by Chuck Wendig
“Agent Copper,” Golathan says, crunching lettuce.
“Ken,” Hollis says, trying not to show his surprise.
Golathan, even through the screen, detects it. “I startle you?”
“Nope.”
“Uh-huh. And how’s the pod’s first day?”
“Just dandy.”
“C’mon, don’t shit me. I can smell a lie like a dead hamster in the walls. We had that a couple weeks ago, you know. Hamster in the walls, dead.”
“At your office?”
“At my—? What? No. No, at home. Mandy brought home the class hamster—Scrubbers, I think his name was. Or shit, maybe he was a guinea pig? Whatever. Point is, the little fucker got out, got into the walls somehow. Died there. Stunk up the place. Had to convince the kids that he ran off to be with his own family somewhere and that the smell was just some septic fumes.”
“That’s a great story,” Hollis says. “Really.”
“Don’t condescend. The story actually has a point, Agent Copper.”
“Oh, and what’s that?”
“Your job is to be the adult that lies to the children. You’re in charge of your little group, so you’re gonna have to make them dance for their dinner.”
“They’re gonna wash out,” Hollis says. “They’re not gonna hack it.”
“Nice pun.”
“Didn’t mean for it to be one.”
“If they can’t—ahem, hack it, then fine, so be it. But we think they will.”
“We think. You mean you think. Or Typhon thinks.”
“There you go again, asking questions that are miles above your pay grade.”
Fuck my pay grade, Hollis thinks. “What the hell is Typhon, Ken?”
“It’s a program. Like I’ve said.”
“And it picked these people.”
Golathan takes one more bite of salad and shoves the plastic tray away from him as if suddenly he’s offended by it. “It picked every one of those faces in that joint. Typhon even picked you. It crunches data. This is the result of that crunching.”
“I don’t like it.”
“You don’t have to like it. Just do your job.” Golathan’s finger appears suddenly large on the screen—blurry, pixilated, purple.
Then the call ends.
“Asshole,” Hollis says, hoping Golathan can still hear him.
CHAPTER 12
The Stolper Two-Step
THE LODGE
They’re walking back to the cabin. None of them are really talking to one another—they’re walking together but they’re not walking together. Chance hangs back even farther. He’s been here, what, two hours? And he’s already feeling like a rat with its tail caught in a trap, little claws scrabbling against the cellar floor.
God damn that Graves. He’s right. Chance doesn’t belong here. He’s a rube, a newb, a poser. But it’s here or it’s prison. And it’s one year here. Or maybe ten there.
He’s gotta stay in the game.
His palms sweat. His heart hammers in the sides of his neck. He feels suddenly, overwhelmingly alone.
And that’s when, of all people, Reagan Stolper hangs back. “’Sup, Chauncey,” she says.
“Really wish you wouldn’t call me that.”
“Okay, jeez, fine. Chance. Hey, listen, don’t sweat Graves.”
He cocks his head. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Fuck him.”
“You looked awfully into him.”
She shrugs, makes a face. “I really would fuck him. He’s like a sweet-ass Popsicle I just wanna—” Reagan mimes sucking a Popsicle, then biting it. She smacks her lips. “Mmm. Yeah. And his résumé is most impressive. But I don’t like people who think they’re too big for their britches. I see egos like that, it stops mattering how frothy my panties get—my greatest urge is to knock that cocky parrot off his perch.” She grins big, then musses his hair the same way Graves did. “Don’t worry, Chauncey. I got your back.”
Reagan whistles as she walks up to the basketball court. Peter and the Wolf. Doo-doo-dee-doo-dee-doo. There, on the court, stands Shane Graves. His babysitter, who she’s pretty sure is named Rivera, stands there, too—practically nose to nose with him.
In Graves’s back pocket is a phone. Black like volcanic glass. Thin profile.
Rivera’s a slug. Might’ve been a lean cut of meat once—muscled of body, principled of mind. But now he looks like a mess. Sloppy. Tired. Everything untucked. Got all the hallmarks of being a drunk except for the smell of liquor coming off him.
They look, see Reagan sauntering over.
