Next time I do this, I’ll gain access to her mind on the first try, I swear to myself.
Olivia checks the display with all my information first. Doesn’t seem to notice that my sustenance level is at fifty-seven, not on forty like she left me three days ago. Next time, I’ll have to be more careful and exert myself just a little more so she doesn’t catch on to what I am able to do.
If there is a next time.
Olivia holds her palm out and moves it to the left, as if she’s waving at someone. This drags another page onto the main screen—the long list of supplies.
“Anything in particular you want to find?” April asks.
“Not really. Well...I’d like to stock up on winter gear. I’ve got a source that says it’s setting in soon. But you didn’t hear that from me,” I say, and Olivia changes the display again.
Summer is nearly over. But the days are still so hot they nearly char your flesh, and I usually return from our forays with blisters on my scalp and neck. How is it possible for winter to come soon? But then I think of the snowstorm just a few months ago and how it had come right after a scorching hot day. I think of the 110-degree day we experienced last winter, in the middle of January. Maybe the change in the weather is just another element of the game.
Another way to torture unsuspecting characters, challenge our gamers.
“I hate the winter,” Jeremy says, and I’m curious if the boy or girl behind his lifeless face is speaking as a character or from personal preference.
“West End,” April says. “We haven’t raided there in a while.”
At last Olivia pulls up the game map. I’ve waited for this since I pushed myself into her thoughts, and I watch carefully. One flesh-eater is already on West End, but there are four Survivors surrounding him. Prey stalking the predator. Strength in numbers.
Less than a month ago, three flesh-eaters came after me as I was leaving a solo rescue mission at one of the record stores on Broadway. They’d cornered me behind the sales counter, backing me into rows of yellowed, autographed photos of smiling people wearing wide-brimmed hats. “Strength in numbers,” one of them had said, leering at me as they began to close in.
I killed them all. One with the jagged neck of a guitar just after he smashed it in an attempt to knock me out, another with his own weapon and the last by wrapping my belt around her neck, pulling it taut until she stopped breathing. But the entire time I’d fought them off, and even as I took their belongings after they were dead, I’d wanted to run and hide.
I still want to do that.
I return my attention to Olivia. She spreads her thumb and index finger apart, then snaps them together in a swift flicking motion. The map expands, revealing hundreds, thousands of the little photos. Whatever is happening on West End no longer matters to me. I am more interested in the area to the left of the screen.
It’s not like the rest of the map.
The space beneath my picture and surrounding it is a deep green color. It extends to the right, but even though the left of the screen is still in the shape of a landform, the green stops. And here, the land is shaded black. There are no photos with writing beneath them on this side of the map, nothing but a dark void. I’m not exactly sure how far away it is from my current location. Maybe fifty or so miles? I examine the map carefully, wanting to ensure I haven’t missed any other dark areas, but the one to the left is it. Is there a possibility that it’s the way out of the game?
I try to draw myself away from looking at the black spot, from the reckless thoughts that are suddenly popping into my mind, but it’s impossible. The left of the map is different from everything else on the screen. I have to go there. I need to see for myself if the empty space is my way out. And I plan to make the trip at the first available opportunity.
“We’ll wait until they’re done, then follow them to see what they have,” I hear myself say, and I know Olivia’s talking about the four Survivors who have the flesh-eater surrounded on West End. All I can concentrate on is the black space.
“Any place else to go while we wait?” April asks. “You know, some way to actually earn points?”
Olivia zooms back in on the map, and green fills the display once again. I’ve seen plenty, though. Fifty miles, give or take a few. Northwest. Freedom. I want to leave now. I feel as if I could walk all fifty miles in one day and be out of The Aftermath by tomorrow morning.
“Lower-level flesh-eaters on Second Street. Pathetic, but they are usually good for something. Happy?”
“At the rate we’re going, I’ll never get my points,” April whines so low I’m not sure Olivia can hear her, but I do, even with my mind set on running fifty miles.
Of course, my thoughts are wishful. Traveling that many miles in the course of one day in this heat would be dangerous, and, besides, I am not in control of my own body at the moment. I’ve no idea when Olivia will let me go, and even then, how much time I’ll have without her coming back into the game.
But right now, that doesn’t matter. Because I am almost certain I have figured the way out. The route that will get me to the world I saw through Olivia’s eyes with its luminous buildings.
Finally, the red name on West End disappears, along with the picture above it, and Olivia closes the map. I don’t need it anymore, though; while Olivia talked about strategy and raids and points—apparently earning them is an important part of playing the game—I committed it to memory.
Olivia plays me consistently for two days, waiting until my head splits from hunger and my stomach is about to cave in on itself to feed me. I use these forty-eight hours as an opportunity to practice getting in and out of her mind. I also have enough time to come up with various explanations for this ability I’ve gained that none of my friends seem to possess.
Brain tumors—her brain or mine.
Gamer–character telepathy.
A sudden blow to the head—one that came from a boy who was completely out of place in The Aftermath, at least if my faulty memory can be trusted. Despite my uncertainty about the boy, this is the theory that makes the most sense. Even though I’m still not entirely sure of all the events that took place afterward.
