Malina ran her finger along the western edge of the map, where a dark smudge of trees stopped abruptly. “We’ll have to work clockwise, away from her base. I sure as hell am not testing if we can sneak past a hundred of those bastards.”
“That many?” Clint’s belly felt cold and numb thinking about that.
“Seems like it.” Malina folded up her map and put it in the zippered pocket of her coat. “You ready?”
Clint glanced down at his boots and remembered the man he’d killed, and he nodded.
Malina reached out and gripped his forearm in a tight handshake. She held his stare and said, firmly, “You’re going to kill people. A lot of people. You kill, or you die. Got it?”
“You scared I’m going to choke?”
“Of course I am.”
Clint squeezed her arm back. “I’ve got it, Mals.”
“Good.” Malina released his hand. “Remember. Damage multiplies in this game. Aim for their torso, because if you aim for their head, you’ll probably miss.”
She mimed the shape of a handgun and tapped her pointer finger at his head, his chest, his stomach. “10x damage for a headshot, 5x if you get them in the heart, 3x for torso, 2x in the gut, and just base damage on the limbs. Got it?”
“Skiball rules, but with guns. Got it.”
Malina smirked. She gestured toward the back door with her shotgun. “Stay low. Stay close to me. Don’t get shot.”
“I’ll do my best,” Clint muttered.
They hurried out together, into the backyard.
CHAPTER 8
M
ALINA’S BACKYARD WAS NEATLY COIFFED, the garden full of bees and bright, sighing flowers. It was a perfect, HOA-approved suburbia, if you ignored the tire tracks gouging twin snakes through the grass. Her entire eastern wall of fencing had been struck down and lay in a dented heap on the lawn.
Clint let out a low whistle. “Shit. Was that from Florence?”
“Probably,” Malina said, “but not today. It was when I first started hiding out here.” She laughed, humorlessly. “I just hid in the basement and hoped I wouldn’t die.”
Clint shivered, grateful he had moved when he did. If he’d hung around his spawn-point for even an extra thirty minutes, just lingering on what he’d lost, Florence would have been kicking down his door. And there would have been no place to hide.
He muttered, “She’s persistent.”
“Uh, yeah, that’s an understatement. It was probably time for me to move on, anyway.” Malina looked back at him. “Which way is your place?”
Clint glanced around, trying to regain his bearings, before he pointed in a direction that felt like north. It was hard to say when the sun never moved.
Malina walked through the big gap in the fence, crouching low. Her thick curls sat in a tall, tight bun on her head, and she had to fold down low to keep her hair from peeking over the top of the fence.
Clint wanted to ask her how such a short lady struggled to hide behind a fence, but he couldn’t get himself to relax enough for banter out here. Not out in the open. Every window and corner and bush felt like it could be hiding his death.
Together they crawled through backyards and clambered over white picket fences.
Once, when they passed through someone’s yard, Clint caught something in the corner of his eye: a curtain in a back window, twitching. He gripped his pistol and tilted his head back.
There was a girl glaring through the glass at them. Her pistol watched them like a periscope as they passed, but she didn’t try to stop them.
He imagined Malina like that, all alone. Leveling up and gearing up but never really progressing. Just surviving.
Clint retraced his steps to his apartment as well as he could. He only had to double-back once when he realized he’d never passed a pink house and must have gone too far.
Florence and her crew hadn’t gotten to his spawn-point street yet, apparently. The backyard was pristine, and the entire block was so silent, Clint could hear Malina’s breathing.
For a moment, he and Malina paused there, backs pressed against the fence.
He murmured to her, “How do you tell if anyone’s inside?”
Malina cracked open her shotgun and checked the shells. She smoothed her thumb over them as if for good luck. Then she snapped the gun shut and gave Clint a tight, tired smile.
“We go in, honey. How else do you think?”
“I thought you might have a cool power-up by now or something.”
Unease spun sickly through him. He tried to hide it—not well enough, it seemed, because Malina reached out and squeezed his forearm reassuringly.
“We’ll be fine,” she said. “The trick is to check both walls flanking the door as you’re walking in. They like to hide in corners, or just around the frame.”
Clint didn’t need to ask who. It could be anyone with a gun and a quicker trigger finger than him. He knew now that the other players were a bigger threat than he had ever imagined.
“You can’t look two places at once,” Clint said.
“You’re right. Unless there’s two of you.” Malina pressed her back to Clint’s and nodded toward the door. “Let’s go. Slow and steady.”
Clint unholstered his pistol and nodded. His adrenaline pumped hotly between his ears, sharpening his focus.
They crept into the house back-to-back and scoped out both sides of the door at once. Empty.
Malina gestured onward, then moved forward, velveting her steps. It was unnerving to watch her stalk through his kitchen, a near-stranger carrying a gun, moving like she was in a war zone in his own damn apartment.
But then again, war zone was the only appropriate term for a place like this.
Clint shivered and followed her.
Malina’s shotgun moved in a constant, even swivel. Clint copied her, trying to keep his gun moving with his line of sight. His new boots were eerily loud against the laminate, even when he tiptoed. It was as if the floor was announcing him with every step.