Graves takes the basketball he’s holding, thrusts it into Rivera’s middle. The hack makes an oof sound. He passes it back.
She hears Shane tell Rivera: “Take a hike.”
Rivera probably doesn’t want to seem like he can be pushed around, so he says, “Whatever, Graves, don’t fuck up.” But to Reagan’s trained ear it sounds rehearsed: a bluff, some bullshit bluster. He passes her, gives her a look. “What?” he asks sharply.
She shrugs, keeps walking.
Now it’s Shane’s turn. Eyebrows raised. “What?”
“Hey, Graves. Or should I say Ivo Shandor.”
“What’s your name? Stapler?”
“You know my name. You know more about me than I do, probably. I know you got a phone. I know you probably have a laptop here. I figure you’ve got Rivera in your pocket, somehow. You were Hacker Supreme on the outside, so no reason to think differently here on the inside.”
“So you’re less of a zero than your cohorts.” He spins the ball in his hands. Dribbles it a few times. “What do you want, Reagan?”
“It’s more about what you want.”
“And what do I want?”
“Besides a puppy? I’m guessing you have a hard-on for Chance Dalton.” He cocks an eyebrow and she rolls her eyes. “No, not like that. I mean, you want to burn him down. Wash him out. Punish him. Am I right?”
“You are, at that.”
A wicked grin cuts across her face. “Then I can help.”
CHAPTER 13
The First Message
THE LODGE
The Lodge shuts everything down at 9 P.M. A female voice over a loudspeaker tells them that everyone is to be back in their cabins by nine thirty, at which point the cabins lock.
Reagan is missing.
At first, fine, whatever. Everyone’s nervous, it seems, but nobody really wants to acknowledge it. They keep peering out the door and the windows. All the other hackers—the prisoners, they have to remind themselves, since most of today it felt like they were just students on some kind of college campus hidden in the mountains—have gone to their pods, and only a few mill around. None of them seem to be Reagan.
“She’s gonna get washed out, first day,” DeAndre says.
“Good,” Aleena says as she climbs the ladder to the loft. “Let her.”
Chance says, “Couldn’t that hurt all of us?”
“It does seem like our fates are intertwined,” Wade says. “She messes up, we all gotta do the push-ups, you know?”
“Crap,” Aleena says. “You think? Crap. She’s going to screw us.”
9:25 P.M. Still no Reagan. Everyone shuts up. Like speaking will somehow scare her away. The uncertainty in the room is killing them. What happens if she’s not accounted for? Do they all wash out? Get packed back in SUVs and sent to prison?
DeAndre hurries around the room, whispers in everyone’s ear—Chance assumes everyone gets reminded of the same thing: “They probably got mics or cameras in this room. You feel me?”
Nine thirty rolls around. The door seals with a vacuum foomp. There’s a loud rattle as the lock engages. The lights in the cabin go out with a buzz and a click.
“Good night,” Aleena says. And then she names them one by one until finally she says: “Good night, Reagan.”
Time slows to a crawl. Like sap oozing from cold pine. Chance lies there in his cot. DeAndre and Wade nearby. Wade’s asleep. When the old
man snores, he sounds like someone throwing kitchen appliances into a wood chipper.
DeAndre’s not making any noise, so Chance takes a, well, chance, and says: “You awake, DeAndre?”
“What? I am now.”
“Sorry.”
“Whatever, man, I wasn’t actually asleep.”
“I think I’m screwed.”
“Huh?”
“I’m way out of my depth, man. I don’t know what they’re gonna have us do, but first day I’ll be the guy who drowns in a puddle.”
“You’ll be all right.”
I don’t think so, Chance thinks. He’s about to say something else, but from the loft, Aleena hisses:
“Shut up. I’m trying to sleep.”
“We are, too,” DeAndre says.
“Doesn’t sound like it!”
DeAndre snorts a laugh. Chance does, too. But that’s the last they speak.
Eventually, sleep reaches a tentative, hesitant hand and takes them all.
