The End Games

by T. Michael Martin

  Because there were explosions.

  And though Michael didn’t know it yet, what he would find out soon was that Jopek had just killed the Bellows in the store and the attacking members of the Rapture with several (perfectly thrown) hand grenades. Panic told Michael to run, but he stood there, with Patrick coldly mute against him—which was so much worse than screaming.

  Michael walked around to the front of Walgreens, where smoke coiled out the shattered windows. He heard someone cough inside.

  “You know not to say anything about the gun, right?” he said to Holly as he jammed the pistol into his pocket.

  “Or you’ll bust a cap?” she replied, hurt.

  The door swung open, glass tinkling from it. Captain Jopek came out grinning a boy-on-Christmas-morning smile.

  “Well, thank God for little favors, there ya are! What a hoot, huh? You see that? Huh? Hoo! Was that a rodeo, or was it?”

  Make yourself look upset, some part of Michael instructed. How? A thought came easily: Patrick, lying speechless and far-eyed in his hospital bed. “Th—that was scary as crap,” Michael said.

  And, as Holly looked at him like he had lasers flying from his nose, Michael improvised. He told Jopek how scared they had been, and how this attack made no sense, did it, Patrick? Michael told him how relieved they all were to see Jopek’s living face, how lucky they were to have such a good soldier as Jopek drove them to the Capitol. But I’m the one who’s really taking us somewhere, Michael thought from the passenger seat, holding his brother, inches from a grown soldier who could fight off an ambush but couldn’t see who was really sitting right beside him. Yes-yes, a new plan accumulated in the bottom back of Michael’s brain. Load ’em up, Captain, he had to fight not to say, and he touched the gun hidden in his pocket. Load ’em on up: we’re headin’ for a new game.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Abraham Lincoln watched them.

  There was something eerie about the way the marble president stood, unchanging, even as snow slashed his face.

  The storm had built: the sky above the golden dome boiled with storm heads. Michael lifted his face toward the clouds, willing his eyes wide open to the cold, bringing fresh tears as Jopek threw open the double doors to the Capitol and exclaimed, sounding both angry and happy, “Gaawwwd DAMN!”

  Michael brought up the rear of the group, and he set his brother down as they entered the Capitol. Patrick stood in the marble entryway, sniffling. He hooked an arm around Michael’s leg, but loosely. The ride had calmed him a little; Michael knew that his own agreement that things didn’t make sense, that they did need a break, had helped, too. But Michael also wondered how much his own new certainty—his total yes-yes—had made a direct, comforting transmission from his own heart to his brother’s. This weird Charleston nightmare was going to end soon, Michael knew; Michael felt that as absolutely as he felt his tears and his blood and the gun in his pocket. Yes, he was almost sure that Patrick could sense that. Oh, I ya-ya, Bub. Just a few minutes, and I’ll get you out of the Capitol, and we can finally, really win.

  Hank was in the rotunda, which was lit by the tripod light-banks and by the very last of the twilight that showed through the windows. Hank whirled at the sound of Jopek’s shout, pulling a bottle from his lips, a little liquid spilling down his front.

  Hank blurted, “Captain, I think I saw enemy movement.”

  “Holy shit, Eagle Eye, you want a medal?” Jopek threw his head back, laughing.

  Hank blushed. Beside Michael, Holly breathed out hard, like she was trying to force out inner tension. Hank took this for silent laughter and shot her a look of burning sibling contempt.

  “Ambush out there, Henry. Damn near Charleston’s own little Alamo.”

  Jopek marched to Hank and swiped the squat brown bottle from his hands. “Thankee,” he said, and sucked several noisy gulps. Hank’s empty hands hesitated, then went to the pockets of his striped track pants, from which he drew a lighter and cigarette from a pack. He fumbled with the wheel of the lighter; it spun out of his hands.

  Drunk, Michael realized. Hank is drunk. Was that going to hurt his plan?

  “Rapture, Henry,” Jopek said, wiping his mouth on his wrist. “Looks like they got the main road into the city pretty well locked up. I will get on my knees this night, I tell you. I will get down and thank the Lord that I found out when I did, folks. Yes I will.”

  “What do you mean?” said Hank.

