⁍ CONTENTS ⁌

EPISODE 09

LIVE ANOTHER PLAY

CHAPTERS

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20

21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30

31 32 33 34 35

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For more about the series, visit:

Tanpepperwrites.com/gameland

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For updates and exclusive perks, join:

Club Tanpepper

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Copyright

Acknowledgments

About the Author

* * *

Brinestone Press

(rv.211213)

Cover by Deranged Doctor Design

⁍ THE ZPOCALYPTO SERIES ⁌

EP01: Hacked Into the Game

EP02: Failsafe Codex

EP03: Deadman’s Gambit

EP04: Sunder the Hollowmen

(includes the prequel “Golgotha”)

EP05: Prometheus Mode

(includes the companion title “Velveteen”)

EP06: Every Dead Player

EP07: Cheat Protocol

EP08: Jacker’s Exploit

EP09: Live Another Play

EP10: Return To The Arcade

(includes supplemental material “Infected” pt 1)

EP11: Augmented Zeality

EP12: Reckoning The Dead

EP13: Glitch In The Script

EP14: Open-World Spawn

(includes supplemental material “Infected” pt 2)

Episode 09

LIVE ANOTHER PLAY

Chapter 1

I’m in the woods behind my house.

That’s the first thing to cross my mind, when I realize I’m no longer home. Although, I can’t remember how I got here, which is troubling.

The last thing I remember is lying on the couch in front of the television, two Players battling it out to the second death on the screen. They weren’t the reason I’d been watching the damned show. I couldn’t care less about some random zombies. I’d been looking for—

I squeeze my eyes shut and try not to think names. Without names, there are no faces.

Anyway, it’s a real mystery, how I got from seeing that chaotic urban wasteland to this lush, quiet place.

You’re dreaming, Jessie. You fell asleep. Wake up.

But why would I do that? This is the calmest, most peaceful I’ve felt in a long time. There are no dead here. And no living, either, for that matter.

Are you sure about that? Maybe you’re back. Maybe they kidnapped you again and dumped you in the middle of Flushing Meadows Corona Park.

No, it can’t be. This isn’t real. It’s not the arcade, not even Long Island. I’m dreaming. I’m safe inside my own home, here, not standing inside the Wastes. These trees— I can’t explain how or why, but they feel familiar. They look a lot like the woods behind my house.

It’s one of the last greenbelts left intact in this part of the state. Probably the largest, too. Like a hastily stitched tear in the urban fabric of Greenwich, it follows a meandering seam in the bedrock where water occasionally flows, drawing the two halves of the city together. The ghost of the stream, once called Rockwood Creek, originates in the warrens of the old Mianus River State Park to the north. Its opposite terminus dries up in the concrete culverts on the Port Chester side of town.

Few people ever bother to visit it anymore. The place is usually infested with mosquitoes throughout all but the coldest month of the year. And everyone knows that mosquitoes carry deadly viruses, despite everything Government tells us to the contrary. But they’re not fooling anybody. The Reanimation virus was, after all, constructed from dengue, a mosquito-borne disease.

Being a low point in the city’s topography, storm wash naturally accumulates along the shallow banks of the stream or clogs it to the point of flooding. The city long ago decided to stop sending in cleanup crews, since the laborers, the Controlled Undead, have this annoying tendency to get themselves tangled up in the dense undergrowth. It’s both a hassle and a risk to the living to have to go in and cut them free.

Years have passed since I last walked these overgrown trails, too.

You’re sleeping. You’re not really here.

Yet it feels so real.

If I am dreaming, then I don’t know why I’m dreaming about this place now. But it really doesn’t feel like a dream. I can smell the damp earth, hear the buzz of cicadas, and feel the warm sunlight stabbing down through the branches, blinding and warm. And yet it doesn’t feel real, either.

Wake up! Wake up!

I try to. I pinch myself, but feel nothing. I’m not even sure I actually pinched. I try to yell, but my mouth won’t open. It feels glued shut.

What the hell’s going on?

The stream is barely a trickle right now, of course. Not a surprise. We get the occasional storm, some heavy, enough to drop a couple inches in a few hours. But the scientists on the black streams say the ground is like a dry sponge right now, soaking everything up. Government tries to downplay the drought, but I’ll believe the scientists before I believe anything on the official streams. The sweltering heat we’ve been getting these last few weeks have all but whispered any surface water away, leaving nothing but a few mossy areas and some shallow swampy pools. During the summer months, there’s barely enough moisture left in the ground to sustain the native growth. Maple trees grow stunted and produce disfigured leaves, like little hands curled into arthritic claws. They have this permanent rusty-yellow discoloration, due to some sort of fungal infection. The willows tolerate the heat and dryness a little better, perhaps owing to their more extensive root systems. But the real survivors are the vines, recent invaders from the South. They’re perfectly suited to this warming climate and are actually thriving. They strangle the trees, and seem capable of sucking the moisture from the very air itself.

This year, the fall rains arrived early. They’re heavy enough that they’ve caused the creek to rise nearly to the top of the cut at least once. But it drains quickly, and we’ve not had any floods. They’re too sporadic to keep the water running. It fills and drains, leaving little hidden pools and areas of soggy ground. This has led to an explosion of new undergrowth. Grass and mushrooms are flourishing. But it’s the long-dormant reeds and cattails that currently dominate the low-lying areas. The air is redolent with the aroma of their pollen, moldy and sweet, tickling the nose and stinging the eyes. Underlying this is a musky scent— the pong of organic decay.

I take all of this in, still wondering if it’s real or my mind is just filling in the details, pulling them from memories of when I was much younger.

But I don’t feel like my younger self. This is me now.

I remember when the stream would get deep enough and wide enough to wade into up to my waist. I used to love the feel of the cool water and the mud and algae squishing between my toes. I remember being mesmerized by the way the dappled sunlight would play off the oily streaks on the surface. No one had ever warned me not to swim in it. Now that I’m older, however, I would never do it. Who knows what toxins and debris wash down here.

Well, I don’t have to worry about that now. There’s not enough standing water to even dip a toe in.

Where I’m standing, I can feel how soft the ground is. To the left of me, water seeps out of a crack in the bedrock. To my right, clouds of bloodthirsty mosquitoes and gnats puff like smoke out of their cattail chimneys. The breeze is cool, far more refreshing than any that might be found at street level.

I’m moving again, rising up to the trail that runs alongside the creek bed. The way it winds through the brush and underneath low branches tells me it was made by animals. Several trees have recently fallen across it, their strength sapped by the choker vines and their trunks hollowed out by disease and termites. Some of the fallen giants haven’t yet made it all the way to the ground; they lean precariously against a neighboring tree. They could fall at any time. It’s a dangerous place to be, especially on a windy day.

My toe catches on an exposed knuckle of wood, and I stumble.

No, that’s not quite right. It’s not my toe. I didn’t stumble. This body isn’t mine— it doesn’t feel like it belongs to me anyway, and it certainly isn’t under my control. Even as I sensed the snag and tried to throw out my hands to brace myself, my arms didn’t obey.

See? You’re dreaming.

But that’s not right, either. At least in a dream, I’m able to act. This feels more like...

Like being inside a game. Like I’m in VR and the lag between my biohaptic controllers and the avatar’s response is long. Except there’s no lag here, because there’s no response at all. I’m receiving input, but not transmitting.

Sort of like last summer, when Micah and I tried out one of Arc’s new VR pods at the mall. It came preloaded with this scripted program and was meant to show off just how much more immersive the equipment actually let you feel. And hear and smell. In the enhanced demonstration mode — which we didn’t try, because it was too expensive — you could take control of the avatar and even create your own little mini-script.

Not a VR pod, Jess. You’re dreaming. Wake up!

Another stumble, the same foot snagging beneath another root.

Clumsy, I utter. I can hear it inside my head, but not in my ears. Lift your feet higher.

The world wobbles in the windshield of my mind’s eye, rising suddenly and tilting dizzily in that telltale way that comes when an ankle twists. The view stabilizes. I feel a stab of pain shoot down my leg from my hip. The pain isn’t mine, I realize, but imposed upon me externally. Just like inside that pod. My mind registers it as information. The pain’s not real. It’s not...

It doesn’t belong to me.

My ears register a grunt. It comes out of me. I feel it in my throat. It’s a sound I might make after nearly tripping. But all of these things don’t feel real. They don’t feel... personal.

The view shifts back to the trail. I take a step, more careful this time.

Forward progress recommences.

What now?

I suddenly realize my arms are tired. Not mine, the...

The avatar’s.

What an odd dream.

There’s a tightness in my chest, strain in my back and legs. My brain’s receiving this information. It doesn’t feel firsthand. It feels like biohaptic feedback.

Am I inside someone else’s head? That makes no sense. How could that be? When would I have—

You’re asleep and dreaming, damn it. That’s all.

No.

Yes.

Am I?

Still more intrigued than concerned, I try again to exert my will. I focus on lowering my head so I can see what’s in my arms. The view doesn’t shift.

Should’ve paid for the enhanced experience.

Right. If I ever have that kind of money to just throw around, I’m not going to waste it on an Arc VR pod demonstration.

Maybe I’m hallucinating. I’m lying on my couch. I’d been drinking— started again after getting back from Gameland. Just a little to calm my nerves. I don’t remember drinking that much. But then again, that’s what alcohol tends to do to you. That’s how I got in trouble before, when it was getting out of hand.

I’d resumed drinking because of the nightmares. It helped me sleep. The dreams have been coming more and frequently lately, dark dreams in which I’m completely at the mercy of whatever script my subconscious mind decides to write for me. This feels a little bit like that. Except in those dreams I was still able to exert some sort of control. Here, I’m utterly helpless. I’m a passenger inside a locked car on a moving train that’s gone off its rails.

Just open your eyes, for crissake. Stop being so dramatic.

I try. I tell myself to wake up. Nothing changes. And now the first meaningful tendrils of apprehension begin to worm their way into my mind. This distant sense of unease is definitely real. It originates within me rather than being transmitted to me like all the other sensations I’m feeling.

The eyes — not mine, I’m convinced of this now — remain stubbornly fixed on the narrow trail straight ahead, providing me only with a jouncing image of where—

it’s

—I’m headed. The visual effect syncs up with this—

avatar’s

—person’s plodding footsteps.

It has to be a dream. There’s no other explanation.

This is most definitely not a dream.

I become aware of a buzzing sound in my head, like wasps. And pain. The view blurs momentarily.

Then clears.

As does the pain.

Strange.

Light strobes across my vision. Shadows and flashes of sunlight. Sunlight on my face. No, not my face, someone else’s face. I can feel the warmth, but it’s not warming. On my arms. An objective kind of heat. The relative chill of the shade that doesn’t cool me. Sweat trickles down my neck. I feel it distantly. It’s not my sweat.

Am I in The Game? Is this what it feels like to control a Player?

Except I’m not controlling it. It’s controlling me.

I’m the Player.

My heart starts to beat faster, and yet it’s almost like it’s overlaid on another separate rhythm, calmer and more steady.

Not a Player, I try to reassure myself. The dead don’t sweat.

I feel hot exhales on my face. The host’s exhales. The host’s face. Imprints of heat and wetness.

The view swivels dizzyingly to the side, and passes over a board attached to a tree. The old and faded sign has lost all but one of the nails holding it up. But the tree has grown over the edges, as if consuming it, and locked it into place. PROPERTY OF GREENWICH MUNICIPAL TRANSPORTATION DISTRICT. NO TRESPASSING.

So, I am here, in the greenbelt. I am dreaming.

It’s impossible to read when you’re dreaming.

That’s a myth.

Is it? I can’t remember.

I want to take another look, see if it still reads the same. But I keep moving forward.

The view tilts downward, and I get a glimpse of the heavy object in my arms.

Not my arms.

Not a full look, just a hint, a suggestion.

It’s a body.

I’m carrying a body.

They are carrying a body, not me.

We’re focused on a small opening in the trees up ahead. A jolt of recognition hits me. I know this exact spot, although it’s been years since I’ve been here. I know that if I were to look up, I’d have an unobstructed view of the sky above. But I don’t need to. There’s a large patch of sunlight on the ground. The glade has become overgrown with bushes. The old tree stump is still here, softer and collapsing beneath its own rot, like a candle melting. It’s little more than a misshapen hump of moss.

The memory of the dog barking echoes inside my head.

This is where I fell in love with Kelly.

Is that why I’m here? Maybe I am dreaming after all. Kelly’s been on my mind a lot lately. We’re planning to file the marriage documents this afternoon.

Wake up.

Sober up.

The scene blurs as I turn.

As they turn.

No. This is my dream. This is my secret place.

Why has my subconscious mind brought me here?

Another lurching step, and I’m moving forward again, heading for a narrow opening in the brush on the other side of the clearing. I step sideways to fit through the gap in the dangling ivy.

And there, concealed beneath blankets of leaves and mud, is the old creek bed again. The path to it is blocked by a massive tree, its roots ripped straight out of the earth. The trunk is splintered and covered in fungus. Sap leaks from the heartwood. The trunk makes a natural archway. There’s barely enough room to crawl through underneath. I bend down. A curtain of spider webs discourages passage for all but the most determined. Nobody’s been here in a long time. I haven’t been here. I sense I’m about to dredge up some old, long buried memory now. This whole journey is just a metaphor for something. But of what I have yet to ascertain.

There’s another grunt, and the abstract ache in my arms is releases. I glance at the ground and get my first real look at the person I’ve been carrying. I expect to see my younger self. This is what this dream is, a passage. I’m returning my childhood self to the place where I really began to live. By marrying Kelly today, that part of my life is over. I’m moving on. I have to grow up now.

My view is limited by the brush. I see fabric — a red button-down shirt — and a flash of exposed skin between its bottom hem and a pair of jeans. I don’t remember the shirt, but I recognize the pants. There on the pocket is a familiar butterfly pattern stitched in colorful thread. The jeans at the secondhand store where my mother tends to shop are nearly always from this one manufacturer. And most of the clothes in my closet are her hand-me-downs.

I catch a glimpse of the hands next— not of the younger me, but the me that carried her here. They’re rough, fat-fingered, the nails blackened with dirt. Is this supposed to be a much older me? The arms are covered in old wounds.

And hair.

This isn’t me. It’s a man. I’m dreaming I’m a man?

But who? Kelly?

I try again to wake myself. I’m done with this dream. It’s disturbing. I don’t like it.

Wake up! Wake up!

There’s a brief moment when I can feel myself rising out of myself. Or out of Kelly. Or whoever my subconscious has decided to use as a vessel for me on this strange trip. I feel like I’m waking up. That buzzing noise fills my head, and my vision wavers. I can feel it all starting to slip away.

There’s a jolt, the kind you get when you suddenly do wake up, like from a terrible nightmare. Except that I don’t wake. I’m back inside the dream again. I can’t escape.

Kelly — or whoever he is — pushes his way through the brush, crawling over the body. He/I stands up again.

Why have you brought me here? Why are you leaving me? Am I dead?

There’s a shallow puddle on the trail. The water is dark brown, like tea. He steps into it; I feel the cold on my foot. He turns back and bends down again, reaching back through the bracken he just crawled through; I feel the strain.

What is he— What am I doing?

I feel the tension in my hand as my finger hooks the cuff of my jeans. I feel the resistance until a foot, shoeless and clad only in a white sock splattered with—

blood

—mud, appears.

He’s pulling the other me through.

Next comes my lower leg. Then a knee. The view shifts for a moment. I see the other leg, bent at the knee and twisted underneath the first. An ugly black loafer covers my foot.

I don’t have shoes like that. I never have. It’s an old person’s shoe.

But it, too, looks familiar.

The man yanks on my other leg, straightening it. He arranges it next to the first. He leans back and pull. Next comes my waist. My shirt is pulling up. I see more bare skin and the sharp angles of a pair of hipbones. I don’t see any scars. The side where Jake bit me is unblemished.

It’s not me.

Not the current me anyway. The young me wouldn’t have had a scar there.

But this doesn’t look like a young girl, either.

The shirt rolls higher until the bottom of a white lace bra peeks into view.

Definitely not the younger me.

The bra is old and frayed. Underwire pokes through a hole in the worn fabric.

I know who it is.

No!

I don’t want to watch anymore, but I have no choice. I squeeze my eyes shut, but of course I still see everything.

Wake up!

The buzzing sound explodes in my head again. This time, it feels like my brain is splitting into two. I can’t take it. I can’t—

I jolt upright and nearly tumble off the couch. My heels hit the worn carpet, sending the shock up to my knees. My breath tears up my throat and exits my mouth in ragged gasps. I’m back in my living room. I haven’t left.

It’s dark. Why is it so dark? Did I sleep the whole day away? Did I miss my own wedding?

It takes me a moment to realize it’s not night after all. Light leaks around the edges of the blackout curtain.

See? Just a dream.

But it had felt so real.

At the far end of the room, the television displays the flickering image of some part of Gameland. It’s a different scene from the one I’d fallen asleep to. Two new Players are locked in battle. They engage each other in complete silence. I must’ve muted the sound before drifting off.

My Link pings. I reach over to pluck it out of the media cradle on the table, but my fingers are still numb and clumsy. I fumble it. It falls to the floor, screen side up. I stab the connect button, and Eric’s face snaps into view.

“Yeah?”

“About time! I’ve been pinging you repeatedly for the past ten minutes!”

“I— I was asleep, I guess.”

“It said your Link identifier wasn’t on the Stream.”

My face goes ice cold.

Eric laughs uneasily. “Just a network glitch. But for a few minutes, I thought you might’ve gone back.”