Malina peeked behind the couch, gun-first, then gestured down the hall.
Clint nodded.
In wordless agreement, they stalked down the hallway. Clint walked backward, fighting the urge to check constantly over his shoulder. He had to trust that, if there was anyone hiding here, Malina would shoot first.
He held his breath as Malina nudged open his bathroom door. There was something invasive and uncomfortable about her seeing their mess, Rachel’s clothes on the ground.
Her blood-smeared face flashed through his mind. Clint forced it away.
“All clear,” Malina said.
Clint snapped his head up to see Malina standing in his bedroom doorway, the closet door hanging wide open.
She inclined his head toward him, as if searching his eyes for an answer. “You cool?”
“Yeah, just…”
Just stupid and scared and going to lose my shit if I let myself keep thinking about her right now, Clint thought, but he didn’t say it out loud.
Malina gestured to a photo on the wall. A buddy of his took it one late summer night, the kind that only happens when you’re young and drunk and in love. Rachel was sitting on his lap, his arms around her, both their faces lit orange by the flickering campfire before them.
“Your girlfriend?” she asked.
Clint pursed his lips and nodded.
“You seemed too young and not-Mormon for her to be a wife.” Malina smiled, but it wilted when Clint’s face didn’t change. “That’s who you’re playing for?”
“Yeah. Car accident.”
Malina’s eyes traced over the photo and she said, almost trance-like, “He has my son. He’s eleven.”
“Oh, god. Shit. I’m so sorry.”
“Why? You didn’t do anything.”
“How did it happen?” Clint asked, before he could think better of it.
“Does it matter? He’s dead, and it’s my fault. That’s
all anyone needs to know.”
The tone of her voice made guilt settle like a heavy stone in Clint’s heart. “I shouldn’t have asked.”
“It’s fine.” Malina turned away from him and looped her gun back over her shoulder. She wiped her sleeve across her face, and Clint knew better than to ask if she was okay.
“You know, if you hadn’t told me about her, I probably would’ve let you die back there.”
Clint frowned at her. “Why did that make the difference?”
“Because I want to know the stakes are the same for you. It’s not just about saving yourself.”
He nodded, and a dark thought circled within him: I’m willing to kill for her, too. He hoped it didn’t come down to that.
Malina’s shoulders stiffened, and she said, all business, “Right, let’s stay focused. Do you have a basement or an attic?”
Clint stared at her, blankly.
Malina rolled her eyes and pressed, “Everyone has at least one. It’s where most of your loot is. I have a theory that Florence got both, lucky twat.” Her scowl was only mildly irritated, as if Florence had taken too many free cookies, not hoarded every gun she could find.
“If you had an attic, it’d be obvious. So it’s gotta be a basement. The game hides those under rugs or furniture.”
“Right. So we move shit until we find it.”
“Bingo.”
They worked together to lift up his bed frame and found a box of ammunition (9mm (x36)) which Malina shoved into her backpack. They checked under the bathroom rug, the living room rug, and finally found it when they heaved aside the couch.
Malina grinned at the trapdoor hiding underneath. “See?” she said. “Knew you had one.”
A little banner blipped across his vision.
Achievement Unlocked: No Shit, Sherlock (+25 XP)
Clint rolled his eyes and said, “Great. I love life or death games that are also super fucking sarcastic.”
She snorted. “Then you’ll love this place.”
Malina tugged the trapdoor open and pulled a flashlight out of her pocket. It speared the darkness, revealing nothing but the bottom of the stairs and the edge of a shelf, some boxes piled on the floor. Clint couldn’t pick out much more in the gloom.
“Let’s see what kind of shit Death gave you,” Malina said.
“I hope it’s something other than anxiety.”
Malina smirked at him. “Don’t worry. That fades into existential dread quickly enough.”
Together, they descended into the dark.
CHAPTER 9
T
HE SCHOOL WAS THE LARGEST structure in the level, second only to a grocery store on the west side of the map. That was half the reason Florence picked it. At the very least, if her boys were occupying it, she could be sure no one else could be hiding in there.
Plus, there was plenty of storage for her hoarded items. She had a small armory in there, enough to outfit any recruit to keep them going until they hit level 15, at the very least.
There were two heavily-armed soldiers posted at the gates of the schoolyard. She only ever stuck tanky players out there, to make sure they had time to radio in an alert before they got totally obliterated.
In the window of the school’s second floor, a sniper sat as backup. Sunlight glinted off their scope.
The soldiers waved as Jeffery drove the truck through the open gate.
The front of the school was dead, all half-shattered windows and graffiti and scrap parts from wrecked cars.
Jeffery drove them around back, where the real camp waited.
The school’s old basketball court was now a fire pit, where her soldiers liked to hang out and smoke and drink when they were off-duty. A handful of players stood around an oil drum full of burning scrap wood, talking, laughing.
Their smiles vanished when they saw Florence roll up. A couple of them even snuffed out their cigarettes and saluted her.
Good. She liked them scared.
A row of tents, all of them military green canvas, stretched alongside the back wall of the school. A few were extra recovery beds for wounded soldiers, but mostly they offered a place to relax and gamble and get wasted between missions.