My chance at escape finally comes fifty-two hours after Olivia’s return to the game, on a Wednesday afternoon. She’s going on a trip with her father. She will be gone for five days. And she’s convinced the others to take a break right along with her.
“I’m putting us on Group Save,” she makes me tell everyone else as we huddle around in The Save. She has me standing in the middle of the room, with my hands on my hips. “So don’t get any ideas about going ahead without me.”
When April complains, Ethan and Jeremy come to Olivia’s defense.
Jeremy shrugs his broad shoulders and then sits in the chair by the door. “It’s not a big deal.” He shifts his body so that he’s sideways, draping his long legs over the armrest.
“He’s right, April,” Ethan says. I hear him moving behind me—his shoes make a scratching noise on the floor as he comes close. “It’s five days, not forever. Besides, I have schoolwork to catch up on.” He places his chin gently on the top of my head and circles his arms around me, locking my elbows in place by my sides. Suddenly, I’m dizzy.
Let go of me.
The pressure on my head—in the exact location I was recently injured—makes me nauseous. I can smell the acidic soap he used an hour ago when he washed up in the privy downstairs. Feel the tips of his fingers pressed into the flesh on either side of my belly button.
I’m not sure I want his hands on me anymore. Because nothing about the two of us is what I thought it to be. Our bodies are being used by Olivia and Landon.
Please, just let me go.
Olivia makes me turn slightly, smile up at him. She moves my hands so that they curl over his forearms. “That settles it. Group Sav
e.”
Olivia sets my character on something called Self-Sustain Mode. I watch through her eyes as she configures my Self-Sustain list. One protein bar a day. Two bottles of water. Enough food and fluid to keep me alive, but nothing more. Well, as far as she knows. But I don’t plan on eating any more stale protein bars in the near future. Once I’m outside of the game, I hope I won’t ever have to even look at a protein bar again.
She leaves me in the room over the bar with the others, cloaked in semidarkness, lying next to Ethan. I use whatever link I have to her brain to make sure she is completely away from the game before I consider moving. Then, just for good measure, I wait about another two hours, staring at Jeremy, who’s motionless in the chair across from the bed. Finally, I unwrap myself from Ethan’s arms and ease up from the flat mattress. I grab a flashlight from my bag.
My legs are numb from the position Olivia left me in. I shake them out and pace the small room a few times before kneeling down to look for April’s holster of weapons. She’s on the floor with her blue eyes open, lying on her side on one of the ripped plastic mats we brought from the jail. I find her knives in her backpack, which she’s hugging to her chest.
“You’ll get more,” I whisper. But I still feel wrong for stealing them. Her arms tighten around my hands, and I let out a high-pitched shriek, sprawling backward to land on my bottom.
Slowly, April sits up. She presses her back to the wall and reaches into her bag. The tiny hairs on the back of my neck and arms stand on end, and my fingertips tighten around the Glock. Her blank eyes stare right at me. She starts to draw something from her satchel.
Her gamer is back. Her gamer has returned and she’s found me out and I’ll have no other choice but to defend myself.
But I shine the flashlight over the objects in her hand and realize she’s not holding a weapon at all. She’s just reached for food and water. I watch as she takes mechanical bites of her snack cake, a few sips of water. This continues for about five minutes. Then she wraps her forearms around her backpack again and resumes her position lying down.
What I just witnessed must be Self-Sustain in action.
We’re like robots.
My stomach pitches violently, and I fight back nausea as I crawl back to April and take her knives from the bag. I drop the weapons into my own backpack and start to leave, but something stops me. My world may not be what I thought it was, but these are the people I had believed I cared about. That I still can’t help caring about, even if everything they’ve ever said to me were someone else’s words.
I have to try to wake them.
“April?” I touch her shoulder, shaking it softly. I bend until my face is close to hers and our eyes meet. “Do you... Are you in there?” She doesn’t move. No blinking, not even a muscle twitch. She just continues to look straight ahead, clutching her bag like a child would her favorite toy.
I try the same thing with Ethan and Jeremy, but it’s no use. They’re just as unconscious as she is.
Shoulders slumped in defeat, I walk to the door and grab the knob. A sharp jolt of electricity streaks up my arm and through the rest of my body. I fall to my knees, screaming.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I’m on the floor facedown, convulsing and choking, for what seems like an eternity. When I finally work up enough strength to push myself onto my hands and knees, the current is still pinging its way through my bones. I squint up at the doorknob and rake my nails over my palms.
Why hasn’t this ever happened before? I’ve gone in and out of this room plenty of times, and not once have I been shocked.
But I should have anticipated safeguards built into the game’s system. The prospect of getting out of The Aftermath made me so giddy, I forgot caution. Never again. I get up carefully, trying to pretend I don’t feel the pain or smell the stomach-churning odor of singed hair. Supporting myself against the wall, I look around the room and weigh my options.
There’s the window. It’s over the bed, but not so high up I won’t be able to reach it. I could put the crate on the bed. Stand on it while I try to pry the window open. And then what?