“Never,” I whisper.

My gaze slips back over to the television. They’re in a junkyard. I can see a number of other figures gathering at the fence, IUs drawn there by the noise, victims of the outbreak on Long Island over a decade before. I find myself automatically scanning the faces, looking for—

Stop tormenting yourself, Jessie.

Kelly’s voice this time inside my head, chastising me. Pleading with me to stop this foolish obsession.

It’s my fault. I left them behind.

We left them behind, Jessie.

Trapped in Gameland. Undead.

We had no choice, J. There’s nothing we can do about it now.

I know.

And yet I still can’t seem to stop myself from watching.

The Players grab each other’s arms. Their feet slip, and they fall out of view behind a rusted crane. The scene shifts, draws in for a close-up. The larger of the two dead men is forcing the smaller, fresher Player back. Both sport fresh gashes on their arms and sides. The wounds gape, exposing the sinews underneath. But there’s no blood. The older Player’s flesh is dry, like jerky. And the gore seeping from the side of the other isn’t red, but black and thick, like oil. They get back up and continue to grapple. They pass once more into the sunlight, and there’s a moment before the exposure readjusts. There’s a close-up view of the newer Player. Its scalp has been torn away, revealing the bare bone of its skull. It’s a fatal wound— for the living. On the dead, it has no effect whatsoever.

“Jessie? You still there?”

I suck in a sharp breath and blink, startled by how easily distracted I’ve become these days.

“Sorry. I guess I’m having trouble waking up.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re finally getting some sleep.” The tension in Eric’s face loosens a bit. I wish he wouldn’t worry about me; he’s suffocating me. “You need the rest. It’ll help you heal.”

Physically, maybe. But spiritually? I don’t think I will ever heal.

I glance over to the window, to the dim corona of sunlight around the edges of the curtain. I think about how I’ll soon be married. I think about that strange dream and wonder what it means.

“I just have a few more things to wrap up here at work, then I’ll come home,” Eric says. “Just wanted to see if Mom’s going with you to City Hall or if I’m bringing her.”

“She’s out. I haven’t seen her.”

Except in your dreams.

“Did you try pinging her?” I ask.

“Yeah, but she hasn’t answered.” His face darkens slightly. Even on the scant six-inch diagonal of my Link screen, I can tell he’s concerned. “Don’t worry. She’ll be there. She won’t forget.” But he doesn’t sound completely convinced of that.

“I know. She promised.”

“Uh huh.”

He doesn’t have to say it. He knows just as well as I all the promises she’s broken.

I cough to clear the dryness from my throat. I give my head a quick shake, as if to cast the image of her limp body away. What a strange dream to have. Maybe my subconscious is telling me something.

“I have to go get ready,” I tell him. “Kelly’s supposed to ping any minute now. He’ll probably want to meet at his place before we head over with his parents and Kyle.”

Eric hesitates before nodding, his face still tight with worry. “Okay, I’ll try Mom again. See you in a bit.”

“She’ll be there,” I whisper.

But Eric has already disconnected.

Chapter 2

Nothing about any of this feels real.

The bodies pack in around me, pressing against me, suffocating me. I wrap my arms protectively around myself and wish I could just break away, find an opening through the horde, and run somewhere to a place where I can hide.

My first full day back at school, and already I find myself wishing I’d never returned.

Not that I want to go back to Gameland, either. I just don’t want to be here.

The two-minute warning bell chimes and the activity in the hallways intensifies by several degrees. Lockers slam, and kids shout to one another over the din.

How can I possibly be here? How can I go and sit in a classroom and listen to even one more lie, acting as if everything’s okay? As if nothing has changed since I last walked these hallways three months ago. As if nobody I know has died.

Nothing else has changed, Jessie, only you. You’re the only one who knows what a farce this all is.

I wish it weren’t true.

I killed someone, a living person. I murdered them. Not in cold blood, but in self defense. But that doesn’t change a thing. And it doesn’t mean I wouldn’t do it again. All that’s changed is the way I think of myself. Sure, Nurse Mabel deserved it. And the others, too, the ones I didn’t personally kill, but whose deaths I witnessed. The deaths I celebrated. They had it coming. What would my fellow classmates think of me if they knew I watched some of them reanimate? How would they act around me if they knew I’d even had to quiet a few of them myself?

Three months makes all the difference in the world. It makes no difference at all.

Three months ago I would never have envisioned doing what I had to do in order to survive that damn arcade. Up until then, all my battles with zombies had existed only inside of virtual reality. Those monsters hadn’t been alive. They weren’t real. The worst I’d ever done was hack their code with my fingers, not their bodies with a machete.

All this time, playing that stupid game Zpocalypto, I never realized how much I was cheating myself, fooling myself into believing there was nothing more to life than playing, and nothing more to the game than VR.

But now Ashley and Jake are a part of it. And they can’t simply reboot and start over again.

In some strange way, that’s what this is like, being here in this cold, unfeeling, cinderblock building. The people my age aren’t real; they’re just characters in a game. Nothing but an illusion. It feels like a reboot, except that the script has been completely rewritten.

I stand here in the hallway feeling lost, while everyone else streams past me, oblivious. Clueless about the terrible truth of the world outside our tiny, narrow, uninformed lives. Clueless to the evil that doesn’t just exist on some remote, isolated, walled-in bit of land, but inside our own Links and implants. Inside of our own damn heads. We’ve got no one but our teachers to blame. They’re the ones who willingly, even if not knowingly, spread Arc’s and Government’s lies. I could tell everybody what I know, but they still wouldn’t get it. They won’t ever truly understand the terrible truth. They won’t accept it, because they’ve never experienced firsthand the raw, deadly reality we discovered inside Gameland.

To them, none of that is real. It’s all simulated. To them, this is reality. But they’ve got it all backward.

That’s what happens when you escape into your biohaptic game sets and goggles. Your subconscious loses the ability to distinguish truth from illusion. It all just becomes a game.

But there are signs of how deadly serious things have become, if people would just wake up and see them. This morning in homeroom, for example, we had an emergency outbreak drill. I can’t remember the last time we practiced what to do. Sixth grade, maybe. Or seventh. They’re supposed to conduct drills once each semester, but for the past few years nobody’s really given a damn. Arc and Government continue to push the idea that everything’s all good, that the likelihood of an outbreak is essentially nil. But someone’s paying attention. Someone thought it would be a good idea to resurrect the drills.

Resurrect, ha!

And yet, what do my fellow students do? They treat the damn drill like a party. We were supposed to go completely silent the moment the lights turn off, not say a word, not draw attention. But people were laughing and joking around, making rude noises that would trigger even more riotous laughter. Links were pinging all over the place. They couldn’t even be serious for five minutes. Some teachers found it amusing; the rest just complained about how it was eating into their time.

And the worst part about it for me was how it dredged up all the old chants.

Brains, brains, what do you say?

No more taxes will we pay.

We’ll live until we’re sixty-four.

Then we’ll work just three years more.

But I’ll be damned, so what’ll I care?

Three short years is more than fair.

And when the lights came back on again, nobody seemed at all bothered by the fact that a couple seniors were going at each other hot and heavy in a back corner of the classroom. The teacher had ahemed and the class had sniggered in amusement. At least the two still had their clothes on.

Stop. Lock. And barricade.

That was what had always been drilled into our heads: stop, lock, and barricade. But what good is that when you’re confronted with a horde of monsters that can smell you, hear you, and probably even see you? What good is that when they can outwait you, possibly for years and years? What good does it do to remain calm and seated quietly at your desk when all hell is breaking loose?

I know how useless the drills are. I sure as hell wish I didn’t.

Somebody bumps into me, jostling my school tablet out of my hand. It clatters to the linoleum floor and is kicked away. Someone steps on it, and he snarls at me as he passes. “Get out of the freaking middle of the freaking hallway you stupid zombitch.”

The words hit me like a brick. I spin around, blinking in confusion. It’s not the first time someone has called me that, but it has been a while. I don’t recognize the kid, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t know who I am. Sure, it might be a coincidence. But when everyone knows it was your father who helped create Reanimation technology, it’s kind of hard to shed that mantle. They might’ve stopped teasing me for the most part, but now that there are hints of things changing, guess who gets the brunt of everyone’s vitriol? Not Arc. Not Government.

Another taunt drifts through my mind. This one has followed me around since elementary school:

Brains, brains, everywhere.

On the walls and on the chair.

The zombie wouldn’t eat it all.

The brain was rotten, much too small.

That was the story of how the former professor at Royce State College in Montana had turned himself into a zombie and gone on to kill his rival. That rival had been my father— or the man who, until last week, I’d always believed to be my father. The popular version went that Professor Halliwell had infected himself with an experimental antidote in a vainglorious attempt to destroy all Reanimates. Instead, he became the very monster he’d tried to eradicate. At least according to legend. No one ever bothered to question how a zombie could make its way across the country to Virginia specifically to nosh on Richard Daniel’s brain.

Turns out, Halliwell hadn’t turned into a zombie after all. As for the rest of the legend, I guess I’ll never know how much of it is true. Halliwell’s dead now. My grandfather killed him last week.

And now he’s dead, too.

I’ve read other accounts of my father’s murder on the black streams, seen pictures of the crime scene at my former house in Boyce, Virginia — the supposedly unaltered ones — complete with brains and blood splattered over the walls. A gun had been found at the scene, a single round fired. My father’s gun. The trajectory of the bullet had strongly suggested that what really happened was suicide. But that’s a terribly boring plot twist. Most people chose instead to believe the more exciting version where my father managed to get off a shot, maybe even hitting the undead Halliwell, before the top of his head got bitten off. Irony, even if it strains credulity, has always enjoyed greater persistence and popularity than cold, boring facts.

As it turns out, the real irony is that Halliwell — or Father Heall, as I had come to know him — was my true biological father, not Richard Daniels. And he’d been immune, a trait he’d apparently passed on to me.

I suppose it’s a better legacy than the one Richard Daniels left me. It’s a hell of an improvement over being a direct descendant of the man who’d stolen someone else’s work and twisted it into what we know as Reanimation technology. Not that anyone else will ever know the truth.

It does take some of the sting away from people calling me zombitch, though.

The boy who’d hurled the insult at me in the hallway has already slouched off and disappeared among the thinning mass of bodies. If I had reacted quicker, I suppose I could have confronted him. But what good would that have done? I’m not supposed to draw attention to myself.

Kind of hard to do these days, stay in the background.

The palms of my hands are sweaty, and my fingers ache with tension. Probably a good thing then that he’s gone. I can imagine wrapping my hands around his scrawny neck and squeezing. I can almost feel and hear his brittle bones snapping. I now know exactly the amount of force it would take.

Relax, Jessie. Let it go.

Nobody realizes how easy it is to kill a person. And how hard.

After I retrieve my tablet from the floor, I make a decision. I turn against the tide of students and head for the front exit of the school. I don’t belong here. I don’t know where I do belong, just that it’s not in this parodied version of reality.

I’m nearly at the door, just a mere few steps away, when I hear my name being called out over the simmering din.

Ignore it. It’s just someone else going to tease you: “How do you starve a zombie? Lock it in a room with—”

“Miss Daniels?”

It’s an adult voice, which makes me hesitate. Now I know I’ve been caught. I can’t ignore it.

“Classes are the other way,” Principal Patterson informs me. His head tilts toward the clock on the wall. “Thirty seconds till the late bell.”

He waves a screening device at the back of my neck, and peers myopically at the readout. “Ah, Socialization of Implanted Reanimates with Professor Bledsoe. That’s a new class this year. We’re lucky to get him on loan from Arc this semester.” His smile makes me shiver. “A truly fascinating subject. Rather unfortunate that this elective isn’t very popular with the other seniors, for some reason. You’ll be glad you chose it, I’m sure.”

I don’t bother answering. I don’t tell him that having someone from Arc inside the school is like the wolf guarding the henhouse. Nor do I remind him that I didn’t get to choose my own electives this semester, since I’d missed the first couple weeks of school. I’d been too preoccupied trying to stay alive.

“In case you’ve forgotten, room one-fifteen is down the hall in the other direction,” he tells me. He seems oblivious to the fact that the smile on his face has grown stale and lecherous. “Hurry off now. You don’t want to be late for the lecture. I’ve asked all of the faculty to report all tardies.” He winks. “I happen to know you don’t want any trouble right now.”

I frown at him, wondering what he means by that, but he flicks his fingers at me dismissively. “Hurry off now, Jessica.”

I sigh and turn toward room one-fifteen. I can feel his eyes on my neck the entire way. I find myself imagining what it’d be like to slip a dagger into the back of his.

Chapter 3

“Damn it, Reggie! Move it!” Kelly shouts. “Come on! Wake up!”

“I am awake!”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

Reggie grits his teeth. “Now shut the hell up and let me play.”

“Watch out behind you!”

“I got it! Just stay out of my way.”

Reggie hops off the zombie he’s just killed with a crushing blow to the back of the head. A second one comes in fast, reaching out to grab him. Reggie ducks. The desiccated hand, little more than bones and dried, frayed sinew, passes in a blur before his eyes. He reacts instinctively, sweeping the rusty steel pipe he’s holding in his right hand in a broad arc. But it misses his attacker completely and throws him off balance, leaving him dangerously exposed. The sharpened stump of a finger bone rakes the air in front of his face.

“Shit!” He reaches reflexively to his cheek to check how badly he’s been injured and repeats the curse. “Fucker got me!”

“Don’t worry about that! It’s just a surface wound.”

The zombie takes advantage of the distraction and rams his side. Reggie loses his grip on the pipe, and it goes skittering over the uneven pavement, coming to a stop at a clump of weeds growing out of a crack in the middle of the highway.

“Move!” Kelly growls.

Reggie starts to scramble away. “I just want it on record that this wasn’t my idea,” he says, panting like he’s just run a marathon. “You’re the one who pushed me to come back.”

“And you know we’ve got unfinished business,” Kelly reminds him, repeating the winning argument he’d used to successfully convince Reggie days earlier. Up until then, Reggie had outright refused to even consider the idea of going back.

“It happened,” Kelley had pressed. “We can’t just pretend it didn’t. Ash and Jake deserve better.”

“I can’t, Kelly,” Reggie threw back. He was close to tears and bitterly angry because of it. “I can’t do it, asshole!”

But Kelly had taken him by the shoulders, looked him straight in the eyes, and said those magical words: unfinished business. They’d shut him right down. Reggie figures Kelly had used them intentionally, knowing the effect they would have on him.

“It’ll be different, Reggie. I promise. It won’t even feel real.”

“You’re just saying that.”

“We’ll never get another chance to make things right. And the sooner the better, because Arc could lock us out at any moment. We have to find our friends before that happens. We have to find them and—”

“Please. Don’t say it. I’ll do it, damn it. And fuck you.”

The Player steps forward, moving faster than a corpse should be able to. It head-butts Reggie in the back. Reggie feels the impact as if it were happening to him in the flesh, and he falls to the floor of his garage. His Player mimics the move inside the arcade. The attacker wastes no time, slamming its foot down and trapping them both. It won’t let his Player up; the biohaptic gear won’t allow Reggie to, either.

“Get out of there!” Kelly shouts.

“Would if I could, brah!” Reggie gasps. He hammers his fists against the Player’s virtual knees. It roars and reaches down with its bony hands. It somehow manages to grab a fistful of hair and slams his Player’s head against the pavement. Reggie screams that it’s unfair, because his real hair’s too short to grab.

“Damn it! Focus, Reggie!”

A crowd of Infected Undead have begun to gather, lured from their hiding places by the noise. The IUs are slower and far less coordinated than their implanted counterparts— at least until they get into a feeding frenzy. Then they’re nearly unstoppable.

He remembers the room inside Jayne’s Hill, the undead piling up against the door. That dread as he watched it begin to fail. He doesn’t want to think about it. He doesn’t want to remember. It just brings back more terrible memories and makes the nightmares he’s been having even worse. Why couldn’t they have just stayed away in the first place?

It was your idea to break in.

But was it? He seems to remember it differently.

Then why the hell did you agree to come back?

The answer to that question is easy, at least according to Kelly. They need to find Ashley and Jake. They’ll need to—

No!

Yes.

I can’t.

It’s not her, he reminds himself, not anymore. It won’t be her when he finds her and does what needs to be done.

But can he? Does he have it in him to snap her neck? Or sever her spine?

The Player stumbles backward, pulling away from him. There’s a clump of the Player’s hair in its bony fist, and Reggie roars out with fury. He can feel where it came out of his scalp, even though he knows it’s not real. The equipment may not be top-of-the-line, but it’s real enough. The Player swipes up with its other hand and manages to hook its claws into a loose piece of his Player’s clothing. Reggie feels himself being yanked upward. The other Player opens its mouth and out comes an odd jittering moan.

It’s laughing! It’s fucking laughing.

Well, not it, but the person controlling it is.

I’m gonna kill that rich piece of—

The other Player shakes him. Reggie’s not used to being handled like a rag doll. He tries to grab, but his damn Player is too weak, the gear too clunky and slow.

You’re dead. Your first full day back and already you’re dead!

The Player slams him down. It’s a stupid move, pile driving Reggie onto the hot asphalt, like its Operator has been watching too many contraband wrestling clips on the black streams.

Reggie doesn’t let the opportunity go to waste. He spins and grabs the Player’s tattered collar. It grabs him back. Reggie lunges, thrusting his head forward. His Player matches the movement. There’s a loud CRACK! The force of the unexpected assault rocks his opponent backward. It staggers and trips over its own feet. Yet, it still won’t let go of him. Reggie feels himself being dragged down once more. They fall, except this time the other Player is beneath him.

