by Tim Floreen
I found myself gazing at a portrait of my own face.
Franklin must’ve drawn the picture a couple years ago. My hair was sort of spiked up in front, the way I’d worn it when I was a freshman and sophomore. But this image was just as graceful and detailed as the ones Franklin had made at the lab and messaged to me.
I closed the book again. When Franklin had created this portrait, he hadn’t had a capsule in his head that gave him a conscience, or a bunch of nanodrones that made him a murderer, either. He’d done it with the brain he’d been born with . . . which meant the original Franklin couldn’t have been that different from the Franklin I’d kissed, right?
I raised the journal one more time, chose a random spot, and parted the pages, splitting the FRANKLIN KETTLE in red ink down the middle.
The notebook opened to a picture of a masked Jim Colby holding an enemy soldier from behind and slitting his belly. Blood jetted in all directions. The victim’s intestines, rendered with obvious relish, spilled out over his pants. The depiction of his muscly bare chest and Colby’s, and the way the two of them were locked tight together, gave the image a weird homoerotic element too. I flinched and looked away. Why was I doing this to myself? Hadn’t I known I’d probably find something like this? As much as I might want to, I couldn’t blame all Franklin’s darkness on Mom’s nanodrones.
But even though I knew I should just put the journal away and get the hell out of that place, I couldn’t make myself stop. Not until I found what I was looking for.
I paged through the book. It contained all sorts of things. Abstract doodles. Notes on Son of War strategy. One full page consisted of the word “earwig” repeated over and over in that precise, blocky handwriting of his. More drawings. Many violent, some not. They all had a strangeness, though, that made me think of the images in my Tattoo Atlas.
I reached a page labeled SON OF WAR HIGH in big letters. Underneath, Franklin had drawn a detailed picture of the Beretta M9 he’d used to kill Pete. The next two-page spread contained a floor plan of the school, drawn with the help of a ruler. Red arrows plotted a route through the halls to various locations, marked with Xs. Ms. Utter’s classroom. The cafeteria. The main hall.
The locker room.
My chest cinched tight, making it hard to breathe. I turned another page.
YOUR MISSION: KILL THESE ASSHOLES, IN THE
ORDER IN WHICH THEY APPEAR ON THE LIST,
IN THE LOCATION WHERE EACH ASSHOLE
HUMILIATED YOU. THEN KILL YOURSELF.
PETE LUND
CALLIE MINWALLA
LYDIA HICKS
REM BRAITHWAITE
TOR AGNARSON
My hands had started trembling so hard I could barely turn the pages. On the next one, Franklin had put TARGET ONE: PETE LUND at the top and stapled Pete’s headshot, clipped from the yearbook, next to that. Below he’d written TARGET ONE MISSION DETAILS: Isolate Pete in the history classroom. During his presentation maybe? Make him say, “I didn’t know Napoleon was that small.” Shoot him. Take the remaining four targets prisoner.
On the facing page Franklin had written a long, dense passage that appeared to lay out his reasons for wanting Pete dead. I didn’t read it carefully, but it seemed to focus on the prank Pete had played on Franklin during his presentation. I noticed phrases like “stupid jock” and “Tor’s underling” and “can’t think for himself.”
I turned the page. TARGET TWO: CALLIE MINWALLA. Under MISSION DETAILS, Franklin had put, Escort the remaining targets to the cafeteria. Make Callie say, “Kettlebot shot me.” Shoot her. On the facing page was more ranting, this time about how Callie had thought she’d been so clever at the Halloween dance, pegging Franklin for the stereotypical school shooter, but she’d find out just how well he could play that role.
Next page. TARGET THREE: LYDIA HICKS. Proceed to the main hall near the cafeteria entrance. Make Lydia say, “Nobody wants you here anyway.” Shoot her. Another rant followed. Lydia had probably been right that nobody had wanted Franklin at Duluth Central. So what? He hadn’t wanted them, either.