Hollis walks the nighttime perimeter of the Hunting Lodge. The forest is loud with chittering bugs. It’s isolated up here. Way too isolated. Hollis doesn’t do country mouse very well. He’s a city mouse—born and raised in D.C. The Hunting Lodge feels too remote. So far off the grid you start to forget there’s a grid in the first place.
Hunting Lodge, he thinks. Given the targets they go after, it’s an apt name, if a little cocky. He wonders what his five hacker charges will think about that—they haven’t seen what’s coming down the pike. They don’t know what they’ll be asked to do. Up until now, everything’s been theory. But tomorrow, it starts.
He doesn’t have high hopes. Aleena is capable, but too principled. Reagan is a mystery—she claims she’s just a troll, but his file on her is thick as three thumbs and it isn’t just trolling. Earthman is old school, old tech, old man; wouldn’t surprise Hollis to see him wash out. DeAndre’s probably their best bet, here—capable, savvy, so far seems to know he should shut up and do the time. He puts on a good show, but Hollis thinks DeAndre is scared. That’s good.
Chance, though—Chance is a worry. They should’ve just let him be. If the law brought charges against him for hacking into some e-mails, so be it. Let him tangle with the justice system, take his shot—the court of public opinion would be on his side (at least outside his own town, where they were ready to crucify him for screwing up their football season). But this kid doesn’t really know what he’s doing, and—
Somewhere not far away, a branch snaps.
Hollis stops. Listens. Peers out into the dark woods. Behind him, the lights of the Lodge shine bright—while it’s lights-out inside the cabins, the pods, and the Ziggurat, out here the electric lights buzz and hum and shine. They cast fingers of light out into the trees, but that only goes so far, and—
Snap. Another branch cracks. There’s a flutter of feathers—some night bird takes flight, is gone.
Hollis feels the weight of his Glock 21 hanging pendulous at his hip. The weight of consequence. He’s taken his gun out too many times to count, even taken a few shots here and there, but he shot and killed someone only one time:
Fellhurst. Back when he and Golathan—
A rustle of leaves. Just a deer, he thinks. Or a bear. Are there bears here? Moose? Elk? Jesus, he doesn’t know. He knows rats, pigeons, city raccoons, and skunks.
Still. Hollis pops the holster latch, draws the gun. Heads down the steps toward the first fence. He thumbs the soft switch on the tactical light hanging from the front of the .45, and a beam of garish white light punctures the darkness like a pin. Casting a chain-link shadow as it shines: a series of dark diamond outlines.
Hollis shines the beam side to side. Nothing. His thumb reaches to turn off the tactical light—
Movement. Off to the left. He pivots, points the pistol. A person is out there. On the other side of the fence. Running almost silently through the trees. Hollis catches a glimpse of a thick frame, hunched over, a muss of dark hair, and then the figure is gone.
Hollis yells. Curses under his breath. Who the hell could be out there? The Hunting Lodge has two fences. Nobody gets between them—though, is the five-mile outer fence really guarded well? Probably not.
Hollis grabs the radio and calls in for backup. Time to do what the Lodge’s nickname demands.
Time to go hunting.
CHAPTER 14
Evals
THE CABIN
The alarm—it’s not a clock radio going off, clicking over to some nineties-era one-hit wonder (that insidious earworm about walking five hundred miles), and it’s not the happy chime of an iPhone. It’s a honking Klaxon, a sound like what someone hears when they’re in a submarine and the XO is yelling dive, dive, dive! Aleena sits up in her bed, her heart like a rat in a cage that just suffered an electrical shock—it beats so fast she thinks it’s going to break out of her chest and run for the door.
By the time she covers her ears, the Klaxons outside stop. Everyone is sitting up in their beds except Wade. And that includes Reagan.
Aleena looks across at the smug, self-satisfied face. Reagan smirks, eyes squinting. She yawns, rubs her face. “What’s up, little Kardashian?”
“I’m not a—what? I’m not Armenian. They’re Armenian.”
“What are you, then?” Reagan picks at the edge of a nostril. Flicks something away, maybe a bit of skin, maybe a booger.
“I’m American.”
“Fine, whatever, I meant what nationality—”
“Syrian.”