The back of its head collides with the road. It hits with such force that it bounces right back up and smashes into his Player’s face. Everything in Reggie’s field of view goes white. His ears ring.

He hears Kelly’s voice; it sounds far away: “Get up, Reg!” He feels an arm on his shoulder, pulling him off the stunned Player.

Reggie tries to push off. “I can’t... I can’t see,” he yelps. He’s on his feet again, staggering blindly and pawing at his headgear. He crashes into the walls of his parents’ garage. If this was just another round of Zpocalypto, Kelly would be laughing at him by now. But it’s not. It’s The Game, and Kelly’s not finding any of this amusing.

Reggie’s vision finally clears. Or rather the screen in his goggles does. He glances around him, spinning on his heels, ready for the Player to get up and resume its attack. But it remains splayed out on the road and doesn’t move. One arm is wrenched to the side, its fingers still twitching. The other hand hovers in the air for a moment before dropping with a thud to the pavement.

Reggie starts to laugh. He can’t help it. He’s never been so scared in his life — well, except for when he was actually physically present inside the arcade — and yet here he is laughing like a maniac. The Player’s dead. Twice dead. He killed it.

And it almost killed you.

This sobers him up. “Well,” he grunts, “there’s a few million bucks we’ll never see. Too bad.”

The undead clawing at the fence are moaning now, as if grieving the defeat of their compatriot.

“Something’s got them riled up,” Kelly says.

But Reggie ignores him and gives the Player a vicious kick. Its head jerks to the side. He can hear Kelly telling him to stop, but it’s like someone else has taken over control of his body. He can’t stop himself. He kicks it again. Then twice more.

“I shouldn’t have come back,” he grunts. “I SHOULD NOT HAVE COME BACK!”

Bones snap, flesh tears. The thing’s twice dead, but he wants to kill it again and again and again.

He raises his foot and brings his Player’s heel down onto the corpse’s face. Its skull bursts open. He half expects to see that nightmarish puff of gray dust balloon up out of it. But the monster’s brain is too fresh. Instead, what oozes out onto the baking pavement looks like the contents of an old jar of pickled herring.

Reggie’s stomach roils. He gags.

“Enough,” Kelly tells him.

“This is not what I signed up for,” Reggie pants. He wipes a fist over his runny nose and burps nauseously. He can taste vomit. Sweat pours down his face. “Goddamn it sonofabitch assholes!”

Kelly grabs his shoulder and steadies him.

“Why can’t you just leave us alone?” Reggie yells at the flickering image hovering over the garage floor. “All I want to do is—”

“Reggie! Stop.”

“I don’t want to stop! I don’t want to do this!”

“You’re going to have to freak out later. Get the hell out of there.”

“Let go of me.”

“There’s more coming.”

“They’re just IUs.”

“No,” Kelly says, his voice low. He spins Reggie to the right. “They’re not.”

“Where? I don’t see them.”

But then he does. There’s one standing next to an abandoned car not twenty feet away. He knows it’s a Player by the way it’s dressed. And there are others, watching and waiting, biding their time, studying his technique. Now they advance. Reggie steps back, and his Player’s heels catch up on the body. He nearly stumbles.

“Damn it.” He pushes Kelly away and lowers himself into a crouch. The new Player by the car is the closest. It moves smoothly, capably, avoiding potential traps. “Was it there the whole time?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t see it.”

“You’re supposed to be keeping watch,” Reggie hisses.

“I am keeping watch!” Kelly complains. “But I had to move back. You almost clocked me a couple times with your elbows. You need to stop flailing around so much. It’s just wasted energy. Make smaller movements. The gear knows what to do.”

“Make smaller movements,” Reggie parrots, derisively. “It’s just wasted energy.”

“I’m trying to help.”

“Then stay out of the way!”

Reggie slides his feet backward a tiny bit. His shoes make a soft shushing sound on the carpet. The Player he’s controlling emulates the motion, but covers far more ground inside the arcade. The sound of its feet on the surface of the cracked road fills their headphones. When Reggie senses the resistance of the dead Player’s body against his heels, he steps carefully up and back. In the garage, it appears as if he’s stepping over an invisible object the size of a small shoe.

“I’m just saying,” Kelly says, as he settles back onto the couch, “I can’t keep looking out for dangers when you’re flinging your body around like that.”

“Well, would you rather take over then? I’ll be happy to switch places with you.”

“It’ll take too long to switch out our Links and gear,” Kelly says.

“I’ll pause.”

“They already know you’re there. It’d be a sitting duck.”

“Excuses,” Reggie growls. But, inwardly, he’s glad Kelly doesn’t insist they switch. He might not like being back, but he wants Kelly back even less. He doesn’t want Kelly to be the one to—

“... quiet Ashley,” he murmurs.

“Excuse me?” Kelly asks.

“Nothing.”

Two more zombies appear behind the other. Reggie knows immediately that they’re also Players. They move too purposefully to be anything but Operator-controlled.

The CUs approach him cautiously. They start to spread out in a clearly coordinated fashion.

“Isn’t team play against the rules?” Reggie hisses.

“Since when do the rules matter anymore?” Kelly replies.

Reggie raises his hand threateningly at them, but there’s nothing in his Player’s hand. “I need a weapon. I dropped the pipe.”

“Just use your hands like everyone else does.”

“Everyone else doesn’t use weapons because they dock points if you do. That’s not our problem. Where’s that damn pipe?”

He now misses when they could just hack the game. What he’d give for one of Micah’s light sabers. A real one.

Screw him. I don’t need him or his stupid cheats.

The three newcomers assume position on both flanks and in front. Reggie takes another step back. He needs to keep them all in his field of vision. “Kelly?” he says. “I need some advice. Quick!”

“Stay alive,” Kelly replies, from somewhere to Reggie’s right. “That’s the only Player we’re going to get. If it dies, it’s game over.”

Chapter 4

I lift my head off the toilet seat and stifle a groan as yet another wave of nausea rises from the pit of my stomach. Vomit claws its way up my throat, stinging my nose and making my eyes water. My stomach’s already empty, but the cramps keep coming in hot, greasy waves. A string of spittle dangles from my chin, and I wipe it away. I know how miserable I must look, and if I were at home, I wouldn’t care. But I’m not home, I’m at school. People might see me in here. And the last thing I need right now is to give them another reason to bully me.

I cough, and the sound echoes off the hard cinderblock walls of the stall. Maybe I’ll be lucky and no one will come in.

I try not to think about what the sickness might mean. I don’t want to believe that the infection might be returning, despite my supposed immunity. I say supposed, because what proof do I really have that my mother is correct, that I’m actually truly immune? Even if I am the daughter of Eugene Halliwell, as she claims, it doesn’t mean I have the same exact immunity to the Reanimation virus.

My head spins. I know I’m dehydrated. My gaze settles on the shit-colored rust along the bottom edge of the stall’s metal partitions. It’s as good as anything else to distract me. I need to focus on something other than my misery.

My hall pass is on the floor beside me. I dropped it coming in. The floor’s wet — was wet before I arrived — and now the corner of the pass is soggy. I doubt my teacher will want it back.

Breathe.

Sweat trickles down my neck. It’s stiflingly hot in here all of a sudden. I shut my eyes and try to imagine myself someplace cooler.

The door to the hallway opens. It’s not between periods yet, so there isn’t a lot of background noise to hide me.

Just shoot me now, put me out of my misery.

I clamp my jaws together and hope another wave of nausea doesn’t hit me.

A pair of red sneakers sweeps past my stall. I recognize those Nikes. Only a handful of girls in the school can afford such expensive shoes, and I’m not particularly fond of any of them. The owner of this particular pair is—

Ashley. I remember she had a pair just like them, bought right after we came back the first time. Except hers had been green, not red. Anyway, she’s dead now.

—Siennah Davenport. Red shoes are her trademark this year. Last year it was purple. She’s the kind of girl who makes sure no one else wears the same style and color unless it’s been okayed by her first. If someone were to dare, their shoes wouldn’t stay that color for very long.

I’ve had more than my share of run-ins with the girl. She’s a bitch in every sense of the word. Unfortunately, we do have something in common: we’re both gamers. Heavy gamers, in fact. Siennah possibly even more than me. But you won’t catch her playing something as lowlife as Zpocalypto. No virtual zombies for that girl, oh no. She plays the real thing, and she lets everyone know it, too. If the stories are true, she’s a damn good Operator. In fact, her favorite pastime, it seems, is bragging about her Player’s kill stats. If there’s any credence to it, she’s making bank hand over fist.

And the rich get richer.

Ain’t that just always how it goes?

Yeah, her family’s already filthy rich. Her dad, Gavin, is Greenwich’s longtime mayor, just like his father before him. Greenwich’s seventeen-year dynasty. The Davenports can easily afford the multimillion dollar buy-in to The Game.

And the freshest Volunteers.

And the best virtual zeality lessons for their precious little princess.

Not to mention a fistful of back-alley hacks to boot.

But who gives a shit, right? Not me. I don’t even know who her Player is. I mean, I’ve watched my share of Survivalist over the years, the show that features the most thrilling cuts gleaned from The Game, but I’ve never bothered to figure out which one she’s operating. I wouldn’t be able to pick it out of a lineup if my life depended on it.

Unfortunately, my indifference has never sat very well with Siennah. Not gushing over her is bad enough. Knowing I’m also an avid gamer, and the daughter of the man who created Reanimation technology, just makes her hate me even more. She’s jealous. But she’d never deign to admit it. Instead, she mocks the fact that I’m not rich like her.

The irony of it all is that every single one of her own inner circle of girls is just as poor as me. It’s hard to find other rich kids in Greenwich; they’re as rare as old folks past their Life Service Commitment age these days. But rich people like the Davenports who live in mostly poor communities always rationalize surrounding themselves with the lowly masses, as if it’s a charitable act. In their minds, those who feed off the sloughed discards of the wealthy fill an important niche in society. They’re the dust mites consuming the dead skin cells shed by their hosts. Anyone who refuses the privilege, like me, is just a useless parasite.

I draw my feet in tighter against my body and check that the stall I’m in is locked. I don’t remember thumbing the latch when I ran in earlier. Hell, I’d barely even made it to the toilet before the subsidized bilge they serve in the lunchroom came gushing up out of my throat. By some trick of fluid dynamics and viscosity, most of it had managed to maintain structural coherence and entered the bowl in a single stream rather than spraying everywhere like an uncontrolled fire hose. The force of the splash, however, had propelled several chunks onto the walls, which are now dripping onto the floor.

That initial tidal wave of nausea had passed just as quickly as it had hit, but it’s left me utterly drained. I rest my head on the toilet seat. So what if it smells? I just want to close my eyes and sleep until the spasms pass.

The stomach issues have been ongoing for a while, but they really started getting bad around the time Kelly and I filed the marriage paperwork last week. The cramps struck with a vengeance yesterday. Thankfully, I was able to make it through the day without getting sick. But they’re much worse now. Naturally, Eric noticed my suffering last night and asked if I was okay. It was a little surprising, given how distracted he’s been lately, but he’s always been really sensitive to whenever I don’t feel right. I probably shouldn’t have screamed at him to mind his own business, but it felt really intrusive, especially when he suggested it might be psychological in nature and that I should consider going to see a counselor. “It’s your body trying to expel all the bad stuff in your brain.”

“It’s my body trying to expel your crappy cooking,” I’d thrown back at him, petulantly.

Anyway, it wasn’t like counseling ever helped anybody. It didn’t help him. In fact, it took Gameland to trigger Eric’s long-suppressed memories of Dad’s murder to come to the surface again.

Nevertheless, it is tempting to think I’m going crazy. It’s definitely preferable than the alternative. I don’t want to believe the infection is getting worse, and my body can’t fight it off like it’s supposed to.

The bathroom door clicks shut behind Siennah. I exhale with relief when I see that I did lock the bathroom stall, so she won’t accidentally come in here. I just can’t deal with her right now.

She goes to the sink directly in front of my stall and turns on the faucet. Seconds later, two more pairs of shoes stroll past. They’re both the regular cheap brand of sneakers, so I don’t immediately know who they belong to, not until one of them speaks.

“Ugh, that lecture is utterly lame. It’s worse than torture.”

Siennah shuts off the water and snorts. There’s a moment of silence. Then she says, “Take some. Go ahead, take two. I’ve got tons more. My connection gives me extras because he thinks I’m cute and actually thinks he’s got a shot with me.”

“I don’t know, See...”

“Trust me, they’re better when you double up.”

“Are you sure? Because I don’t want to totally zom out before going home. I still have pre-calc next period, and he makes us do problems in class. Just give me enough to get me through the rest of this period so I don’t tear my hair out by the roots.”

All three girls giggle, then relocate to the farthest sink from the hallway door. There’s a rattling noise, followed by soft crinkling. Someone turns the faucet back on, and I hear the telltale slurping of someone drinking from cupped hands.

Poppers, I guess.

“I can’t go back yet,” Siennah says. “I told Doctor Dorkmond I was having my period and that it was really heavy this time. You should’ve seen how red his face got. He probably hopes I’ll be gone for the rest of the class.”

“Oh my god, Siennah, that’s utterly hilarious. You’re so naughty.”

I roll my eyes.

“Are you going to have another party this weekend?”

“Maybe,” Siennah replies.

“You said there’d be more guys at the last one. I was stuck with that dork Kenny Ratcliff all night.”

“Oh, stop complaining, Mon. You know you’ll go anyway.”

Monica Anderson. The whinier of the Anderson twins. The other girl is Samantha, her sister.

Alone, the Andersons are harmless; together, they’re barely tolerable. But when they’re paired up with Siennah, they can be downright dangerous.

“I hope you don’t mind my saying so, See-see, but it gets kind of boring just sitting around and watching you play. Can’t we just socialize next time?

“Monica!” Samantha gasps. “Don’t worry, Sienna. I utterly love watching you play. You’re so good at killing zoms.”

“Stop being such a kiss ass, Sam. And stop saying ‘utterly.’ It’s a stupid word. Besides, everyone knows you’ve got a mad crush on her Player.” Monica laughs. “You probably have fantasies about doing nasty things with it.”

“Eew! That’s utterly— That’s completely disgusting!”

“I think that’s Sam’s secret fantasy,” Siennah teases. “She totally thinks Franco’s hot.”

“Franco? You named it?”

“Why not. Hey, Sam, how about I let you play with Franco once I get my new one?”

“You’d let me?”

“Hell no! Are you crazy? They’re like a million dollars each. No way I’m letting anyone touch it.”

“Sam’s got a stiffy for the stiff!”

They giggle again.

“Have you ever, you know, done it?”

“What?”

“Sex.”

“Like in real life?”

“No, I mean...”

There’s an awkward silence, then Siennah says, thoughtfully, “What if you did do it, but let’s say the other Player is a girl. Or its Operator is. Would that make you homosexual?”

My stomach clenches with revulsion. How can people actually talk about the undead like this? How can they even think about sex?

“Eew! That’s even grosser!”

“Why?”

“Because, it’s... I don’t know!”

“People do it all the time, you know, use their Players to do kinky stuff.”

“How do you know that?”

“It’s common knowledge.”

“Have you ever?”

“What do you think?”

“Why are you asking me? How the hell should I know!”

“How long have you had this one?” Sam asks, clearly eager to change the subject.

“Franco? Eleven weeks now,” Siennah says. “Sixty-two confirmed kills, so I’ve more than made back what Daddy paid for it. And that’s not even counting IU kills.”

“IUs shouldn’t count anyway,” Monica argues. “They don’t even do anything. They just stand there like dummies. Some of them just stare up at the sky and don’t even bother to—”

“Shut up, Monica. I think Siennah might just be the best Operator ever!”

“Hardly,” Siennah replies with false modesty.

What she really means, I think to myself, is “Don’t stop kissing my ass.”

“Yeah, everyone knows who the best gamers are in Greenwich.”

“We’re talking about The Game, not that stupid fake piece of VR.”

“Sure, but everyone says Zpoc is a lot harder than live action VR once you get past Level Thirteen. The programmers— What?”

Silence. I can’t see any of their faces, but I can imagine the fury on Siennah’s right now. What Monica is suggesting is heretical to a girl like her.

“What I meant was—” Monica hastily adds, but the damage is already done. Sienna’s pissed. The hand dryer comes on, drowning out the next couple of exchanges.

By the time the blower shuts off, the discussion has shifted again. They’re now back on the subject of Monica’s boy troubles.

“I’ve seen you suck face with much worse than Kenny,” Siennah ruthlessly teases.

“I’ve seen her suck worse than face,” her sister joins in.

Monica ignores Sam and grudgingly asks Siennah, “Like who?”

“What about what’s-his-face—”

A baggie of little pink pills drops to the floor next to Siennah’s feet and she bends over to pick it up. Her long blond ponytail pendulums down, brushing the tops of her shoes.

Zoners, I realize. Not poppers. Well, that’s no surprise. Nothing but the latest designer drug for our little princess.

Zoners are the hottest new street drug, replacing the older Poppers. I first saw them last spring when Micah brought a couple to one of our gaming sessions. At a hundred bucks a pop, he never really explained how he could afford them. “They really speed up my reaction time,” he’d said. Reggie was the only other one of us willing to try them. Within minutes, he was acting weird. And afterward, he said they made him feel spacey. “Never again,” he’d declared. “I’ll stick to my Red Bull.”

As quietly as I can, I lift myself up off the floor. My muscles shake with weakness, but I manage to get myself perched on top of the toilet. My belly cramps in protest. I try to ignore it.