I eased into the chair in front of the folding table, feeling dizzy now. Stars strobed in front of my eyes, and my lungs seemed to have stopped working altogether, but I forced myself to turn one more page.
My face stared back at me, the photo stapled next to my name. Proceed to the boys’ locker room. Make Rem say, “Keep your eyes to yourself, pervert.” Shoot him.
The words blurred on the page. I shook my head and squinted until they came back into focus enough for me to keep reading.
He’s a phony, Franklin Kettle had written. He likes to think he’s such a nice guy, but really he only acts nice when he can get something out of it. People he doesn’t think are important, like you, he barely even looks at. Lower down: Even if it’s true that somewhere deep inside he’s a freak like you, that doesn’t mean he wants to be, and that doesn’t mean he could ever care about you. Face it, he wouldn’t lift a finger to save your life. Then, all the way at the bottom of the page: Just forget about him. Just get rid of him. Just shoot him.
I let the book drop onto my lap and stared at the blue shapes folding and refolding themselves like origami on Nil Bergstrom’s screens. From somewhere deep in my brain came that grief counselor’s kindergarten voice. Iiiiinhale. Eeeeexhale. But it didn’t do any good. My breath was coming in weak, jagged pants.
Then a noise broke the silence.
I flew out of the chair and whirled around, searching for the noise’s source. It sounded like a buzzing, close by, right next to me. I could hear it, but I could feel it too.
It took me a full ten seconds to realize my phone had started vibrating. I yanked it out of my coat. The number Franklin had been using lit up the screen. Without even thinking, I touched the answer button and put the phone to my ear.
Franklin had already started talking, his voice low but full of excitement. “I probably shouldn’t even be calling right now, they might come any second, but I wanted to say I’m sorry I ran off again, I just figured I should get out of there, but I read the news today and saw Lydia Hicks didn’t get killed or anything, which is great, so two nights out and still no more deaths, and by the way, that was another amazing kiss, I think we’re getting really good at th—”
“You lied to me, asshole.”
The rush of words stopped dead. “What do you mean?”
His journal had fallen onto the carpet, open and facedown, when I’d jumped out of the chair. Its front and back covers splayed outward like the wings of a dead crow. “I found your notebook. You lied to me when you said I wasn’t a target. You wanted to kill me.”
His reply didn’t come for a while. “I—I was different then, Rem,” he stammered. “I didn’t tell you because—”
“Don’t even bother. I don’t want to know.” I snatched up the book.
“Where did you find it?” he asked.
“In Nil’s room.”
“But why were you—”
“I’m asking the questions. What’s she doing with it?”
“I told her where I’d hidden it the first time she came to visit me at the detention center. I asked her to destroy it for me. She said she had.”
“She didn’t. I’m in her room right now, holding the notebook in my hands. And I also found a blueprint of the school. I’m guessing she must’ve used this stuff to create Son of War High. I bet there’s even more proof on her computer. And I bet you knew about it too. Another lie.”
His breath had started to speed up, just like mine had. “I did know she built the game, okay? She told me about it just before I got transferred to the lab. It made me mad, because Son of War High was supposed to be for me only, not for just anyone to play.”
“Either way, it’s sick. And then I suppose she decided to play it in real life, so she shot Callie.”
“Rem, no,” Franklin insisted. “That’s exactly why I didn’t tell you she built the game. I knew you’d assume she must’ve killed Callie, bu
t I promise she didn’t.”
I glanced at the array of knives on Nil’s wall. “I wouldn’t be so sure. This girl’s a psycho, Franklin.”
“She’s not.” His voice was growing more unsteady, more desperate. “Please don’t think she did it. She’s my best friend.”
“That doesn’t make her innocent. The police need to know about this. I’m going to call them. Tell them what I found here.”
“Please, Rem. Don’t do it.”
I yanked at my scarf to cool down my neck, which felt fiery hot. “Did you know Lydia left town this morning? That means my name’s next on the list. Nil could be plotting to kill me right now. If you cared about me as much as you say you do, that would mean something to you.”