“Syria and Armenia share a border, so I was close.”
“They do not share a border. Turkey is in the middle—”
Reagan giggles. “Like a sandwich. A delicious, Arabic, Muslim sandwich.”
“Armenians aren’t Arabs—I think they’re just Armenians. And they’re not generally Muslim, either, it’s a Christian country—wait. Wait. This is what you do, isn’t it? My brother does this to my mother. He winds her up. You’re just winding me up.”
“It’s kinda my jam.”
Aleena makes a frustrated noise. Down in the cabin, Chance and DeAndre are both standing over Wade. Wade is still rolled over, snoring like a grizzly bear with a bad case of sleep apnea.
She turns back to Reagan. “Where were you last night?” she hisses quietly.
Reagan presses a finger to her lips. Then leans forward as if she’s gonna share a secret: “Nunya. Fuggin’. Business.” Suddenly she’s standing up, stretching and yawning in a loud, obnoxious way (Aleena realizes that this is Reagan’s default setting: loud and obnoxious). Then she claps her hands and says: “Today is eval day. As I understand it, that means a simple black box pen test. You know the deal: an hour to shower and then a day to shine. Let’s move.”
“What do you mean a black box pen test?” Aleena asks.
“C’mon, little girl, you know what that is. Right?”
“Yes, damn it, I know what it is. But how do you know that’s what’s happening today? Nobody told us that.”
Reagan pops a finger in her mouth like she’s slurping on a lollipop, then holds it up in the air and says: “I just know which way the wind is blowing, sweetie pie.”
Chance and DeAndre stand over Wade’s snore-roaring body.
“If he wasn’t making that awful sound, I’d think he was dead,” DeAndre says.
“He sounds like someone moving furniture across a broken floor.”
“I know, man. I can feel it vibrating in my feet. In my teeth.”
DeAndre nudges Wade in the middle of the back with a knee. Nothing.
“Hey,” Chance says, voice low. “What the hell’s a . . . black box pen test?”
“You’re joking, right?” DeAndre asks. But the look in Chance’s eyes tells him this ain’t no joke. “Oh,” DeAndre says. “Oh, you really are screwed. A pen test is a penetration test. Like, you hit a company to see how vulnerable it is to . . . well, people like us.” Like me, he thinks, but doesn’t say. “White box means you get all the info you n
eed to do the job. Black box means they’re not telling us shit about the test. Means we go in blind, you feel me?”
“I don’t feel you. Because I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.” Chance shakes his head. “It’s fine. I’ll . . . I’ll figure it out.”
“Okay. Cool.” DeAndre doesn’t hear a lot of confidence in the dude’s voice, but it is what it is. He can’t be sticking his neck out for somebody. Especially somebody he doesn’t know from Adam. “Hey. What’s the deal with Troll Girl up there? How’d she get in last night?”
“Damn, man, I dunno. She seems to be playing her own game and I’m not sure if we’re allies, competitors, or pawns on the board.”
“I hear that. I’d say that describes our situation in this whole place.”
Behind them, a llamalike bleat as Wade Earthman rolls over and stares up at them through a curtain of gray ringlets. “Would you ladies kindly shut up? I am doing my damnedest to get some beauty rest down here.”
“You snore like two pigs fuckin’ in a cement mixer,” DeAndre says.
Wade yawns. “Good morning to you, too, sunshine.”
Hollis comes for them not quite an hour later. He looks haggard, like he hasn’t slept. Even his sideburns look rough.
Aleena is still drying her hair, and starts to complain about how they only have one shower and bathroom for five people—
Hollis says: “I had a long night. Say one more thing and I’ll pack your ass in an SUV and dump you on Rikers Island without a whiff of ceremony. Let’s. Move.”
Breakfast. Hollis stands off to the side, eating a banana. He needs the potassium. He keeps getting leg cramps after last night’s tromping through the woods. By the time he and the other two guards—that thug, Roach, and another dim bulb named Chen—got back from scouring the woods (and finding neither shit nor Shinola out there), he just wanted to sleep. But leg cramps woke him up every hour, on the hour.