“I don’t feel anything yet, Siennah,” Monica complains.

“It’s only been a minute, stupid,” Sam retorts. “You have to give it at least five.”

Unfortunately, my stomach decides right then and there that it’s a good time to announce itself. The gurgle is so loud, it actually reverberates. The conversation outside the stall immediately stops.

There’s a moment of silence, then a flurry of whispers.

“Who’s there?” Siennah calls.

I don’t answer.

“I can see you. I know you’re in there.” The stall door rattles. “It’s cool. Come on out. There’s Zoners for everyone. I don’t mind sharing.”

Another rash of giggles.

An eye appears in the gap between the door and the wall.

“Go away,” I say.

The girls titter with laughter. I hear my name being whispered.

“Whatever you think you heard, Zombie Bitch, just forget you did,” Siennah says. Her voice is a low and threatening growl.

“Hey, ZB,” Sam shouts, “eat any brains lately?”

“Kill any fake zombies?”

More laughter.

“Aren’t you supposed to, like, be in class?” Sam says. Or maybe it’s Monica.

“Leave me alone.”

“Yeah, don’t bother her. She’s busy pooping.”

“Eeewww! Zombies poop? I didn’t know that.”

“Only if they’ve eaten brains recently.”

A hand reaches over the top of the door. Before I can react, Siennah’s fingers find my backpack. She lifts it up and out of the stall. I lunge, but miss. “Give that back!”

“Give that back,” the girls chorus.

I hear my tablet fall out. Twice in two days; the thing is definitely not going to survive the school year with that kind of abuse. They’re tough, but they’re not indestructible, and I worry the girls might stomp on it. I don’t have the money for a replacement.

“Ooh, what’s this?” Siennah croons. Her hand reappears above the door waving my inhaler. “ZB got asthma or something?” She gives it a squeeze and a fine mist drifts down into the stall.

I can feel the anger rising up inside of me. It burns my throat like hot lava. I can feel it filling my head. The nausea’s suddenly gone. So is the fatigue.

“Give me that back,” I growl.

The girls’ laughter crescendos.

I don’t remember unlocking the door and stepping out. One second I’m inside the stall, my body shaking with rage, the next I’m facing the girls. I catch a fleeting glimpse of myself in the mirror over the sink and only later realize how utterly terrifying I look.

Stop saying utterly!

My shirt’s untucked and my sleeve is wet. My arms glisten with spittle. My hair is a tangled mess. A dark half circle cradles each of my eyes. But in that moment, I don’t see any of this. In that moment, all I see are three necks in need of snapping.

I step forward. I can feel my fists clenching. The muscles in my back go taut with fury.

I don’t know if they say anything after that. I return to my senses only after I find myself lying face down on the floor, my cheek pressed viciously into the cold, hard tile. The toe of one red sneaker sits an inch from my nose. I know I’m fast, but somehow they’re faster. And stronger.

Zoners. That’s what they do to you, suppress your inhibitions, make you ignore your limitations.

The girls are laughing again, their cackles a harsh peal in my ears. The red shoe shifts out of my line of sight, only to be replaced by Siennah’s face. “God, you stink like shit, zombitch. Like a fucking rotting corpse.”

Laughter claps against the walls and hammers my ears.

Whichever one of the Anderson twins is kneeling on me, they lean even harder into my back and give their knee a vicious twist. I want to cry out, but I have no breath. Instead, a whimper of pain escapes my lips.

Siennah reaches over and sprays my inhaler into my face. She leans closer and takes a whiff. “Smells like piss,” she says. “Like zombie piss.” She drops it onto the floor and brings her heel down hard on it. Failing to destroy it, she tosses it into the toilet of the stall I was just in.

“This is my bathroom during seventh period,” she hisses, after returning to me. “Everyone knows that. Everyone. So stay out of it from now on. And that means any period. I don’t want you contaminating everything and getting us all infected with your zombie germs.”

I think about spitting in her face, but I stop myself. I might still be infectious, and I can’t do that to her, not even now. As much as I hate the girl, as much as I wish her dead right at this moment, I’d never be able to live with myself if I infected her. Spitting in her face could be like putting a gun to her head and pulling the trigger.

So I swallow my pride instead. Unsurprisingly, it tastes like blood.

“I don’t know what you’re playing at,” Siennah says, her nose mere inches away from my face. She speaks so low that I doubt Monica or Samantha can hear her from where they’re standing. “And I don’t care what anyone says, you will never be better than me, Daniels. Remember that. Poor bitches like you and Evans need to stay out of Gameland.”

My heart nearly stops.

How the hell does she know about that?

“I’m the queen of the zombie slayers,” she hisses. “Not you.”

And with that, she straightens up, utters one last epithet, and exits the bathroom. After scattering the rest of my stuff with a couple swift kicks, the Anderson twins follow her out.

I push myself off the floor. My arms feel like rubber. My head feels like an overinflated balloon. The girls’ laughter still echoes through my head. I want desperately to scream, to lash out and hurt someone. But what would it solve?

I dab at the blood on my forehead with a piece of toilet paper. The cut has already started to clot, and a hard, painful lump is forming where Sienna slammed me onto the floor. I spit into the sink and I’m not surprised to see that it’s tinged pink.

Right into her eyes, I think, staring into the mirror at my face. I should have spit a big fat one right into her eyes and taught the bitch a lesson.

And then what? Wait for Siennah to turn? For her to trigger another outbreak? Is that what I want? Haven’t I seen enough of the dead up close and personal?

A lifetime’s worth.

More even.

I turn the faucet on and cup my hands under the stream. The cold water feels good on my face, but it doesn’t stanch the burn inside of me.

My stomach hurts again, but it’s not the same kind of hurt as before. I almost wish it was nausea, instead of this hot, greasy burn of vengeance.

When I’ve finally gotten control of myself again, I retrieve my inhaler from the toilet, rinse it off under hot water, then give it a test spray. It still works. I gather my belongings back into my bag and head for the door.

The hallway’s empty. Unlike yesterday, nobody stops me this time when I make my way to the front doors. I push them open and leave, not once bothering to look back.

Chapter 5

From the very first moment Kelly dumped the new gaming equipment onto the floor of his parents’ garage Reggie knew exactly what he was expected to do with it. “Get that shit out of my sight,” he’d ordered him. Kelly didn’t.

That had been a week ago, and despite his absolute certainty he would never ever go back to Gameland — not even virtually — he did.

And now, here he is, chomping at the bit to get back in there. How was it even possible he could actually want to play?

What the hell is wrong with me? he wonders.

The ordeal they’d endured while there had given him terrible nightmares. In his waking hours, he obsessed over every little detail, wondering if he could’ve done anything differently. The blood and the stench, the sounds and sights of the place, haunted his every hour, waking or otherwise. It was different now, though. He felt more resigned to the fact that there was nothing he could’ve done differently. Going back — even like this — was one way of exerting control.

And if truth be told, he hoped it would help put a stop to these visions he kept having of Ashley wandering the island as one of the undead.

It took a few days for him to warm to the idea that going back might actually be therapeutic. It helped that Kelly believed it would. “We’ll never truly escape the place until we finish what needs to be done,” he’d said.

Reggie had asked him if he had used Micah’s hack to gain access to a Player, but Kelly had insisted he’d paid for the invite into The Game himself.

“And how the hell did you afford that?”

No answer, but Reggie could make an educated guess. He knew that Arc had hired him to keep an eye on Micah. That alone wouldn’t have covered it. But when it turned out that Micah was a spy for the Southern States Coalition, Arc probably gave him a big fat bonus and told him to keep his mouth shut. The gear, too. Of course, the Player wasn’t registered, and consequently couldn’t earn killing points or prizes. Keep the poor poor. No one ever accused Arc of doing charity work.

He knows that Jessie considers Arc’s payoff blood money. She can’t be too vocally critical about it, though, because it paid for Kyle’s surgery. That girl really loved that kid. And Kyle simply adored her back.

Well, he did, before she and Kelly got hitched, anyway. Reggie sensed that she was no longer so welcome in the Corben house.

He resented the fact that Kelly made him promise not to tell Jessie about the gear and the Player. Understandable. Jessie would have a fit if she knew they were going back in. “She’s in a delicate place right now,” Kelly told him. “I don’t think she’d handle it very well.”

Yeah, she wasn’t the only one. His parents’ heads would literally explode if they knew. They wouldn’t care about the reason for it. Or that it seemed to be helping him deal with the PTSD. Or the survivor’s remorse.

He hadn’t told them about the nightmares. Hadn’t told anyone, in fact. He kept it all a secret. He felt ashamed, like it meant he was weak, waking up at night drenched with sweat, his sheets tangled up in knots. He’d lie there in the darkness, his heart racing, waiting and listening for some unknown signal to come to him — a voice, maybe, or a smell — trusting that it would come if he just waited long enough. After a while he’d finally realize that he could wait forever and it would never arrive. He was waiting for something impossible.

With heavy heart, he’d roll over onto his side, as if simply changing positions could somehow make the transition back into normal sleep easier. He’d lie there for a moment, imagining the faint shape of Ashley’s beautiful body in the bed next to him, the skin of her bare shoulder glistening in the soft moonlight, her red hair glowing with a fire all its own. In such moments, she felt so real, even though he could see right through her. Hell, he knew she wasn’t there. Maybe she was a ghost. Maybe he was already asleep. He’d reach over, praying that his fingers would find something tangible. He longed to feel the silky smoothness of her skin. If he could just make contact, even for the tiniest fraction of a moment, then it would mean that none of what he remembered was real. Only she was real. The two of them, together again, they were real.

But he’d stop, suddenly terrified at the possibility that he’d make physical contact. She’d wake at the touch. And she’d roll over to face him. And she’d be—

If he just kept still, he could hold onto the illusion that nothing had changed.

But it was as if his hand a mind of its own. He’d see it reach out, floating like a disembodied spirit, and he’d scream inside of his head to stop, just stop. STOP! But no. He was paralyzed, all but his arm. And there would be that moment of actual contact, a spark, and the sensation of knowing the truth. Her eyes would pop open and she’d look over at him and smile, her teeth so white in the dim light. If that was all, then it would be okay. But her eyes would be empty black holes, and her mouth would yawn open. And her jaws would be lined with razor sharp teeth, glistening crimson and flecked with gore. Her blackened tongue would flick out like a snake sampling the air. There’d be no expression or emotion on her face, just the vacuous stare of the hungry dead.

And then he’d really wake up, not just dream wake this time. And he’d be gasping and sobbing, frozen in place, too afraid to turn his head to the side, because he knew with absolute certainty that she’d be there for real this time. And all of his wanting her to be, and all of his self-loathing for hoping she wasn’t, would crush his soul. He could always sense the weight of her beside him in his bed. And there would be a smell in the air, just a hint, of her shampoo. And her skin. And rot.

He’d lie there for hours like that, barely breathing, not moving a muscle, not even daring to blink. Until finally...

Finally, he’d drift off to sleep again. Sometimes he’d be lucky, and morning would arrive before the nightmares returned. Most nights, however, it wouldn’t.

He suspected that Jessie was having a much worse time of it. Her moods had been all over the map the past few days. There were circles under her eyes, and a hollowness within them. At any given moment, for no obvious reason, she’d swing from one emotional extreme to the other. How she might react to something a person said was impossible to predict with any certainty. She was skipping school, not sleeping very well at night, if at all, and crashing during the day. Her eating habits were alarming. She looked haunted. Her face and body seemed to wither before his very eyes.

He’d heard a couple students at school say that she was puking in the bathrooms. If she kept this up, she was going to collapse from malnutrition and exhaustion before long.

But none of that was as concerning as her obsession with Survivalist.

She’d started spending an unhealthy amount of time planted in front of the television, her eyes glued to the screen, watching the very monsters they’d just escaped from, studying them as they battled one another. He knew what she was doing— looking for certain people among the undead. He knew because he and Kelly were doing it, too. Kelly had made him promise not to tell her about the gear, but he wondered if maybe he should. What did she hope to accomplish by watching? It wouldn’t bring her closure. Maybe what she needed was exactly what Kelly had offered him: a way to take control again.

“No! Absolutely not!” Kelly had told him. “You can’t.”

“Not even if it might help?”

“It’ll kill her.”

There was no way to counter that.

So it comes as a complete shock when he arrives home after school and finds the door to his garage unlocked and Jessie inside, geared up and playing. He doesn’t know what to say. He just stands there staring, doesn’t even bring up the fact that she left the door unlocked. He just secures it behind him like his father insists they do.

“How long are you going to just stand there?” she snaps. Her voice is muffled behind the head gear. “Oh, that’s right, you like to watch. Perv.”

The old joke had never failed to elicit a grin from him in the past, but today it falls flat. “What are you doing?” he asks.

“When were you going to tell me about this?” she demands.

Now he knows he’s in trouble. What does he say? Does he break his promise to Kelly?

He watches her grapple with the other Player for a moment before he steps over to the couch, deciding to play along with the joke she opened with. They always communicated better by innuendo anyway. “If this is some kind of zombie foreplay,” he says, “you’re doing it wrong. Just finish it off already. Oh, that’s right, you’re into torture. Kelly told me.”

Jessie grunts as she grabs for the Player’s head. She misses the first time, but eventually manages to trap it. She gives it a vicious twist, and the Player’s body goes limp.

“You’re slow.”

“You know my implant doesn’t work,” she reminds him. “Have to rely solely on the biohaptics.”

He doesn’t tell her it wouldn’t matter anyway. The equipment is old and crappy and slow.

“Jessie, I—”

“So where did you get it? Or the money for the invite and Player. Or are you using  Micah’s hack? Is this a stolen Player?”

“I can’t—”

“Sonofabitch!” she yelps and ducks as the Player she just killed lurches back to its feet and takes a swing at her. Its Operator had apparently faked dying to throw her off guard. Jessie shoves the Player up against a brick wall and knees it in the crotch. “You like that, bitch?”

“I think that one’s a guy, Jess.”

“Not today it isn’t. Today it’s—” She rams both arms forward. Inside the holoprojection, Reggie sees the back of the other Player’s head slam against the side of the building.

He frowns. He doesn’t like seeing Jessie like this, like she’s actually enjoying the battle. It bothers him even more than her depression.

“Today,” Jessie grunts, “it’s stupid Siennah Davenport.”

Siennah? He wants to ask what she did to draw Jessie’s ire, but he knows better. It’s no secret the two of them don’t get along very well. Sienna and Jessie are probably the two most feared girls in the school— in their respective circles. Fortunately for everyone else, they don’t like each other. If they were ever to team up, they’d be a terrifying force to be reckoned with.

Jessie twists her hands, and the other Player’s head swivels stiffly in her grip. Somehow, the thing continues to fight. Reggie has no doubt that if it had been the real Siennah, her neck would’ve snapped by now. The dead are far harder to kill.

Jessie shoulders the Player back up against the wall and knifes a knee upward a second time. Reggie’s hands instinctively reach for his own crotch. Under normal circumstances, it’d be laughable. But the dead don’t care. You could take a mallet to a zom’s nuts all day long and it would still come after you. Targeting the nether regions is just wasted energy.

But there’s nothing laughable about what he’s watching.

“And this one’s for Monica Anderson.” Another kick.

She wrenches the head around again. There’s a tearing sound, then a high-pitched whine, followed by a soft pop. Gore and rotting flesh splatter the bricks, and the Player’s head abruptly separates from its torso. The body goes completely slack — dead beyond a shadow of a doubt this time — and slumps to the base of the wall. Jessie tosses the head aside, hissing in dissatisfaction. It lands with a sickening thump.

She doesn’t say anything for a moment. By the slight tilt of her head, he knows she’s watching the credits for the kill scroll by in her goggles. He’s done the same thing. In a single hour of his first day back, he’d racked up enough credits to match his parents’ yearly income combined, and it made him sick to his stomach when Kelly told him they’d never be paid out.

After a moment, Jessie removes the head gear and wipes the sweat off her face. “Too bad the ugly bitch died so quickly. I wasn’t done, yet.”

“You call that quick?”

“Quicker than I wanted it to be. Damn autodestruct must’ve triggered when I snapped its damn neck.”

Reggie gulps. “Kicking it in the ghoulies was a nice touch. Not sure it made any difference, but I give you style points.”

“Figures you’d appreciate that,” she says.

He notices a large, bruised lump over her right eye and a cut on her cheek. “What the hell happened to you?” He raises a hand toward her face, but she flinches away.

“It’s nothing.”

“But it’s—”

“I said drop it, Reg.”

He frowns at her. “Siennah? She did that to you? Why? How?”

“I don’t want to talk about it!”

He retreats, eying her warily. He doesn’t want to push her into one of her rampages. They come more frequently these days, and they scare him. As much as he likes Jessie, likes her dry sense of humor and her no-nonsense attitude, he’s found himself dreading her company of late. He’s also aware of the destruction she’s capable of doing when she loses control of herself. He’d been so concerned about her moods swings that he even spoke to her brother about it after their City Hall wedding.

Talk about a rollercoaster day that had been. Jessie had been slipping deeper into depression the whole week leading up to it. But when they gathered beforehand, she’d acted as if all the weight of the world had been lifted off her shoulders. It was the old Jessie— no, even better. It was like having both Jessie and Ashley back. But her mood had soured, and by the time they filed the signed paperwork, she’d dropped back into her pit of despair.

The worst it had been until then was right after Micah’s trial. He had once been their close friend, a confidante, the last person they would have imagined betraying them, especially to the Southern States Coalition, which he’d always claimed made him and his parents flee Texas. The nature of his betrayal had been hard enough, but forcing them to watch Micah being infected and reanimated was like rubbing salt into an already painful wound.