“I do care about you. More than anything.”
“Then how could you lie to me like you did? My mom might’ve rummaged around in your brain a little, but could she really change you? I started to think she had, but now I don’t know.”
While I talked, I smacked the journal down on the table and flipped through it until I found the snapshot of my face. At the bottom of the facing page, the words Just get rid of him. Just shoot him.
“I have changed, Rem. I know seeing that notebook probably freaked you out, but that’s who I was, not who I am. Be mad at that person. Don’t be mad at me.”
“This isn’t about that,” I retorted, even though my eyes hadn’t budged from those ugly words he’d written about me. “You lied to me. About Nil. About your plan. How am I supposed to trust you after that?”
“What about last night? When we—”
“I’m going to forget about last night,” I fired back. “I suggest you do too.”
He sucked in a breath like I’d punched him in the belly. “Don’t say that. I’ll visit you later. We can talk about this. Just please don’t say that.”
“I’m hanging up now. I’m calling the police. So I wouldn’t sneak out tonight if I were you.”
“Please—”
I hung up and started dialing 911.
I only got as far as 9. An arm grabbed me from behind and a cold blade pressed against my throat.
“Drop the phone.”
I recognized Nil’s surly snarl. The knife leaned into my Adam’s apple, squeezing my windpipe. My phone thunked as it hit the carpet.
“What are you doing here?”
I tried to answer, but only a thin choking sound escaped my mouth.
She yanked away the knife, spun me around, and pushed me up against the folding table. A soda bottle and a few papers fell to the floor.
“Answer me,” she growled, the knife still raised. Spikes of green hair fell down over her face, screening her eyes. “You’re in my room. That’s breaking and entering.”
Even without the knife choking me, I still couldn’t seem to make my voice work. I grabbed the table behind me for support, and a few more pieces of paper spilled onto the green shag.
She noticed the notebook lying open on the table. “Doing some snooping?”
“That’s right.” I managed to force out the words in a throaty rasp. “I know everything. That you created Son of War High. That you killed Callie. And now you want to kill me. But you can’t do it here, right? You have to take me to school. Make me say the phrase in the book. That’s the only way you can get your points or whatever in that disgusting game of yours, right?”
She took a step back and tossed her hair out of her eyes.
I pressed on, the adrenaline really kicking in now, making me brave. “Anyway, it’s too late. I told other people I was coming here. Lydia. Tor. If anything happens to me, they’ll know who did it.”
Still she didn’t say anything. She just stared. Had she bought my bluff?
Then a huge laugh exploded from her mouth. She backed up a few more steps, doubled over, and guffawed so hard tears ran down her cheeks. “That’s what you think?” she panted. “You think I’m the killer?”
My cheeks burned. “The evidence is all here. The notebook. The blueprint of the school. You designed Son of War High, and now you’re making it real. You’re finishing what your friend started.”
“I built Son of War High, sure,” she said, wiping her eyes. “But how does that make me a murderer? Why would I kill Callie?”
Because you’re sick, I wanted to say. Just like Franklin was, and maybe still is.
She folded her arms across her chest. “Think about it, genius. Do you honestly believe you’re the first person to have the brilliant idea that Franklin’s best friend might be Callie’s killer?” She pointed across the room. “For your information, that door was one of the first ones the cops came knocking on last Friday.”
“So?” I kept my grip on the table. “What happened when they came in here and found all this stuff? How come they didn’t take the notebook?”
She smirked. “They never made it inside. I have an alibi for the night of Callie’s murder, you idiot. My mom was in the hospital dying of ovarian cancer. I was with her all night. The rest of my family was there too. Nurses, doctors, goddamn orderlies. They can all vouch for me. I never left until my mom kicked the bucket at seven fifteen a.m.”
My face felt even hotter now. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“That you’re an idiot or that my mom died?”
“About your mom.”
