attention, soon. Before he dies or the head injury causes some devastation that can’t ever be undone.
One more chance and then I was going to have to try to ram a truck through a door meant to withstand a nuclear blast, a thing that was bound to end badly. My fingers go to the keypad. My breath catches and still in my throat as I press the buttons. My eyes squeeze shut. My body locks into rigid lines.
The silence breaks with a pneumatic whine and the sound of an engine leveling up. The doors begin to open. I race back to the truck, get in, and slam it into drive even as I hit the gas.
The truck bounces out of the Fortress and onto shifting sands. The sun, so golden and glorious, blazes down at me from a faultless blue sky. A cry of sheer joy bursts from my lips. My heartbeat’s wild and uncontrollable. I don’t even try to control it. I press harder on the gas and spun sand in my wake, heading for a slim ribbon of asphalt that heads east and west.
The tires grab blacktop and we’re moving through scrub and canyons, a dun-and-ocher landscape. There’s no distinguishable features really, but I don’t care. The road has to lead to somewhere, and I have a full tank of gas and more in the back.