Eric had responded by telling him they all needed to be patient, that it was going to take time for them to heal. To mourn the deaths of their friends. And to accept Micah’s betrayal and fate. Reggie didn’t think there would ever be enough time to come to terms with all that. He wasn’t sure it was even possible. And he worried that one or more of them might do something rash sooner or later because of it.

He sort of resented Kelly for refusing to watch Micah’s conscription. He didn’t know if it meant he was strong or weak. But he seemed to be handling everything better than him and Jessie. Maybe if they had done the same, things would be a lot better for them.

That’s what he thought, that is, until Kelly showed up with the gear. Only then did he understand how Kelly was managing to make it through the day.

“Looks like old military surplus,” Jessie says, picking at a label Reggie hadn’t bothered to look for on the bottom of the game’s bulky control console. “Eppy’s,” she confirms. “It all seems to come back around, doesn’t it?”

Reggie stares for a moment. His mind is a whirlwind of white noise and confusion. If it had been a gift from Arc, as Kelly had alluded, then what was the significance of the connection to Jake’s uncle? Or had Kelly actually stolen it out of the shuttered store and then lied about it? Maybe he really had used Micah’s hack to find a Player. Or maybe is had come with one already. If this really was military surplus, maybe the Player was an Omega. He’d heard they were supposed to be decommissioned after completing their three years of service, but only a fool would believe that.

“How long have you been here?” he asks Jessie.

“Skipped out before final period.”

“So, you missed the screenings.”

“What screenings? Oh.” She deflates. “Crap. I totally forgot about that.”

The announcement had been made in homeroom just that morning, Principal Patterson droning on and on about it over the public address system: As part of the new Inoculation Initiative passed by Congress earlier this week, Citizen Registration is dispatching official screeners to classrooms. They will be accompanied by NCD agents who will assist in the verification of your implant status. Any student found not in compliance will be afforded an opportunity to become compliant. All screenings and implantation procedures will be performed at Arc’s expense. The new federal standards require that one hundred percent of the populace past the age of ten months be inoculated with a functional neuroleptic device. There is no reason to be concerned. It is only to ensure that every individual has full and unfettered access to the Stream and to the latest services that are provided through it at no extra charge to you.

Translation: Everyone capable of walking must be implanted so that in the event of an outbreak, if you become infected, Arc will be able to control you.

“They should just call it what it is,” Jessie spits. “Mind control.”

Reggie doesn’t respond.

“What? You don’t think so?” she asks.

He shrugs. “You can’t avoid it, Jessie.”

“I wasn’t avoiding it. I forgot! I’ve been a little distracted lately, if you haven’t noticed!”

“We all have!”

Jessie sighs and apologizes.

“There were a couple Necrotic Crimes officers there,” he offers.

“Eric?”

“No. A couple of wide-eyed fl—” He’s about to say ‘flunkies,’ but he catches himself. Her brother is NCD, though most definitely not a flunky. “Couple of noobs. They tried to look all serious and scary, but you could tell they were straight out of diapers.”

He crosses his arms and makes a serious face, exaggerating the officers’ demeanor. It accomplishes what he’d hoped by bringing a wan smile to Jessie’s lips. “Someone asked them if they’d ever actually battled a real live zombie, and, man, you should’ve seen them choke. You could tell they’d probably shit themselves if they ever did. ‘I want my mommy.’ ”

This last part doesn’t seem to amuse her.

Reggie coughs awkwardly. “Sorry.”

“And? What did they really say?”

“They said they don’t refer to them as zombies. The official term is Infected Undead, or IU. You know, just making sure to use Arc’s bullshit trademarks. Fucking marketing.”

“Think they’ll come looking for me?”

“I wouldn’t worry about it too much. They couldn’t get to everyone and said that anyone who missed out would just have to go up to Citizen Registration.”

“Up in Hartford? Oh, that’s even better.” Jessie sneers.

Reggie chuckles. “It’s not a big deal. You’ll be able to get your implant replaced.”

“I don’t want it replaced! Besides, you’re the one who needs to get his devices replaced.”

“So you’d rather run around biting people?”

“I’m not a zombie, jerk.”

“Infected Undead,” he reminds her. “And we both know it’s not a matter of if, but when.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You and Kelly. Father Heall’s blood isn’t going to last forever in your veins.”

He sees something come over her face then. It’s an odd reaction, like maybe she just remembered something she’s not supposed to tell him. He’s been getting the same vibe from Kelly, who’s acting like he and Jessie have got all the time in the world to figure out how they’re going to cure themselves of the infection, and not just a few months.

“Jessie?”

“If and when it happens,” she tells him, flatly, “I think there’ll be more than just me and Kelly to worry about.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I’m talking about. First the outbreak drills during homeroom, then this new initiative. Doesn’t it strike you as... odd? Like someone’s preparing for the worst?”

He shrugs. “Media says—”

“Don’t tell me you buy what they’re saying.”

“Of course not. Anyway, the drills are mandated by federal law.”

“Give me a break. When’s the last time you remember us having a drill?”

“A few years ago, I guess.”

“And you don’t think that’s strange that the school has had three already since the term began?”

“Three? Really?”

She nods.

“Well, I mean, Manhattan’s still in lockdown. Everyone’s just a bit touchy.”

“Everyone’s in denial, Reg.”

“And you’re spending too much time on the black streams. Arc says there’s nothing wrong.”

“And you buy that?”

He hesitates before shaking his head. “I don’t know what to believe anymore, sister. I mean, we know about Manhattan because we caused it. But Boston?”

Jessie chokes. “What’s going on in Boston?”

“You haven’t heard? Some people are saying it’s another outbreak.”

She shakes her head. “I actually haven’t been on the black streams. But clearly you have.”

“Just browsing. Anyway, when I went back later, I couldn’t find it.”

“Gee, that’s not suspicious. What else did you find?”

“Nothing really, a bunch of small local network outages. A vague mention about something happening in St Louis. Plus reports of civilian Omegas dropping off the streams. Nothing definitive.”

Jessie stares. “Here?”

“Here. Everywhere, actually.”

She shakes her head again. “No. Eric would’ve told me.”

“Would he though?”

She swallows. “Shit. I guess it’s worse than I thought.”

Chapter 6

The Greenwich Waste Treatment facility has been on-line fewer than ten years, so it boasts the most advanced monitoring technology and the leanest salaried staff. And with a zero casualty rate, it could also claim a perfect operating record.

Until today.

Leased from ZedPower Staffing Services, a contracting arm of Arc Property Management, were a half-dozen Controlled Undead, whose full-time role at GWT included facilitating the remote inspection and manual degunking of the sewage intake ports. In a remote environmentally-controlled room in the center of town, nearly six miles away from the plant, are the controls for three Operators. Their jobs are to make sure flow of material through the system occurs at maximal efficiency. They achieve this by maneuvering their CUs through the toxic environment of the aeration pools wherever and whenever needed. This is accomplished using cybernetically-linked controllers not very much different from the one now sitting in Reggie’s garage.

At shortly past three that morning, an alarm had been triggered. All six CUs simultaneously disappeared off the plant’s tracking systems. Thankfully, only three were actively deployed, as usual. After attempting to locate the missing units using the company’s remote surveillance system, the three Operators finally realized that the video playback they’d been studying for two hours was stuck in an endless loop, most likely as a consequence of the same software glitch that had taken the CU controls offline in the first place. ZedPower was immediately notified. However, in a breach of safety protocols, neither they nor GWT relayed the alert to the Necrotic Crimes Division of the local police department. When they did notify NCD, they claimed it was an innocent oversight.

One Operator was selected to perform an eyes-on inspection. The security logs showed that he physically accessed the remote site on Dunhill Road at precisely 5:29 AM. When Arc finally managed to get a software patch installed eighty-six minutes later, their implant activation alert system lit up immediately. The unfortunate Operator had almost certainly been dead for at least an hour, because he’d already reanimated.

Sergeant Eric Daniels, head of the eight-member Necrotic Crimes Division of the Greenwich P.D., stands on the metal walkway overlooking one of the six aeration pools. The body of the former Operator lies inert between his feet, thick, congealed blood still leaking from a single shallow bite on the victim’s throat. A small chunk of muscle is missing, perhaps no larger than a wedge of apple. But the bite was well-placed. The virus would’ve gone straight to the man’s brain, which explained the speed of his turning.

Eric’s not a coroner, so his opinion on cause of death is essentially worthless. Nevertheless, it is his educated guess that the bite wasn’t what killed the man. Instead, he believes (correctly, as the actual coroner will later report) that death had been caused by blunt force trauma. The presence of a deep gash in the victim’s skull, and the presence of blood, hair, and flesh within the crannies of the metal stair just inside the large aeration enclosure suggest he’d died after it and his head suddenly and violently collided with each other. What Eric doesn’t know is whether the Operator had fallen backward during the attack by one of the missing CUs, or been intentionally pushed down. He can’t rule out a saboteur, but he doubts the existence of one.

In any case, it appears the bite occurred peri-mortem.

Eric had followed standard procedure in stunning and restraining the deceased Operator shortly after gaining entry into the enclosure, so the dead man posed no risk to himself, his team, or the facility’s staff. The immobilization won’t last, perhaps another fifteen or twenty minutes, so he needs to work quickly. He determines that Arc’s network continuity is currently at one hundred percent and the new CU’s implant has been fully activated. It should technically be under complete neuroleptic control. But there’s no guarantee lately the network status will remain that way. Besides, a crime has been committed and it’s standard operating procedure to fully incapacitate all Reanimates known or suspected to be involved while the investigation is ongoing. It’s not like they can be interviewed anyway. Not in the conventional way, that is. Once he gets it back to the station, however, he’ll be able to query its implant.

The standard procedure also mandates the application of a face shield to prevent inadvertent biting, as well as wrist and ankle restraints for immobilization. He’d assigned the task to one of his new deputies, who’d managed to apply them without too much fuss.

Eric glances down and shakes his head. It’s actually a stroke of misfortune that the wound at the back of the man’s head hadn’t been a few inches lower. A blow of that force, focused in such a vulnerable location, would almost certainly have severed the spinal cord and rendered the dead man unfit for conscription. As it stands, with its skull crushed the way it is, this new Conscript will most likely end up pulling border patrol somewhere down south. Or perhaps explosives detail at one of the shipyards.

Eric’s hand rests casually on the butt of the EM pistol on his hip. He doesn’t expect to need it. Rather, it’s because it helps relieve some of the discomfort from the broken ribs he’d suffered a couple weeks before. But just to be safe, he’s also chained the CU to the railing, although this isn’t required by procedure. He’s had plenty of experience working with Omegas in close circumstances during his time in the Marines to know it’s always better to err on the side of caution.

With his other hand, he cups his Link communication device close to his mouth. He buries his nose as best as he can into his shoulder to block the stink from the sewage vats. Neither the stench of the place, nor the roar of the pumps, is bad enough to send him outside, but he’d rather not take huge mouthfuls of it while talking to his supervisor at HQ.

“The shift foreman has confirmed that the controller stream is fully back on-line,” he relays to her, “and all but two of the organics have been accounted for and are fully contained.” He tries not to shout; he’s sure the captain can hear him perfectly fine, but the roar in his ears from the pumps and fans is loud enough that he can barely hear himself.

“Please don’t tell me you think they’ve escaped,” Captain Lynn Harrick says. Her look of mild worry turns to alarm.

Eric shakes his head. “I checked the facility access logs. They’re are on a separate stream, one that was not affected by the outage. According to them, there was only a single entry-exit event prior to our own arrival, and that was the dead man’s.”

He doesn’t tell her that a saboteur could probably doctor the logs to make it look like that. There are already enough conspiracy theories floating around; he doesn’t need to be adding to them until, and unless, he has more definitive proof. For the moment, it looks like the man’s death was simply a matter of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

“Is it possible a CU escaped when your vic entered?”

“Negative. There are three auto-locking barriers here, like airlocks. The victim made it through all three in sequence and was found here in the aeration chamber. If one of the missing units managed to get past him, he’s supposed to immediately alert us of the breach. He didn’t.”

“Because he was dead. Besides, we already know GWT employees don’t follow protocol.”

He sighs. “True.”

The lines on Captain Harrick’s face deepen even more.

Eric’s well aware of what worries her. Confirmation, or even a strong suspicion, that an uncontrolled Reanimate has been inadvertently released into the general population requires them to activate the mandatory shelter-in-place warning system. It can be a costly decision, one that can be a royal pain in the ass to clear. Lower Manhattan called their own S.I.P. situation nearly a month ago, and it’s only now starting to clear it. Moreover, if it proves to be unnecessary, they could be looking at losing their jobs. Or worse.

Eric knows she’s waiting for him to declare the situation fully contained. He wishes he could oblige her, but he can’t. Not yet.

“Of the six units in the facility’s inventory, I’m still waiting on visual confirmation of those last two. We’ve traced signal from one implant, but not the other. The foreman believes the other implant device may have been destroyed.”

“Why would he think that?”

“He says there’s a blockage at one of the outflow valves, so it’s likely the last unit fell into the pool and got sucked into a pipe. The tracked signal localizes to the same location, suggesting both units went in. Arc just sent authorization to send a third unit down into the pools to get a visual.”

Captain Harrick’s face tightens. “Can’t they just drain the tanks? Wouldn’t that be quicker?”

“Draining’s not the problem, it’s diverting the inflow material. The Second Street plant is down for repairs, so this site has taken up the slack. Apparently it could take up to eight hours to bring enough spare capacity online to reroute all the waste flow. A visual inspection is quicker.”

The edginess leaks away from the captain’s eyes, no doubt a result of Eric’s calm assurances. She’s still new to the job. Eric pities her. She looks exhausted. The recent spate of undead-related issues that have cropped up in the past four weeks has taken their toll on her— on them all, in fact, but her most of all. “It’s been ten hours since they first went off-line,” she reminds him. “If we don’t clear this up soon...”

Eric shrugs. He knows she’s looking for him to throw her a life preserver. Ten hours is an awfully long time not to resolve a CU problem, but the lack of sightings of the fluorescent green jumpsuits used by the Omega civil servants works in their favor. There have been no reports of attacks, and, most tellingly, Arc’s implant network hasn’t picked up any new death clusters that can’t be explained by other causes. If an unlinked CU had managed to get loose in a populated area, they almost certainly would have heard something by now. Eric tells her as much.

“Let me know when you have confirmed visuals on both of the missing units,” the captain says.

“About that, we may never get a visual on at least one of them,” Eric warns.

“Why not?”

“Could’ve gotten itself pureed,” the foreman chimes in voluntarily. He’s nervous, leaning toward Eric and speaking directly to the captain through Eric’s Link. Eric pushes him away.

“What’s he blathering on about?” Captain Harrick asks. Her frown makes another appearance.

“The missing signal,” Eric explains. “There’s a mechanical grinder underground for processing large chunks of solid material. It basically pulverizes everything. If a CU managed to get into it, there’d be nothing left to ID.”

“How likely is that?”

“The pipes are certainly large enough. And the system reported a small pressure spike at—” He checks his tablet. “At ten-oh-seven this morning. It’s fully consistent with a small localized detonation within the stream.”

“Like an implant self-destructing?”

“Exactly. I sent Officer Vanne down with the other Operator to check for damage and to see if the outflow filters caught anything— scraps of uniform, implant fragments, etcetera. He hasn’t reported back yet.”

Harrick stares at the screen for a moment before shaking her head. “How long’s it going to take?”

“Once they drop the search and recovery unit into the tanks, they estimate two hours to run a complete system sweep. My hope is that we’ll get confirmation much sooner than that. Like you, I’m eager to close the book on this one.”

“And the vic?”

“Once I’ve downloaded his implant data, I’ll take him over to Post-Mortem for cleaning and processing. We’ll also swab the bite for DNA to make a positive ID of the biter. Arc can have him after we’re done with him.”

“No, he’s civil property. I’ll send over a bus.”

“There’s no need for that. He’s contained. We can transport—”

The small man standing at Eric’s side elbows him. He’s been up since nine o’clock the previous evening and has been running on adrenaline all day. But now the excitement is giving way to fatigue and worry and impatience.

“I was hoping I could go home,” he whines. “My wife is—”

But Eric cuts him off. He’s not interested in the man’s excuses. And the fact that he actually thinks he’ll be going home after what has happened here only irritates him all the more. He and the other guy, the one checking the filters with Vanne, are both going to spend at least one night in a jail cell while the investigation proceeds. And depending on what the interviews yield, maybe quite a few more than one. They should’ve reported the system glitch immediately.

Eric rubs a hand on his cheek. He’s also tired and eager to get home. He needs to check on Jessie, make sure she’s doing all right. It’s been killing him watching her drift away the way she has. From him. From Kelly. From her friends. She’s in so much pain, and it’s clearly eating her up from the inside.

He realizes Harrick’s speaking again:

“— an isolated glitch. We’ve finally received official confirmation of system failures in at least two other cities over the past twenty-four hours.”

“Public works?” Eric asks, the uneasy feeling that has taken up temporary residence in his stomach over the past couple of weeks now feels like an entrenched squatter. “Or military?”

“So far it’s just civilian facilities. Mostly isolated to remote sites with older stream hardware.”

“Any signs of an outside player?” he asks.

“Sabotage?”

He hesitates before shrugging.

“What do you know, Daniels?”

“Nothing. Just trying to keep an open mind.”