Her eyes dropped away from mine. She twisted up her mouth, maybe to keep her chin from trembling, and tried to reestablish her toughness by giving a nonchalant shrug. “Understandable. Callie’s death was more high profile. My mom’s got lost in the shuffle.”
“Why are you even in school this week?”
“My dad thought it would do me good to get away from all the talk of death around here.” Her mouth twisted into a sardonic smile. “So instead I get treated to two death-related assemblies in one week at school.”
“That sucks.”
“No kidding.” She toughened her face up some more: back to business. “Listen, I didn’t kill Callie,” she said. “If you want to, you can call the police and ask them yourself. Then you can also explain to them what the hell you’re doing inside my room when I sure as hell didn’t invite you in.”
I studied the floor and didn’t say anything. Around my boots, a wet mark had darkened the clumpy green carpeting. My phone lay a few inches away. I grabbed it and jammed it into my pocket.
“Who were you talking to when I came in?” Nil asked. “Sounded like you were mad.”
I looked up. So she didn’t know I’d been talking to Franklin? I hadn’t been sure how much she’d heard. “Tor. He didn’t think I should be breaking into your place.”
“Maybe you should’ve listened to him.”
A gust of wind shook the garage. The storm had picked up outside. We both glanced over at the windows and the snow swirling behind them.
“Why did you create Son of War High?” I asked.
“Because I felt like it, all right?” she snapped, turning back to me with eyes flashing. “Because it was something to do. Because I was bored. I didn’t really kill anyone. Whatever Franklin has wrong with his brain, I don’t have that. I’m just fucked up in the usual ways.”
“I’m not convinced,” I said. “I played your game myself, you know. Only someone really sick could’ve come up with something like that.”
Nil grinned. “I’m guessing that means you didn’t win.”
My hands squeezed the table so hard my knuckles popped.
“So what do you want to do?” she asked. “Take me to your mom’s lab so she can drill a hole in my head and stick in one of her capsules?”
“Maybe that’s not such a bad idea.”
“Make me meek as a house pet. No free will. No individuality.”
“That’s not what the capsule does. And even if it did, it would still be better than being a monster.” Those images Franklin had drawn in his notebook flashed through my mind. That page with the word “earwig” written over and over. The list of targets with my name on it
. “Franklin was a monster. He was obsessed with violence. And you don’t seem any different.” I nodded at the knife still clutched in her fist.
She raised the blade and admired it. “You got me. I’m obsessed with violence. So is every other human on this planet. It’s just that most people don’t admit it. Take your mother, for example.”
“She’s trying to stop violence. That’s the whole reason she invented the capsule.”
“Is that what you think?”
“That’s what I know.”
Her smug grin grew even wider. “Then you must not be reading what they’re saying about your mom’s little project on the Internet.”
I narrowed my eyes at her. “What are you talking about?”
“You really think your mom got all that funding and that sleek, high-tech new lab just so she could be a do-gooder and get rid of violence? Do you have any idea where most of her money comes from? Go on, take a guess.”
I just shook my head, my gaze shunting away from her face.
“DARPA. The Department of Defense’s emerging technologies agency. Your mom’s working for the military, sweetheart.”
“Sure, according to some paranoid Internet conspiracy theorist.” My voice didn’t sound as steady as I wanted it to. “Why would the military want my mom’s technology? So American soldiers can go into enemy territory and methodically implant each and every person living there with a capsule to make them nonviolent? That sounds like a great strategy. Much more efficient than, say, a bomb.”
Nil chuckled. “Do yourself a favor, Rem.” She opened her door. An icy blast of air swept into the room. “Go home. Do some googling. Find out what your mom’s really up to.”
I stood there a second, not quite believing she’d just let me go.
“Go on.” She flicked her knife toward the door. “Get out of here.”
“You’re wrong about my mom.”
“Sure I am.” She turned to hang the knife on the wall among the others. “Keep telling yourself that.”
While she had her back to me, I slipped Franklin’s notebook into my coat. Then, without another word, I hurried past her into the storm.