I’m skinny, but not so thin I can squeeze through such a tiny space. And even if I could, I’m on the second floor. There’s nothing in here I can use to climb to the ground. Attempting to walk fifty miles with a broken arm or leg is a death wish.
If I want to leave this building, I’ve no other choice but to use the door. I rip a large piece of cloth from the tattered hem of my jeans and wrap it around my hand before I grab the knob again. It does nothing to help me. The shock is just as horrible as before, but at least I know what to expect. I hurl the door open and stumble through the current and into the hallway, gripping the banister for support.
Hopefully this was the only surprise, and the front door won’t set me on fire.
As I pack as many protein bars and bottles of water as I can into my bag, I start breathing heavily—an overwhelming surge of feeling is pulsing through me. Physical pain and anticipation and, most of all, absolute dread.
“I’m strong,” I whisper, shrugging my arms through my backpack straps. I tighten them and groan at the weight. It has to be at least forty pounds. “I’m strong. I can do this by myself and survive.”
But before I leave for good, I find myself upstairs, standing across from the electric door and gazing into The Save at the three people I’ve no other choice but to leave behind.
* * *
A couple of years ago, during one of our missions to a warehouse that was on the verge of collapsing, I discovered an old compass. It was bright orange, made of a thick, grainy plastic, with a broken lid. I’ve never used it—or rather, Olivia has never made me use it—but I’ve always carried it around in the front pocket of my backpack. Maybe...keeping it on me meant extra points for my gamer.
Whatever her reasons were, that compass quickly becomes my salvation, and I grip it in my hand as I walk, glancing down at the little arrows every few minutes.
I can’t afford to make a mistake.
I am small enough to stay hidden and keep out of the way of other characters, so when daylight breaks and I realize that I’m at least fifteen miles into my trip, I decide to stop. It takes me another mile of stumbling through overgrown weeds and avoiding the holes in the ground—probably purposefully dug just large enough to catch someone’s foot and result in a broken ankle—to find safe refuge. It’s not a building or a house like I hope for but a crumbling underpass, nearly hidden from the world thanks to gutted and rusted cars and honeysuckle vines.
“Twenty minutes and then I have to leave. No more than that,” I say as I sit next to my bag on the concrete. I take a careful sip of water, wincing at the way it burns my dry throat.
“What happens in twenty minutes?” a voice asks from the far end of the underpass, and I lose my breath.
As I scramble to my feet, the bottle of water I was trying to preserve falls over and liquid seeps into the hot, dry ground. I don’t have time to try and save it, so I sling my backpack around my shoulders and prepare to run. But then a second voice—this one coming from the direction I planned to go in—stops me.
“Where are you going, girl?”
I dart my gaze between the two boys who’ve trapped me in. I had hoped this wouldn’t happen, but I do my best to appear calm as they circle around me, their ragged shoes sliding dust and trash and scraps of glass and green metal from one of the cars about the concrete. They greedily eye my bag.
“What do you have in there?” the short, bone-thin one with the bright blue backpack asks. He looks ten years old but I’m guessing he’s twelve or thirteen, judging by his squeaky voice. My body tenses as I remember awakening three years ago. It had been dark, very dark. The walls around me had been coated with blood splatters. And then I’d noticed the shackles—rows of them extending from the baseboards a
nd dangling from the ceiling.
I was thirteen then.
“Energy bars, water,” I say. “Enough knives to make you wish you were dead. I’ve got a gun, too. Come too close and I’ll show you how it works.”
This is a partial lie. I’ve already decided that I refuse to kill anyone else. Still, if I’m threatened, I’m not above injuring someone.
“Where are you going?”
“Meeting up with my clan.”
The taller one stares out toward the west at the miles of trees flanking either side of the underpass. “We just came from that way,” he says, fingering the strap of my bag. I dart away from him. “Didn’t see anyone.”
“You didn’t look hard enough.”
“We need food,” the short one says. “We ran out and our health levels...”
I don’t feel any sympathy toward the gamer saying these words, but my stomach tangles into a million knots as I take in the boy who is slowly being destroyed by him. My arms tremble violently as I fumble through my backpack.
“Here,” I say, shoving two protein bars and a bottle of water at each boy. I’ll probably regret my decision later when I’m hungry and thirsty, but there’s no way I can deny how gaunt and wrecked these boys—these characters—are.
“Take care of your characters.” I zip my bag. “They look like they’ll die at any moment.”
When I take off again, this time through the woods, I hear the taller boy say, “Sympathizers make me want to hurl.”
I take a short break every few hours. By the second evening, when I have walked at least forty-five miles, I force myself to stop in the woods to rest. I take shelter on the forest floor on a bed of weeds I pray aren’t poisonous. I remove my shoes, but my feet are so blistered they’re hot to the touch, and I instantly regret taking them off. “Five more miles,” I say. “Ten at the most. I have to do this.”
When daylight appears again, I start walking. I don’t even know why I bothered resting so long. I didn’t get any real sleep—the kind of rest I’m just getting used to now that I have some freedom from Olivia. Every time a leaf crunched or the breeze ruffled a tree limb, I startled, coming to my aching feet with my gun drawn.
The Aftermath Page 6