She gives him a strange look. “No third party,” she says. “Not that I’ve heard of. Anyway, Arc’s activating more units to ensure everything gets updated within the next two weeks.”

“Well, that makes a ton of sense,” Eric says, frowning. “Like throwing gasoline on a fire to douse it.”

Captain Harrick winces. Eric knows that these kinds of comments would’ve gotten him in trouble in the past. Speaking out against Arc has always been risky. But the rules have changed in the past couple of weeks. No longer does Arc exert the same power over the citizenry anymore. Or the government. In fact, in a surprising turn of events, a senator from Idaho has called for a congressional investigation into mismanagement and abuses of privilege by high-ranking executives in the company. He flat out accused Arc of diverting profits meant for upgrading their systems so they could pay outrageous salaries and bonuses. The allegations themselves aren’t terribly surprising, just the audacity of the senator in making them so publicly.

In an apparent retaliatory move by Arc, the senator has since been indicted on charges of accepting payoffs from foreign companies and spying for the Southern States Coalition. This is straight out of Arc’s retaliatory playbook, except this time Arc’s efforts don’t seem to have discouraged others from speaking out.

And there are other signs of Arc’s diminishing political influence. Police forces in other cities have stopped interfering with open protests against the company and their stream technologies. People are vocally boycotting the new federal inoculation initiative, which mandates total implant compliance by month’s end. He knows they’re not going to achieve it, which will only make Arc push harder. His job is not going to get any easier anytime soon.

“No military issues have been reported to the civilian agencies,” the captain emphasizes, speaking thinly. “Let’s not speculate.” It’s an unspoken warning for him to tread lightly.

Nevertheless, he presses on. “Arc would probably try and suppress knowledge of it if there were.”

Captain Harrick gives him another tired frown, but she makes no further comment.

The shift foreman tries again to force his way in front of Eric, but Eric grabs the handrail to block him. There’s a twitch of movement at his feet, and he knows the vic is starting to revive. He takes the Link off speaker and presses it against his ear. “About that other thing,” he says.

“The trace?” the captain asks. “I’m afraid my hands are tied. You know I can’t legally track a Link without evidence of a crime. And as far as I know, an identifier code matching your mother hasn’t come up on any of the Lifeguard lists Arc sends us.”

Assuming those lists are accurate, Eric thinks.

“So, at the very least, you know she’s alive. Maybe she’s just taking a break after what happened. I mean, look at the Evanses.”

Eric nods reluctantly. After finding out their daughter had died while illegally breaking into Gameland, Ashley’s parents hadn’t wasted a single moment leaving town. They’d just up and disappeared in the middle of the night. He secretly hopes they’ve found a way out of the country, preferably up north.

He’s about to thank the captain for trying anyway, even though he’s disappointed by the news, when the foreman tugs on his sleeve and gestures toward the far wall.

“Um, Cap,” Eric says. “Looks like they’re here with the S and R unit. I have to go.”

“See me in my office the moment you get back.”

“Copy that.” He thumbs the Link off and pockets it.

Lurching toward him is a CU in a full bodysuit and helmet. Eric raises a questioning eyebrow at the shift supervisor, who explains that the suit is for their own convenience. “Makes cleanup easier,” he explains.

“And the helmet?”

“So they don’t swallow any sewage.”

“What difference does it make if they do?”

“The stuff leaks out for weeks afterward. Makes a huge mess. And Arc charges extra if they have to recondition the unit.”

Chapter 7

“Reg?” I call, pushing the door open a foot. “It’s Jessie. You in here?”

There’s a smell to the air that wafts out, a scent of musty cardboard boxes, old carpet, cheap beer... and teenage boy. It’s always been there, but it feels stale now.

“Reggie?”

That’s odd. Why would he leave the door unlocked?

Admittedly, most of the value in the old arcade games Mister Casey has collected over the years is sentimental, not material. The reason he insists the garage be locked at all times, even when we’re inside, has more to do with the illegal contraband that has also found its way into his hands— the banned books and old movies, newspaper clippings from before the war. A lot of the stuff would just be confiscated if it were ever found, but some of it is serious enough that the courts would add LSC years to whoever is caught possessing them.

I knock again and the door swings open a few more inches. It’s dark inside, no sign of anyone, not a sound.

“Anyone here?” I’d already checked for the key they keep hidden underneath the loose shingle by the door, which is why I expect someone to be inside. I know it’s not Kelly; he wouldn’t risk being late to school. Maybe Reggie’s getting in a few minutes of VR time before heading off, too. “Hello?”

He left and forgot to lock up is all.

But I know he wouldn’t, and it makes me pause. We’ve had it drilled over and over into our heads never to leave the door unlocked and unattended. Even Ashley, who had an annoying tendency to shrug such matters off, took this one thing seriously. And the Caseys’ car is gone, so I know they’re off to work. Something’s not right.

I swing the door wide and stick my head in, reluctant to commit. But I feel exposed standing out here like this, guilty, suspicious. Tall hedges block the views from the neighbor’s house and the street. I wait for my eyes to adjust to the gloom.

It’s been sixteen hours since the bitter winds of fury blew me here yesterday, to Reggie instead of my Kelly. I guess I’d just felt like he’d understand better the difficulty I’m going through adjusting to life after Gameland and the deaths of our friends. Kelly always tries too hard to fix things, and I hadn’t needed that right then. I just needed someone to share my pain, to commiserate. To make me feel like I can actually get through this. I just needed a little time. And maybe a little bit of Reggie’s unfiltered, unrepentant humor. I just needed affirmation that things will get better, even if they’ll never get back to the way they were.

And Reggie had delivered.

But that sense of not feeling so alone had faded soon after I left. Last night was another one filled with bad dreams and not enough sleep. Maybe I’d unconsciously known this would happen. Maybe that’s why I’d “accidentally” left my backpack at his house, so I’d have an excuse to stop by and get a little Reggie top off. Of course, that wasn’t my first instinct. When I remembered this at breakfast, my first inclination was to just blow off school again. It took me all of two seconds to realize how terribly stupid that would be. I can’t risk missing anymore school. I’ve already pressed my luck in that regard. If I keep pushing, it’ll all come crashing down on me, and I really can’t deal with that. No sense to making matters worse if I can help it.

Did we leave the garage unlocked since last night?

Mister Casey would kill us if we did.

After taking one more quick look around me, I step inside.

It’s an old two-car garage, but over the years Reggie’s dad has added to it, doubling the length and erecting a new wall to separate the back half from the front. The old part is stuffed with full cardboard boxes, the trappings of years of accumulated possessions: broken bicycles, garbage cans, garden and power tools that no longer serve any function. The game room with all the antique machines is in the newer, air conditioned section in back, through another locked door.

From where I’m standing, I can see it’s open, but the lights are off. When I look inside, I find the room empty.

Someone’s been here.

But nothing looks stolen.

I step over to the ArcTech console the boys recently set up. Reggie’s biohaptic adapter is on the floor; I pick it up and place it on a side table. There’s a bare circle on the dust on the surface. The spot has been occupied by a smoky yellow blown-glass lamp for as long as I’ve known Reggie. With its garland of black metal chains and yellowed lampshade, the thing was always the butt of our jokes, the very definition of ugly. For some strange reason Ashley had developed a fondness for it, so Reggie refused to throw it away. It’s gone now.

The projector starts to whir and wakes up. It’s supposed to be turned off when not in use, since it can get really hot and start a fire. The holo image begins to reconstitute, pixel by pixel from the floor up, recreating the Player that was in play when the game was last abandoned. It stands motionless on an empty street somewhere in the middle of Gameland, awaiting its commands. The dim shapes of rundown, empty buildings and rusty cars appear in the background.

I spot a Link in the controller base. The dent on one side, created by the impact of a bullet, tells me it’s Reggie’s, so I know he hasn’t gone very far. He can’t, not with Stephen’s failsafe still in his head and no script to counter it coming from the towers here. The Game’s status light blinks green, which means he’s still connected and live.

Not a good move, Reggie.

You can pause play temporarily, and the system will essentially make you invisible to other Players. Abandoning an active Player leaves it vulnerable to attack, and that can be a very costly mistake.

“Reggie?” I call. I’d ping him, but his Link is here. It’s not like him to forget to exit out of a game properly. Then again, this live action VR is all new to him, too.

Still...

After discovering the gear here yesterday and realizing it was set up for The Game, I’d been pissed. Why hadn’t Reggie told me about it? How had he gotten the equipment? Had his father? It made me sick to my stomach. After what we’d just been through, how could he even stand to have it around?

I hadn’t planned on going in myself. I was so angry — at Siennah, of course — but I was also feeling betrayed. I guess when I geared up, a part of me was hoping for an answer to why Reggie had this here. Another part was probably thinking about how I could destroy it, as if it were some kind of proxy for Arc and Gameland and everything they represented. But after connecting and realizing it was connected to an actual real Player, I realized why Reggie had gone back — to find and quiet Ashley — which he later confirmed.

Next thing I knew, I was on the ground from an attack from behind. I reacted instinctively and fought back. In my mind, I was reliving the trauma and humiliation I’d experienced just an hour earlier in the bathroom at school. I was one Player in The Game, Siennah Davenport was the other. And this time I wouldn’t let her get the better of me. This time, I wouldn’t hold back. I was going to kill her.

That’s what I was doing when Reggie found me.

It took some threatening, but he eventually told me everything, how it was Kelly who had acquired the gear and the reason why. He also told me why Kelly didn’t want me to know. I understood his reasoning, but it still hurt me deep inside that they didn’t feel they could trust me.

“He’s trying to protect you, Jess.”

“We’re in this together, Reggie.”

But then, later that night, as I lay awake in bed, I began to wonder if that was even true. We had all vowed never to go back, and the first chance we got, we all broke that promise in one way or another and we shut the rest out. But the worst part about it? The secrecy. They couldn’t trust me? How about me trusting them?

No, that wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was how much I had liked what I did to that Player. I felt, for the first time in a long time, like I was in control.

Maybe Eric’s right. Maybe I should see a shrink.

I start to wonder if maybe that’s why I’d forgotten my backpack here last night. Maybe it wasn’t Reggie I had wanted more of, but this.

I study the Player standing motionless in the center of the holoprojection, waiting for its next command. I really hadn’t had the chance to look at it yesterday.

What’s the harm in looking?

Tanya’s voice comes back to me, a ghostly blast from the past. It makes me shiver. How many people actually think about the dead like that? It’s disgusting.

Then I remember what Siennah said yesterday about using Players to act out sexual fantasies, and my stomach clenches. People are sick.

The zombie’s chin is raised, like it’s peering up at the sun . I pull an old milk crate over from the corner of the room and stand on it to get a better look. Leaning in close, I can just about make out the clouds through the haze of static as the old projector tries to reconstruct the scene. But I don’t care about the sky or the abandoned city. The Player’s plastinated skin is drawn tight over its skull, like the membrane of a drum. Its unseeing eyes bulge from their sockets. A strip of flesh dangles from one cheek. It looks like a recent wound; there’s a brownish-yellow discharge seeping out of it. Through the hole, I can easily make out its few remaining teeth, stained and pitted. And in the gaps, glimpses of the blackened stump of its tongue. There’s a discernible murkiness filling the Player’s eyes. It’s the characteristic stare of the dead, the one that always takes me back to those blown-out windows of the abandoned East Harlem tenements that day we drifted past them in our rented rowboat.

The technology behind how the image is created is way beyond my level of understanding. The software must be incredibly sophisticated, not just to accurately project the Player, but to place it properly oriented and in scale within its immediate environment. I assume much of the image is a computer generated facsimile. After all, there simply aren’t enough cameras in the arcade to capture every inch of it from every possible angle. I assume the majority of the information — the island’s static topography and buildings — has already been digitized and stored within the system’s servers. What I’m seeing now is a reconstruction of the Player superimposed over that bitmapped landscape. That would mean its neural implant must contain some sort of geopositional locator and gyroscopes. Makes sense. The system would need constant reference inputs in order to pinpoint its location, body orientation, and movement within the arcade.

On a whim, I wave a hand in front of its face. It flinches, eliciting an involuntary reaction from me. But it’s just a coincidence. The zombie can’t see me. It can’t possibly sense I’m here. Nevertheless, I shiver and suddenly feel anxious. I know these images don’t work both ways. No one’s watching me through the hologram. And yet I feel as if a million eyes are out there right now looking in. It makes my skin crawl.

“Hey!” I shout.

It doesn’t move. Not a single twitch. It just continues to stare at the sky.

“Can you hear me?”

Of course it can’t.

I step down off the crate and scan the room. My backpack’s on the edge of the couch. I don’t remember putting it there. It looks like someone dumped it out and went through my stuff.

Reggie wouldn’t do that.

He wouldn’t just leave everything running like this, either.

On the other hand, maybe he didn’t. None of the haptic gear is here, so maybe he really did just run into the house for a moment, perhaps for a potty break.

I reach down and extract Reggie’s Link from the socket in the console, disconnecting it from the stream running The Game. “Sorry, but it’s time to go to school,” I say, more to myself than the absent Reggie.

Disconnecting is supposed to immediately turn the holoprojector off and render the Player invisible to other active Players inside The Game. Instead, out of the corner of my eye, I see the zombie’s body spasm. I jump back in surprise and stare at the wavering image. After a few seconds, it all fades away.

Just my imagination. The light flickered is all.

I slip Reggie’s Link into my pocket and sweep all my stuff back into my backpack. Then I reach down and flick off the power switch to the game console. I lock the inner door, then draw the outer door to the garage shut. I don’t want to lock it, just in case Reggie left the key somewhere inside, but I hate leaving it unsecured, too. I give the latch a jiggle to make sure the door’s properly shut and won’t blow open. Hopefully, no one comes snooping around.

Finally, I make my way across the yard to his house and knock on the front door.

“Reggie?” I call. I wait a minute, then try again.

There’s a feeling a house gives off, a certain characteristic aura whenever the residents are present; it’s gone when they leave. An empty house simply feels different. It’s not just the blank, dark windows and the lack of sounds from inside. There’s a psychic vacuum, an absence of resonance. It’s as if the walls normally thrum from the residents’ heartbeats and go silent whenever they’re absent. Reggie pretty much described this same exact feeling in so many words when he went by Ashley’s house the other day. And Micah’s. Kelly might not understand what he meant by it, but I do. It’s a sense you develop over time, when you’re close to certain people. You don’t get it with a house you’re not familiar with.

This house, right now, is empty. I’m sure of it.

But if he’s not inside, then where could he have gone? He can’t be very far away without his Link, not without his implant reactivating.

And now I worry that he’s lying somewhere, dead of exactly that.

I hurry around to the side of the house, passing through a rickety wooden gate and peering up at the second story windows. Even though I’m convinced the house is empty, the rational part of me remains skeptical. I half expect to see the curtains fall quickly back into place, like they do in scary movies, maybe a stranger standing there. But no. Everything’s silent and still.

I knock again when I get to the back door. And when no one answers it, I step out into the yard and call up to his window. “Reggie! You up there? Hey, get off the shitter. You’re going to be late for school!”

It’s a typical backyard— old plastic swing set that Kyle still uses, a sandbox he can’t because of his autoimmune issues, and a tiny wooden shed I’ve never seen inside. The grass is mostly dead, due to the ban on watering, although there are new patches of green from the recent rains.

Forget about him, Jessie. You’re going to be late if you don’t leave now.

I hurry back across the yard and around the garage. I’ll just have to leave his Link where I know he’ll find it. If he’s late for classes, that’s on him. I open the garage door.

Remember what I said about sensing when a place is empty? Well, the moment I step inside the garage, I know I’m no longer alone.

Chapter 8

“Jess?”

I let out a little squeal and duck. My backpack’s off and I’m blindly swinging it before I even know what I’m doing.

“Whoa, hey! What the hell?” Reggie says, reflexively grabbing the bag to deflect the blow.

“What the hell?” I echo back at him. “Goddamn it, Reggie! Where the hell have you been? You just scared the piss out of me!”

He doesn’t answer, just sort of blinks stupidly, my bag still in his fist. I yank it away.

“That’s your cue to speak, dummy,” I snap.

“What?”

“Scared the piss out of me?” I repeat. “And now you’re supposed to ask me if there was any leakage. You know...”

He steps out of the garage and into the sunlight, squinting. He seems confused.

“You weren’t in there the whole time, were you?” I ask. “Were you hiding, spying on me? Look, I’m not mad anymore, okay? But if you were, it’s not funny.”

He glances behind him, then down at himself. He’s still got his haptic leggings and gloves on, and he flexes his fingers as if he can’t understand why he’s wearing them. The headgear’s cocked back over his head.

“It’s morning?” he asks.

I’d laugh, but he doesn’t look like he’s joking. “Okay, Reg, I think that’s enough of The Game for a while. You’re having trouble transitioning back to reality.”

“Wh– what are you doing here?”

“I came to get my backpack.”

He frowns.

“For school? Remember? We’re going to be late if we don’t leave now.”

“How can it be morning?”

“Okay, now you’re starting to freak me out,” I say. I grab his arm and pull him over to one of the overstuffed chairs. He plops down into it, and dust billows up. “You’ve been playing all night?”

“I... No. I just... It was just for a couple hours after dinner.”

“More like twelve.”

He shakes his head. “It can’t be.”

“I mean, it’s possible you weren’t playing the whole time. I found the Player standing out in the middle of some parking lot. You must’ve fallen asleep or something. You didn’t pause out of the program.”

Reggie’s frown intensifies. He glances over at the other door.