Boredom led to malcontent led to mutiny. Florence learned long ago that, in a game where you couldn’t even pause by falling asleep, keeping a happy team meant keeping them distracted.
She found Atlas outside one of those tents. He wore reflective aviators and reclined in a dented lawn chair as he paged through a magazine.
Eight players loitered around the tent, all of them wearing bulletproof vests and helmets and carrying semiautomatic rifles. A loaded-up jeep waited on the asphalt beside them.
As Jeffery eased the truck to a stop, Florence stood up in her seat. She gripped the frame, tightly, so she wouldn’t lurch with the truck’s brake.
“Is this everyone?” she asked.
Atlas glanced up from his magazine. “Did you know that they actually printed stuff in these things? Coherent, satirical articles. The attention to detail is impressive.”
“Does it say, Put that magazine down, you stupid asshole?”
“No, it says, You’re welcome for getting everyone ready for you, boss.” Atlas smirked and tossed the magazine aside.
Florence looked over the group who stared up at her, their faces a mix of determination and boredom. They’d all been with her for a couple weeks of in-game time. At the very least, they wouldn’t run crying at the first gunshot.
“Did Atlas already brief you?”
“Of course I did.”
Atlas swaggered over to the truck, smirking, still wearing those damn smug sunglasses. His hair was pale blond and charmingly mussed, just the right balance of casual and styled. Maybe he got lucky enough to die on a good hair day, too. Or maybe he just spent more time in front of the mirror now than when he was still alive.
He rested his elbows against the open lip of Florence’s window and leaned forward, peering at her over the top of his glasses.
“You don’t think this is a little overkill?”
“It’s all about messaging, honey.” She patted his shoulder like he was a try-hard little brother, then hinged the truck door open. She jumped to the ground and, cool-eyed and straight-backed, appraised the gathered soldiers.
That was all it took to get them to instantly shut up and shape up. That power over them made her head buzz with a high like no other. It almost made being in Hell worth it.
“Don’t go anywhere,” she said. “We’ll hit the road in five. Got it?”
A chorus of yes, boss answered her.
Florence snapped at Atlas. “Come. We need to talk.”
Atlas crinkled his nose but followed, his annoyance clear, even with those damn sunglasses on.
Together, they walked into the school’s double doors and passed the guards stationed within, who saluted the moment Florence appeared.
Florence gave them a near-imperceptible nod.
When they turned the corner toward the armory (formerly the school gym’s equipment storage room), Atlas pushed his sunglasses up onto his head, turned to Florence, and snapped his fingers in her face.
“Are you kidding me with that?” he said. “That’s how I’d talk to my dog.”
Florence narrowed her eyes, but she couldn’t help a sly, foxlike smile. “You seem to whine a lot for someone who doesn’t want to be treated like a little bitch.”
Atlas bit his lip and forced an ironed-on scowl, but Florence could see the smile lifting at the corner of his mouth.
“What did you want to talk about, boss?” he said.
Florence pretended to cough, to hide her triumphant smirk.
Even for all his spunk, Atlas clearly understood the hierarchy was real, and there was only one person on top. He knew the truth as well as she did: she wouldn’t hesitate to end him if he truly opposed her.
When she first woke up here, she never th
ought a fight-to-the-death game could be so fun.
“Two things. You have a question about a decision of mine, we discuss it in private. Period. This is not a democracy, and I don’t want any of them getting ideas that it is.” She folded her arms over her chest and held his stare. “You have good ideas—”
Atlas grinned. “It’s about time you said it.”
“Sometimes. Don’t get cocky.” She couldn’t hide her half-smile. “I want to hear if you thought of something I didn’t. But not in front of them. Got it?”
“All clear, boss.”
“Good.”
“What’s the second thing?”
“Our targets. Open your HUD and look down the kill list.”
Atlas’s eyes went blank, focused on the empty air, as he moved to do what she said.
“I’ve already looked at this,” he said.
“Listen. The level 12. Should I give her a second chance?”
Atlas flicked his stare away from the center of his HUD to meet Florence’s eye.
“You mean,” he said, feigning shock, “you’d ask advice from a little bitch?”
“I’m amazed too, trust me.”
“I thought you don’t work with people who tried to kill you.”
“Usually, no. But she’s clearly carrying him. She might be a useful asset. Especially if she appreciates being left alive more than helping some random new player.”
“Maybe she’s playing a charity run,” Atlas said with a smug wink. “Or trying to get a more valuable killshot on him. I hear it’s double XP if you kill a member of your own party.”
Florence considered that for a second: rounding up newbies, adding them to her party, and then slaughtering them. But that didn’t seem like it would boost overall team morale too much. No one wants to worry if they’re next on the chopping block.
“Fuck off and give me a real answer,” she said. “Do you think it’s a bad idea or not?”
The longer she waited, the more time those two had to escape. Florence was getting her revenge, one way or another. She was certain of that.
“If she surrenders, it’s worth trying. Give her an ultimatum.” Atlas shrugged. “If she gets herself killed, that’s her own fault.”
9 Levels of Hell: Volume 1 Page 5