  Jopek stood there in the dusk, his chest huge inside his shirt, his pointer finger emphasizing each word like a teacher giving a lesson. And it was fascinating, the way Hank took the bottle that Jopek gave back to him: grateful and respectful, and a bit afraid. It was fascinating, the way Hank watched Jopek speak: I’m the good guy. Here are your Instructions on What Is Next in Jopek Land. And it was fascinating, because Michael knew exactly what Jopek was going to say.

  “We’re safe for now, thanks to your captain,” Jopek said. “But folks, we’re a platoon, so I’ll be honest: that’s the last piece of good news I got. You-all can believe that the Rapture bein’ near the only road into town is powerful bad for the unit coming into town.” He put his hands to his hips, shaking his head regretfully.

  Holly sniggered bitterly at this, so softly that only Michael heard it.

  Hank nodded, comforted with the routine.

  Jopek locked eyes with Michael.

  “Until we know what we’re dealing with, I’m sad to say it’s my duty to advise all units that enterin’ Charleston is currently too dangerous—”

  “The Rapture told you to meet them there,” said Michael.

  He felt Holly stiffen beside him; he sensed Hank’s mild confusion. But he didn’t feel Freaking from his brother: he only heard Patrick’s humming, a light anxiety being lessened by a development in The Game.

  “What, now?” replied Jopek. He had the mildly annoyed expression of a teacher who has been interrupted.

  “You knew exactly what was going to happen.”

  Now Jopek dropped his hands from his hips, his head cocking. He half smiled.

  Hank laughed at Michael, but its dismissiveness sounded a little uncertain.

  “They were saying the captain was supposed to bring the boy. And you know what’s funny is, you didn’t seem too upset that they were shooting at us.”

  Should he go on? Should he say the last of it? Yes-yes.

  “’Cause Jopek, you’re the Betra—”

  But Jopek interrupted: “And you know what’s funny is, how you’re pig shit retarded.”

  “Wait. Uh, sorry. Captain, so you did know they were going to be there?” Hank asked cautiously.

  “Henry. Hell yes, I did. And I don’t think I like your tone.”

  “I didn’t mean anything by it,” Hank protested, surprised and confused.

  Jopek turned to Michael.

  “That priest, Rulon, he left me a letter last night, Mikey. He said he wanted to negotiate some kinda agreement, said we could have our weapons back, and yeah, he mentioned I should bring ‘the boy.’”

  “Bull,” Michael said, nearly laughing at the audacity of Jopek’s lie. “If Rulon wanted to trade me for weapons, or if he wanted to trade”—he silently indicated Patrick with his eyes—“then why would his people start by shooting at us?”

  “Their community is not a shinin’ goddamn example of sanity, genius. His letter didn’t even make sense, just rambling shit about coal and ‘the Son.’ I think Father Asshole up in Almost Heaven, West Virginia, is going a little extra batty lately since Jesus hasn’t invited him to dinner yet. I think he’s gettin’ desperate and ‘sacrificing’ more of his followers. Judging from the tiny number of folks he sent to Walgreens, it don’t seem like he’s got all that many followers left alive, neither. So I think Rulon’s runnin’ low on options about how he can ‘atone.’ My guess? Since you killed ‘their First Chosen,’ Rulon wants to sacrifice you, Mikey. He thinks that offing you would make everything just dandy again.”

  No
w slowly Jopek marched toward Michael. “But you might’a noticed something, big boy: even though the Rapture broke the bargain and attacked us out there—you’re still alive and safe. So I guess that ol’ Captain Jopek knew what he was doing.”

  “Yeah, except you know what I think, though?” Michael replied. “I don’t think you just wanted to get the weapons back; I think you wanted to get back at Rulon for stealing them. I think you ‘wanted to have two words with Rulon, and they weren’t happy birthday.’” Michael imitated Jopek’s voice: “‘Broke into my city, didn’t they? I better show them I was born for some special greatness.’”

  At Michael’s mocking, Jopek’s eyes went wide. He stopped a few feet ahead of Michael. “Mike. Mike. Oh, Mike.” His voice quavered with controlled fury. “I shoulda thrown your ass over the cliff.”

  “Hey . . .” It was a weak protest. But it came from Hank.