“It’s fine,” I assure him. “I just checked. It’s still alive. No worse for the wear. But chances are you won’t be so lucky next time.”

“I was— I guess I must’ve gone for a walk.”

“If by walk you mean sleepwalk, then yeah.” I hand him his Link. “Couldn’t have been very far, though.”

He rubs his legs, and that’s when we both notice he’s not wearing any shoes. His feet are muddy.

“You decided to take a walk in the middle of The Game in your socks? Are you drunk or something?”

“No!”

“Stoned?”

He shakes his head. But then he glances guiltily at my backpack. “Maybe.”

“What do you mean maybe?”

“I figured you wouldn’t mind.”

“Mind what?”

“I helped myself to a couple of your Zoners.”

“What the hell are you talking about? I don’t have any—”

But then I tear my bag open and reach inside. I normally wouldn’t carry around so much junk, but ever since Gameland I feel like I have to be prepared for every contingency.

“I swear I only took two,” Reggie says.

I upend the backpack and empty the contents onto the floor. “Sonofabitch!” I cry, spotting a baggie of little pink pills in the middle of the pile.

“I’ll pay you back for—”

“These aren’t mine, Reggie! That stupid bitch Siennah put them in here hoping I’d get caught! And why were you snooping through my bag anyway?”

“I wasn’t snooping! You know I’d never do that. I went to pick it up and everything fell out.”

“That’s no excuse to just help yourself! And Zoners? Really, Reggie? You swore you’d never touch these things again.”

He takes in a deep breath and lets it out. “I’m not— I don’t know why I did, Jess. I’m sorry. I guess I was just feeling...”

“What, Reg?”

He shakes his head. “Self-destructive, I guess. I mean, I was on-stream, trying to get this damn Player to Jayne’s Hill, because...”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Anyway, I figured it’s as good a place to start searching, right? But after a while, it all started to feel hopeless. I was going to stop when I saw your bag there.”

So you decided to snoop?”

“No! I planned to ping you, to let you know it was here. But then the Zoners fell out. Pissed me off at first. But then I figured if you’re taking them, why not me? You probably wouldn’t even notice if I just took a couple. So I did. I washed them down with some Red Bull. Next thing I know, the sun’s out and I’m standing underneath the bridge over on Yale Drive. I thought I was dreaming.”

“Dreaming... how?’

He gives me a sheepish look. “I’ve been having a lot lately.”

I nod. I know exactly what he means. That weird dream I had the other day really freaked me out for a little while.

“You said Yale?” I ask. “Are you talking about our Yale Drive? Here? And the bridge over the greenbelt?”

He nods. “It was strange. It felt like I was still in The Game, like it was the Player that was there, not me. I was just sort of watching... from inside. I think I kind of freaked out, because I just started to run. I ran all the way back here and— Jess, you okay?”

For a moment, I can’t seem to breathe. He just described my own dream almost exactly. Or at least my sense of it, anyway.

“Jess, what’s going on?”

I shake my head. “It’s... Never mind. Just go on.”

“Well, I guess those Zoners affected me more than I realized they would.”

“You couldn’t have been zoning all night, not on just two.”

He shrugs.

“The Yale Drive bridge,” I say. “That’s several blocks away. You couldn’t have gone that far without your Link.”

“I’m telling you, Jessie, I was there.” He starts peeling the ruined socks off his feet, complaining that he’ll never get them white again. His skin is pale and wrinkled. When he’s done, he leans back against the couch and exhales deeply. “Jess?”

“What?”

“You ever feel like you’re losing your mind?”

Chapter 9

Kelly exits from the eastern entrance of the main school building and surveys the exodus of tech-track students around him. He steps over to the side and positions himself in the narrow band of shadow against the wall, where it’s a little cooler and out of the way of the throngs of bodies. He’s found that crowds make him anxious these days. When he’s certain Jessie isn’t among the exiting masses, he steps out and heads toward the street.

A trio of younger boys — freshmen, most likely, possibly sophomores — cut him off on the stairs in their rush to get away. They shove a girl out of their path, and she shouts angrily at their backs. But they’re laughing and jabbering on about something that happened over the weekend, so they don’t notice. Or they just don’t care. Kelly waits for them to pass, then starts out on his own.

His tablet is full of college-track texts, but it’s not the only thing in his backpack. The weight makes the straps cut into the still-tender muscles beneath his arms. He wears a loose shirt to hide the wounds. The one on his side still hasn’t healed completely, and he suspects it’ll harbor a persistent infection for a long time. The antibiotic pills in his pocket rattle quietly, keeping rhythm with his limp.

It’s only the third week of classes and he’s already way behind in his schoolwork. Between helping out with Kyle’s slow recovery from surgery and babysitting Reggie with the gear, he hasn’t had very much time for himself or Jessie. In fact, they’ve only spent one entire night together at her place since they got married.

Our place.

She’s made it clear she considers it his home now, too.

Except it doesn’t feel like home to him at all.

His Link vibrates in his pocket and he retrieves it. Seeing who it is only heightens his apprehension.

“Yes?” he answers, perhaps a bit more sharply than he intends to.

“Just checking in. Is everything all right, honey?”

Kelly nods. “Yes. I’m on my way home now.”

“Good.”

He swallows, and his throat makes a dry clicking sound. “I’m not sure if I can...”

“Can what?”

“Keep doing this.”

His heart thuds in his chest as he waits for her response. His temples throb from the force of it. He feels dizzy.

“What’s the problem?”

He leans against a tree in the shade, grateful for the brief respite from the afternoon sun. A car slowly passes him. He glances over and it suddenly speeds up and quickly turns around the next corner.

There was a kid in back, he reassures himself. Since returning from Gameland, he’s been feeling like his every move is being watched.

“I’ve done what you said,” he tells the woman. “I want the truth now. Everything. I think I deserve that much.”

“You already know more than you should. Knowledge is a liability right now. The less you know—”

“The less I know, the less I can help you.”

She sighs. “We need to be careful. I don’t know who’s watching or listening. You’re safer this way.”

Kelly’s eyes dart down the street in the direction of where the car had disappeared. He suddenly feels very exposed. He notes how empty the sidewalks are of pedestrians. Several automobiles are parked along the curb, but as far as he can tell, they’re all empty. No one’s spying on him. Or waiting to ambush him.

She’s making me paranoid, he thinks. That’s how they get to you, make you do their bidding.

It’s how she got to him.

All of the windows of all the houses around him are shuttered against the heat. He sees no one peering out at him. And yet, there’s that feeling...

“What aren’t you telling me?” he demands. “I want to know everything you know.”

“Not yet. You need to be patient.”

“I almost died!” he hisses. “Jessie almost died.”

“I’m sorry. What happened was never supposed to. Not like that, anyway. But everything has changed now. We adapt. We switch gears.”

“Don’t tell me what I already know!”

“Look, sweetie, we’ve been working too hard and for too long to throw it all away now. You need to trust me on this.”

“Like I trusted Micah? Now he’s dead— conscripted, I mean. Do you know what it’s like to watch someone you’ve known, someone you’ve trusted, someone you’ve liked, get turned into one of them?”

The woman hesitates, then nods. “I do, actually. It’s horrifying, and I’m sorry you had to go through that. But that’s why this is so important to me. And why you need to be careful.”

Kelly shoves himself away from the tree. He feels a little ill. His body is trembling. He needs to get back, check on his little brother Kyle, before heading over to Jessie’s.

Heading home.

“Focus,” the woman says. She can tell he’s distracted. “That file on your girlfriend’s Link is our greatest concern right now.”

“Wife,” he reminds her.

She shrugs and gives him a grudging nod. “Wife.”

“Jessie’s bound to notice it sooner or later,” Kelly says. “I’m surprised she hasn’t already. After what Micah said about...”

He stops himself short, unwilling to let himself say it out loud. Yet he can’t stop himself from remembering, either. The images force their way into his head, scenes from the conscription chamber inside City Hall, Micah struggling as the poison and virus drip into his veins.

“Just make sure she has no reason to question anything, okay?”

He chuffs. “She’s not stupid. And she won’t just let it go, either. Sooner or later, she’s going to wonder what the hell he meant by Jacker’s Code. Hell, I’m wondering about it now.”

“If you think I know, you’re wrong. Just forget about that.”

“How can I forget about it?” Kelly cries. “How can she? All that nonsense he spewed about being in love with her. She’s not going to let it go!”

“I didn’t think he was into girls.”

“Well, I guess he was!”

“Look, there’s nothing to be jealous about, honey.”

“I’m not jealous!”

“Okay, worried then.”

“I know Jessie. She’s not going to drop it.”

“Look, I’ve seen my share of conscriptions. People babble right before the end. It’s all nonsense. You make sure that’s all she thinks happened. And as long as she believes you love her, that’s all that matters.”

But he’s not so sure she does anymore.

He sighs. “We got the gear set up and we’re back in. Reggie’s taking the Player up to Jayne’s Hill first, to try and find Ashley and Jake.”

“Do what you need to do for now while we wait. Just keep her away from Mister Casey’s house.”

“What happens if she finds out?”

“Tell her what we talked about. Just keep her away. The last thing we need right now is for her to start asking questions about what you’re doing.”

Kelly looks away from his own Link and is surprised to see that he’s walked all the way to Reggie’s. Both of the Caseys work in the state capitol, and they’re rarely home before six in the evening. The house stands empty and dark before him. If Reggie’s home already, he’s most likely out in the garage. Kelly shakes his head spitefully, bitter about having to lie to him about the gear. He has to know that looking for Ashley is a hopeless cause. And all the extracurricular activity just puts the Player at risk. But the woman doesn’t seem to be worried about that. He suspects she’ll be able to get another Player if they lose this one.

As if sensing his doubt, she says, “It won’t be much longer. We’re very close to getting everything we need. Once that happens, everything else will fall into place and we can proceed.”

He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to control his anger. He’s not used to having to do that.

“You just have to be patient and trust me a little longer. Can you do that for me, hon?”

He wants to tell her to stop calling him that. It makes him uncomfortable. She’s thirty years his senior, and it makes him feel like a child.

“I’ll try,” he finally says. He’s too tired to fight her anymore.

“Good. Because I have to—”

“Kelly?”

He spins around at the sound of Jessie’s voice, the skin on the back of his neck prickling. “Oh, hey, Jess,” he stammers. “What are you doing here?”

His thoughts are a whirlwind. He wonders how long she’s been standing there outside Reggie’s garage.

And how much she might have heard.

Chapter 10

Kelly thumbs the disconnect and quickly pockets the Link.

“Who are you talking to?” Jessie asks.

“The hospital. Just checking in on some blood work for Kyle.”

The tension loosens on Jessie’s face, but it doesn’t leave entirely. She glances skeptically at the pocket holding his Link. “Is everything all right?”

He gives her a tentative smile and tries to pretend like nothing’s wrong. “As good as can be expected. The new kidneys are holding, but they have to keep a close watch on his white blood count while they suppress his immune system. They don’t want him rejecting the transplants or coming down with an infection. And the dialysis is really doing a number on him.”

He starts to walk past the house, hoping to draw her away. He can’t have her discovering the gaming equipment and asking questions.

“Still?” she asks, holding her ground. “Shouldn’t they, I don’t know, shouldn’t the kidneys just work right from the start?”

“It’s all the medicines they’re giving him. They don’t want to put a lot of strain on the transplants right away. You coming?”

She catches up and follows along beside him. They walk on in silence for another block, both wanting to say something, yet unable to find the words. Their hands brush, but neither of them makes the first move to grab hold of the other.

“Any word from your mom?” he finally asks, changing the subject.

She inhales sharply, and he immediately regrets asking that particular question. Even at the best of times, Jessie’s complicated relationship with her mother is a sensitive subject. And this most certainly isn’t the best of times for them. Missus Daniels’ no-show the day they filed their marriage papers really messed her up.

Jessie shakes her head. He can see the muscles in her cheek throbbing as she tries not to say what’s really on her mind. “It’s been almost a week,” she says.

“That seems kind of long, even for your mom. Maybe we should—”

“I know how long it’s been!” she snaps. “You don’t have to remind me!”

But despite knowing where it might lead, he can’t stop himself. He wants to help, even though he knows it could set her off again. “Have you tried pinging her?”

She doesn’t answer.

“Look, Jess, I’m sure she’s fine. It’s not like she hasn’t taken time off before. But on the off chance she’s not—”

“Time off? Time off? That’s all she’s done my whole entire life, Kel, is take time off!”

“I know. It’s just that everyone’s having such a tough time right now. Maybe she feels guilty about not telling you sooner about your real father. I’m sure it couldn’t have been easy. She’s probably ashamed that it happened in the first place— not ashamed of you,” he quickly adds. “And she’s probably also punishing herself for not telling you sooner.”

He braces himself for the backlash as Jessie tries to process this. The longer her silence continues, the more he wishes he’d just kept his mouth shut about it and minded his own damn business. But they’re married now. They’re supposed to share everything and support each other.

And not keep secrets.

Jessie swings around in front of him. “We’re not talking about her, Kel. Not today.”

“Okay. I’m sorry. I just worry so much. I don’t want you to hurt.”

She takes his arm and pulls him until they’re standing toe to toe. They haven’t been this close physically since the day they filed the marriage paperwork. He studies her eyes, hoping to glean what she’s thinking. There are dark circles under them. Her skin is pale, wan even. She’s grown thin, and there are new lines crinkling the corners of her mouth. She looks so much older than she is. He supposes they all do.

“I just love you so much, J.”

She leans into him, and her breath is hot on his cheek and neck. It sends a shiver through his body. “You know,” she says, “we never officially celebrated our marriage.”

He frowns. “Like a party?”

“If that’s what you want to call it.” She draws him even closer. He can smell her hair, her sweat. “Tonight, just you and me. It’ll be our honeymoon night.”

For the first time in a very long time, he feels something stirring inside of him, a trace of something old and familiar and good. He wants nothing more than to take her into his arms and hold her tight. He takes comfort in the knowledge that she wants to be with him. And it only makes him feel all that much more guilty for what he’s done.

And for what he’s about to do.

Chapter 11

I hum as I prepare dinner. It’s just a simple casserole of mixed frozen vegetables, a can of tomatoes, and hamburger thawed in the microwave and fried on the stove. I put it on a bed of pasta from two mismatched half-boxes I find in the cabinet and dump a lot of grated cheese on top.

“Eric hasn’t done the grocery shopping in a while,” I tell Kelly, apologizing for the moldy cheese. “There wasn’t much to choose from.”

He smiles as he sets his plate and Link down on the table. He sits at Eric’s place, knowing he won’t be home. We both ignore the other two chairs; neither of us wants to talk about why they’re empty. The dinner progresses in an agreeable silence, and it’s actually the first food I’ve been able to enjoy since our return. It’s the first time I haven’t felt like puking in days.

Later, when he’s rinsing the glasses in the sink, he says, “Your brother’s been working an awful lot lately.”

We both know why he has, at least in general terms. But Kelly’s fishing to see if I know any nonpublic details, which I don’t.

“According to him, it’s nothing but growing pains. I guess with all the new equipment and protocols Government and Arc are putting into place, there’s been a few hitches. He says it’s got nothing to do with us.”

“Yeah, well, Reggie doesn’t seem to think it’s nothing.”

“I know. He’s been crawling the black streams.”

“They’re back up?”

“Yeah. Apparently, there are a bunch of stories going around that—”

“Stay off them, Jess. They’re not trustworthy.”

“Talk to Reggie. He’s the one diving down rabbit holes.” I eye him carefully. “He’s been going places he really doesn’t belong.”

Kelly’s back stiffens. “What else have you and Reggie been talking about?” he asks.

I’d promised Reggie not to say anything about the VR equipment; it was part of the deal I made to get him to tell me where it came from. I know it’ll eventually have to come out. There’s simply no way they can expect to hide it from me forever, but Reggie hopes he’ll soon be done with why he’s gone back in there, and then we can all say good riddance to Gameland forever. But for now, it’s not a conversation I want to be having with Kelly right now, not while we’re good.

I shrug and tell him, “Nothing in particular.”

“Why were you at his place today?”

“Just stopped by after school to see how he’s doing.”

“That’s it?”

“I’m sorry. I not allowed to hang out with my friends now?”

“No, it’s not that.” He turns back to the sink, his face burning red. I study his reflection in the window. “It’s just...” he says, and sighs. “He’s in a weird place right now, Reggie is. And the black streams are a dangerous place, especially if you’re prone to believing everything you see on them.”

“I can think of some even more dangerous places.”

“I don’t want you on them, either.”

“Excuse me?”

“We should all be laying low, Jess, making sure we don’t attract the wrong kind of attention.”

“Are we still talking about the black streams? Or something else?”

“You’re skipping school.”

“So you’re keeping track of me now?”

Rain streams down the window, making his reflection look like it’s crying. “I’m just worried about you. I want to protect you.”

I’m not sure whether to be angry or filled with love. When I don’t respond, he resumes rinsing dishes.

“They’re still not letting people into Manhattan,” I eventually say. He can take that in one of two directions, depending on whether he wants to change the subject or hammer home his point. I wait to see which it’ll be.

Kelly shrugs and says nothing.

“Do you think they’re telling the truth about it?”

“What do you mean?” he asks, glancing at my reflection in the window.

“They keep saying they’re ready to lift the quarantine, but they’re keeping the restrictions in place. What’s that about?”

“Probably just being cautious, making sure it’s safe before they let the general public back in there.”

“What general public? People don’t go down there unless they work there.”

“We did.”

“And we’re responsible.”

“We didn’t bring them here. Your brother said so.”