  “Hank, why don’t you shut your mouth up, candy-pants?” Jopek said.

  “Don’t be a bunghole,” sniffed Patrick, and pulled his hood over his head and shrank it shut with the strings, cupping his hands over his ears to hide the sounds.

  Michael braced himself, feeling the pebbled grip of the gun in his pocket.

  “Is Michael wrong, though?” Holly asked.

  Jopek’s nostrils flared. “You know, I’m damn sure I don’t like that tone, girl.”

  “Well, Captain, I don’t like that you drove me to a bunch of people who want to shoot me,” Michael said. Jopek tried to protest, but Michael almost-shouted over him: “Is it just me, or does that break one of a platoon’s basic rules?” He emphasized the last word for Patrick.

  The words rang.

  Jopek stood in the center of them now—the center of his platoon—and in the burning silence he sensed what was occurring: the image these people held of him, which always stood on solid ground, was teetering at a cliff’s edge. Captain Jopek circled on his boot heels, scanning their faces, finding a dangerous uncertainty that he could never have predicted.

  And Jopek smiled. He seemed true, in the same way that he had seemed true as he fought the Rapture. More than ever before, Michael understood that, like himself, Jopek was most awake when in danger. Jopek was coming alive now, and he was about to do something to take control of the night.

  So am I, Michael thought.

  Guys, he imagined himself saying, as he had on the car ride to the Capitol, as he had every night Before when things were bad and Mom pretended they weren’t, when home was pain but freedom and life were just one opened door away. Guys, I think we need to leave now.

  But Holly took the play out of his hands.

  “Captain, Michael wants to go.”

  What are you doing? Michael screamed silently.

  “And sir,” Holly said, “I think that it’s absolutely understandable that he feels that way. He’s had a terrible day, we all have, and I think it’s possible, sir, that you did put us in danger needlessly. With things getting worse with the Rapture and the Bellows, doesn’t it make sense for us to leave—all of us?” Her jaw was strongly set; she was trying to appear calm and reasonable. But there was something desperate in her voice, as if this moment was her final chance to salvage the hope she had placed in the captain.

  “We,” said Jopek, “are goin’ nowhere. And you-all know that is rule one. Rule one.”

  A hundred feet tall, all muscle—that’s how Jopek seemed as he slung his machine rifle over his shoulder and turned. He marched away, and each of the steps sounded like doors slamming and sealing.

  “Why the hell not, Jopek?”

  Hank’s voice was soft, so soft. For this a-hole Cool Kid, Michael suddenly felt something like love.

  Jopek stopped, but didn’t turn.

  “Why not?” Hank repeated, louder. “Why can’t we leave?”

  Thumpuh: Michael’s heart, a fist in his throat. Jopek looked at Hank, his face incredulous and hateful, like a jack-o’-lantern with a butane torch inside.

  “We’re doin’ what I say, and I say—”

  “I—I think you’re wrong on this, Captain,” Hank said.

  Jopek asked, “You think I’m wrong?” He sounded politely interested.

  “Yes, I—”

  But somehow Jopek had cleared the distance between him and Hank before any of them realized he was moving and his fist pistoned out and he slugged Hank, cracking across his jaw. Holly gasped. Patrick’s blind-hooded head looked up, momentarily startled, then hummed and looked back down.

  Hank managed to catch himself before his face struck the marble, but it was close.

  “You wanna compare guns, Hank?” asked Jopek softly, leaning over him. “Boy, you ungrateful shit. Who’s been savin’ you this whole time?”

  “Michael saved us in the Magic Lantern,” spat Holly miserably.

  “Little girl, don’t be smart.”

  “Somebody has to.”

  “You’ll want to watch that mouth.”

  Can a whole body quake with a heartbeat?

  After a moment, Holly replied, “No, Captain.”

  Hank touched his blood, looked at the captain, sneered.

  What happened next was as palpable as a burst of electricity traveling across the rotunda: the final control in this room shifted to Michael. They looked to him for his response. In that dizzying moment, he knew what it must be like to be Jopek: the trust . . . and the power.

  “Screw y’all, somebody’s gotta patrol,” said Jopek, and this time his departing steps were loud and angrily undisciplined, but even with that noise and even with the moans of the Bellows, Jopek stopped at the unmistakable sound: the click of a revolver, being cocked. . . .

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Jopek turned, and blinked, “Lower that, little fella.”

  “I don’t feel like it,” Michael replied calmly.

  Jopek’s gaze dissected him. “Where you get that?”

  “We’re leaving,” Michael said.

  Outside the door at Michael’s back, the throat of the storm roared snow and fury.

  “You’re playin a losin’ hand here, mister. Oh yes, you are.”

  “Slide your rifle to me,” Michael said. “Unstrap it from your shoulder slow. If I think you’re going to try anything, I’ll shoot first.” Jopek searched his face. “Stop it, you know I’m telling the truth—”

  Suddenly, Jopek’s gaze darted above Michael’s shoulder. “YEAH, THAT’S IT, YOU GOT HIM, HANK, TAKE HIM OUT!” he roared.

  Michael flinched, braving for the impact.

  But when he checked out of the corner of his eye, the only part of Hank that was moving was his head, nodding: keep going, Michael.

  “Rifle,” Michael said. “And the pistol on your ankle.”

  “Well, goddamn you,” Jopek said casually, unstrapped the weapons from his shoulder and ankle, and placed them on the floor. He kicked both, rattling, toward Michael.

  Everything inside Michael’s chest seemed to fill with light and wind.

  Holly’s gaze met his and locked: I am freaking scared. Okay? I’m going along but I am goddamn petrified.

  Michael felt a dull ache of longing to let her know she was safe. This is the real me, Holly: the real me is the one who can save you. I swear.

  “It’s okay,” Michael told her.

  “Naw it ain’t, though,” Jopek said.

  Michael looked at Hank—whose jaw was already beginning to swell—and asked him, “We good to go?”

  Hank nodded.

  Michael sensed Jopek step closer; without looking, as smoothly as if he were lighting a Bic, Michael’s thumb double-cocked the hammer.

  Hank and Holly moved toward Michael and Patrick, in front of the doorway.

  I am safe, he felt. Little brother and me, safe.

  Control.

  Joy.

  Victory.

  Promise.

  The keys.

  Holding the pistol steady, Michael fished the keys from his pocket and tossed them to Hank. He handed both the ankle
pistol and the cop’s pistol to Hank as well, switching Jopek’s assault rifle to his right hand, keeping a bead on Jopek.

  “Get the Hummer,” Michael said. “Gas it up with the tanker out there and then pull the Hummer up.”

  “To where?” Hank said.

  “Honest Abe,” Michael replied, then nodded toward the door to direct Holly to go with Hank.

  Jopek watched, and the reality slowly settled on his face: This is actually happening. A seventeen-year-old is actually beating me. For only the second time, Michael thought he understood Jopek. He looked emotionally destroyed. It was the face of a man who is watching his worst enemy sail away on a rescue boat from the island without him.

  “Faris?” Hank called from the door. “Aren’t you coming?”

  “One sec.”

  Michael nudged Patrick with his knee. Patrick grunted, but he took his hands from his ears and pushed the hood back from his face. His hair was wild.

  He looked up at Michael, expectant.

  This is it, Patrick. This is finally it.

  “Captain, we’re going to go out to the Hummer now,” Michael said. “We’re going to leave. We’re going to look for the soldiers, and we’re going to Richmond. We’ll have the machine gun up top. We’ll have food. And you can’t come.”

  “You’ll die, my friend,” Jopek said. “That’s a guarantee.”

  “Want to know how I know you’re wrong?” Michael smiled. And he said the last line of his speech, the final piece of the puzzle that would make the world understandable for Patrick, that would reassemble and fortify The Game for him, all the way to the Richmond Safe Zone:

  “Because you’re the Betrayer, Jopek.”

  Except, he didn’t. He’d gotten to you’re when he had to stop, because something terrible and impossible had occurred. Jopek’s moonlit face went dark: a shadow fell across it, a shadow that blocked the moonlight through the Capitol hall’s high windows. And it was at that moment that Michael heard the shriek from high above him, from the sky, like a keening lunatic commandment from some deranged god.

  Suddenly the windows behind Jopek’s head cracked.

  Run, Michael thought. Just run now. He went for Patrick, picking him up.