“You should know by now that not everything he says is true. Or the whole story. Seems like that’s the way the whole world works.”

“And what else does he say about Manhattan?”

“That it’s been fully contained.”

“But you don’t believe it.”

“Do you?” I move up to within a foot behind him and peer over his shoulder. From here, I can see part of his face directly and the rest in his reflection. I can sense his tension in the way he hunches his shoulders, even if he tries to look unconcerned.

“Well,” he says, “according to Media—”

“Since when do you just take what Media tells us at face value?”

He turns, drying his hands on a dish towel. “What are you doing, Jess?”

“I’m just trying to have a conversation. Or has it been so long that you’ve forgotten what that’s like?”

He places his hands on my shoulders. “We aren’t responsible for what happened there. It doesn’t help to keep dwelling on that.”

I chuff and shake my head. Nothing will ever convince me that we weren’t responsible. The outbreak started after we returned through the Midtown tunnel. The dead followed us here. The only reason it wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been was because the tunnel was submerged in water; the dead only managed to get through because of the currents. It’s also a good thing Lower Manhattan is so sparsely populated.

And that NCD was able to respond as quickly as they did.

“All I’m saying is, if they’ve cleared it, why is that part of New York still off-limits? What’s taking them so long to open it back up again if the quarantine has supposedly been closed?”

“It takes time to check all the abandoned buildings and make sure there aren’t any IUs hiding in any of them. It’s not like they can run a device scan to find them, since they’re not implanted. That’s probably why your brother has been working so much lately. He’s probably got a ton of reports to file, IDs to match to the old missing persons reports from the Long Island outbreak. Plus, there’s the new federal standards everyone has to meet. And don’t forget, NCD officers are assigned to all the screening teams they’ve been sending out.”

I wince, remembering that I missed ours. I still haven’t told him, and after his quip about skipping school, I know he won’t be happy about it.

He misreads the sour look on my face for concern over Eric, and he leans over and kisses me on the cheek. “I’m sure he’s fine. Spread thin, of course, which is why you need to cut him some slack.”

Cut him some slack? I sigh. I know he’s just trying to stop me from obsessing so much, but how can I? What happened to us wasn’t just the result of some silly choice, but an incredibly stupid and deadly one. And what’s happening now all around us has the potential to explode into something just as bad.

He pulls me close, and I smell his scent, the soap he uses, the shampoo, the underlying musk that is uniquely his. “We’re still alive,” he whispers. “And we have a chance to keep on living. Things may not be so good right now, but they sure as hell could be a lot worse.”

“I know.”

“So how about we forget about it all for a few hours, okay? No more talking?”

He kisses me, and suddenly, talking is the absolute last thing I want to do. I want him, all of him, to the exclusion of everything else. I want to hold him against me forever, to never let him go.

We hug, and for that one moment we’re all that exists, and this connection between us is all that matters. Not Eric or Reggie. Not the dead. Not my mother or grandfather. I want him more than I’ve ever wanted anything else before. I lean up to kiss him back, but my stomach apparently has other ideas. The gurgle is louder than the rattle of the rain on the glass and the clatter of the wind battering and shaking the window in its frame. I freeze, embarrassed.

“Was that the mating call of a hippopotamus in heat?”

I start to laugh. “I’m sorry.”

He leans forward and smashes his lips to mine. Then he breaks away, a look of concern on his face. “You feeling okay?”

“I’m fine. Just my inner hippopotamus in heat.”

“Are you sure? Because you haven’t—”

“I’m okay, really, Kel.”

“Because I know you haven’t been feeling well.”

“I’m not going to be sick,” I say, a little irritated.

“Maybe we should just, you know, call it a night.”

“If that’s what you want.”

He turns. “I’ve got to finish these dishes.”

“Jesus, Kel! You’re not going to get off that easily.”

I slide my hands down his back, then around to the front. I untuck his shirt and reach up under it. He sucks in a sharp breath when I run my fingers over his scabs, but he doesn’t stop me.

Outside, the thunder rumbles.

I trace the edges of his last bandage with my thumb, careful not to put any pressure on it. That one bite is taking its time healing. I know it’s still sensitive in the way he moves sometimes. I reach forward and spiral my fingertips around his belly button. I play with the soft hair below it. Down, down past the tightness of his waistband. He stills, holding his breath. I hear his heart beat quicken. He’s a statue now, entranced. I press my body into his, and he sighs.

Then I stop. I just stand there like that for a long time, and he seems content to let that be. I can feel his tension, his desire building like the gathering storm outside.

And like the storm, we both eventually break.

More than once, the crashing thunder pierces the bubble of our lovemaking. The lights flicker uncertainly. One thunderbolt sounds so loud and close that I stop and jump out of bed naked and run over to the window. As I stand there shivering, watching the trees lash about in the wind and the flashes crossing the sky, I wait for the sirens to tell me the lightning has struck something nearby. With each new flicker, I can see the roiling clouds hanging low over us. Their ghostly shapes sear into my mind. But the streetlights continue to glow, despite the lashing wind rocking them like I’ve never seen before. The power remains on. Kelly gets up and comes over to me. He guides me back to bed. The storm’s fury peaks, but we are too caught up in our own tempest to notice it.

Afterward, he closes his eyes and moans my name. I drift off, too. When I wake again later on, the storm has passed. I slip downstairs and finish cleaning up. I wrap the leftover casserole and stick it into the fridge. I rest my hands on the edge of the sink and lean toward the window.

This is how our lives should be, uncomplicated by nothing more than the uncertain weather. Just the two of us.

Kelly’s ghost appears behind me. I turn and reach for him, but he holds back.

“Why do you have these?” he asks, and tosses something onto the table. It’s the bag of pills Siennah slipped into my backpack the other day.

I give him a flustered look and don’t answer.

“I went to empty your pockets to put your jeans in the laundry and I found them.”

“They’re not mine.”

“Jessie.” I hate the way he looks at me, like he thinks I’m lying. “You don’t have to—”

“I’m telling you the truth, they’re not mine.”

“Okay...”

I shake my head. “It’s a long story.”

“Are you zoning?”

“What? No! Kelly. You know I wouldn’t. Why would you think that?”

“Because you’ve got a baggie of Zoners in your pocket! And you’ve been drinking again.”

“Not much.”

“You know how you get.”

“Well, I told you I’m not zoning!”

“Then where did you get these? Why do you even have them?”

“Siennah—” I sputter, trying to find the right words.

“Siennah Davenport?” he exclaims. “Why the hell are you getting drugs from her?”

“I didn’t get drugs from her! She put them in my backpack!”

“What? Why the hell would she do that?”

“Because she hates me! She wants to get me into trouble!”

“By putting expensive designer drugs into your pocket?”

“They were in my backpack! And besides, she can afford them!”

He continues to give me a skeptical look.

“You know something?” I spit. “Forget it. I told you they’re not mine. I told you how they got there. I told you I’m not zoning. You can choose to believe me or not. But either way, I’m not discussing this anymore. Just drop it, okay?”

“I’m not just going to drop it! Drugs and alcohol aren’t going to solve anything. Don’t you remember when—”

I push past him. I know I should just tell him about my little encounter with Siennah in the bathroom at school, but I’m ashamed it even happened. I let some rich, privileged little princess take me down. Me! I’ve killed people. I’ve taken out the undead. I’ve seen terrible things. And yet some spoiled rich bitch gets the best of me?

He grabs my arm before I can escape, and my stomach clenches.

“Jessie, you can’t just—”

But I tear free and run for the stairs. I barely make it to the bathroom, slamming the door behind me and whipping the toilet seat up before dinner comes pouring out of my throat. The cramps are ten times worse than they’ve ever been. I feel like I’m being ripped in half.

Kelly knocks. I tell him to go away. I don’t want him to see me like this. “Are you okay?”

“Just leave me alone!”

“Maybe you should see a doctor. I know someone who—”

“It’s nothing. I think it was the cheese. I’ll be fine. Just give me a few minutes.”

“Then I’d be sick, too.”

I ignore him. When I’m finished puking, I crawl into the tub and let the shower run over me until the water turns cold, and goose bumps cover my flesh.

Chapter 12

I find Kelly sitting on the edge of my bed a half hour later. He gets up without saying a word. A few seconds later, I hear the bathroom door shut and the shower turn on. I collapse onto the bed where he was sitting. I want so badly to cry, but I’m too spent, too broken to even remember how to start.

I’m staring at Kelly’s Link before I even realize it’s in my hands. It’s a standard issue model, like mine, the same as ninety-nine percent of the population— a thin black rectangle of nearly indestructible plastic, a single recessed button. The silver paint on the Arc emblem has begun to rub off. When I press the button, his home screen pops up. It’s an image of the two of us together. I tell myself I can’t remember where and when it was taken. Was it Ashley who took it?

No. You know who it was.

Yes. Micah. As much as I wish it wouldn’t, the memory comes back to me. It was at a backyard picnic from last summer. There’s the smear of barbecue sauce on Kelly’s shirt from the food fight Reggie started. Kelly’s got this goofy look on his face, trying to kiss me.

I love you, Jessie.

Kelly’s words echo in my head, except that I hear Micah’s voice speaking them.

The picnic was just days before our brief break.

The image blurs when tears fill my eyes. I wipe them away.

He doesn’t deserve you.

He’s been keeping secrets.

I love you, Jessie.

I scroll down to RECENT PINGS and push the button. I need to know who he was talking to this afternoon.

I don’t recognize the identifier at the top of the list. There’s no name beside it, nothing at all to indicate who sent it, which is highly unusual. After Arc was awarded the contract to supply every citizen with Link communication devices, Government passed the Open Information Act, which mandated some level of open ID for everyone accessing the streams. Only in a few rare cases is an exemption granted, usually for people in sensitive positions. But the loophole is also exploited by criminals. Which of these is Kelly be communicating with, and why?

I note the time and the duration of the ping. It coincides with when I found Kelly standing outside Reggie’s house. He’d said he was talking with the people at the hospital about Kyle. But why would anyone there have an unlisted Link identifier?

I keep scrolling. Other than Reggie’s and my own identifiers and those of Kelly’s parents’, this is the only number he’s pinged since we’ve been back.

I scroll back to the top of the list, and my thumb hovers over the connect button for a moment, hesitating. I know this is a breach of trust, but so was keeping the equipment a secret from me.

The device feels hot in my hand, as if it senses what I’m considering. I set the Link on the bed and close my eyes. I’m really confused. On the one hand, I want to trust Kelly. Yet on the other, something inside of me keeps telling me I shouldn’t.

I have to know.

I pluck the Link up again and quickly tap before I can have any second thoughts. If Kelly was actually talking with someone at the hospital, then all will be resolved in a matter of seconds. I’ll just have to live with the guilt of knowing he’d told me the truth and I’d doubted him.

But if it’s not them, then...

It takes a moment for the ping to connect. I hear the distinct click when it does. I take in a breath and hold it.

“Sisters of Mercy.”

I close my eyes and slowly exhale.

“If you know your party’s extension,” the mechanical voice continues. But I thumb the connection off before it can finish. It’s all the confirmation I need. I don’t have to hear anymore.

Chapter 13

I wake with a jolt from a deep sleep, gasping for air and aware that I’d been having a nightmare, but now I can’t even remember what it was about. I sit up and squint at the bright sunlight streaming in through the window. The other half of the bed is empty, no sign of Kelly. The mattress is cold.

I lie back down and close my eyes. Guilt floods through me over having doubted him. How could I suspect him of hiding something from me? True, he didn’t want me to know about the gaming gear, but even Reggie had agreed not to tell me out of fear I’d freak out. I probably would have if I’d discovered it under different circumstances.

I growl in frustration. I don’t want to face him right now, but it still irritates me that he’d just leave. I swing my feet over the side of the bed and sit up. The pain from the wound in my side flares, and I suck in a sharp breath. I let the wave of dizziness fade before I try standing.

I can hear someone downstairs in the kitchen. Is it Kelly? I scan the room. All of his clothes are gone, as is his Link. If he’d just gone down to get something to eat, he wouldn’t have bothered taking it all. No, seeing how late it is, I’m pretty sure he’s gone back to his parents’ house. So, it’s either Eric come home after another long shift, or my mom finally returning after being gone for a week. She’s probably down there right now making me breakfast because she thinks it’ll make everything okay again between us, that I’ll forgive her for bailing out on me the day I needed her most. I’ve been telling myself I knew she’d flake, but it still hurts that she actually did. They’ll have to be some pretty stellar pancakes, if she thinks I’m just going to forgive her.

I make my way to the stairs, but another spasm of pain shoots through my gut, sending me scrambling into the bathroom. I’ve never had premenstrual cramps this bad before, and I’m starting to wonder if the infection or the trauma I’ve endured has really messed me up inside. Or maybe it’s just because I haven’t been eating or sleeping very well. I don’t really care what the reason is. I’m done with being sick.

I’ve always had bad cramps, but I’ve also just dealt with them. It’s given me a high tolerance for pain, something I’ve also developed over the years from all the bruises and broken bones I sustained learning hapkido. When I was fourteen, for example, I broke my collar bone. That’s what happens when you ill-time a lunge for the very moment your opponent is executing a front kick. I also broke a toe a few months later taking out my anger in a wall— something I’d rather just forget about. And I dislocated my thumb when I was sixteen. Of course, none of that compares in any way to the pain I suffered while on Long Island— the sprained wrist, the dislocated shoulder. The twisted ankle and the blows to the head. Almost getting shot ...

And the bite.

But this is a different sort of pain than I’ve had before, a new kind of suffering that seems to just explode from somewhere so deep down inside of me that it doesn’t even feel like it’s organic. It burns with such intensity that it makes me feel as if my stomach and intestines are trying to force themselves up and out of my body through my throat.

I fight the impulse to vomit long enough to turn on the shower, and then wait until the steam begins to rise before I step into it. I want it to scald me. I want to feel it on my skin, because I know I can at least deal with that. I can locate the pain, and in that way externalize it.

I lower my head into the blast and let the water run over me until the cramps subside. I stay there until the hot water runs out. By the time I’ve toweled dry, the cramps are gone.

I find Eric in the kitchen. He’s leaning over the stove, his back to me. He jerks his head up and spins around when I say his name.

“Jessie!” he exclaims. He glances at the clock. “You’re going to be late again.”

“I thought I heard Mom.”

He shakes his head.

I cinch my robe tighter about me and step over to the fridge. “You didn’t happen to see Kelly, did you?”

“Caught him just as he was leaving. You two okay?”

He knows you sneaked into his Link. Why else would he leave without waking you?

I nod. “Everything’s good.”

“He said he needed to get home— his parents’ house, I mean. To check on Kyle.”

“What time did you get in?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe four-thirty? I couldn’t sleep.”

“You’ve been up since then?” He still has his work clothes on. “What are you doing?”

“Cleaning.”

He returns to his scrubbing, and goes at it with such vigor that he looks like he’s trying to remove the enamel. He swipes a forearm across his forehead, then renews his efforts. I can’t imagine how he can stand it with his rib being broken. The back of his shirt is soaked with sweat.

“I think it’s clean.”

He turns to face me again. The circles under his eyes are darker than before.

“Go to bed,” I tell him. “Get some rest.”

“And you better get moving.”

I shrug.

“You can’t keep missing school, Jessie. I can’t keep covering for you.”

I don’t answer. I hadn’t been aware he even knew. I wonder if the school contacted him.

“If you keep this up, they’ll start adding days to your Life Service Commitment.”

I sniff. “Like I care about that.”

“Well, I do! As your legal guardian, I—”

“You’re not my legal guardian.”

He pulls the burner grate off and starts cleaning the gas jets underneath it. His refusal to argue the point only makes me think he might actually be telling the truth.

“Are you?”

“Jess...”

“Since when?”

“Mom filed the documents after you got back.”

“What the hell?” I shout. I slap the countertop with my palm. “You’re not my parent! And why wasn’t I even asked? It’s my life! I’m not just some baby.”

He stops scrubbing and straightens up. “You’re not an adult, either. Not legally, anyway. It’s better this way, Jess. I thought you’d agree with that, at least.”

“How is this better?”

“I can do a better job of protecting you.”

“That’s a pile of crap!”

He glances at me over his shoulder. “It’s a step in the right direction. Anyway, it just means the school pings me when you’re not in class.”

“Great, so now Mister Undead Policeman is a truant officer, too.”

“Hey!”

“Are you happy, now that you can spy on me?”

“I’m not spying on you! Look, Jess, the reality is, if they can’t clear an absence in three days, it goes to the state for assessment. And sentencing. If Mom’s not around—”

“So let it go for assessment. I don’t care. Let them add time to my LSC. Big whoop.”

“You should care, Jess. We’re not talking about detention or something trivial like that, we’re talking about your life! Early conscription! Is that what you want?”

“My life?” I bark. “What do you even know about my life?”

I toss my cereal bowl onto the table. Milk and corn flakes splash over the edge. He gives it a baleful look, like he’s already resigned himself to cleaning it up. I sit down and start shoveling it into my mouth, defying him to say anything more.

“You need to start acting like everything’s normal,” he says. “Otherwise, we’re not going to get through this.”

“That’s the problem right there, Eric,” I say past a mouthful of flakes. “Nothing’s normal. But you already know that, don’t you? All of this is just one big charade — going to school, going to work, going through the motions — nothing but a big fat lie!”

“I didn’t say it was normal, Jess. I said we have to act like it is, or we—”

“What do you mean we won’t get through this? What are you talking about?”

“Forget it. Just... forget it. Okay?” He throws his hands into the air. “Please, just stop skipping classes. For once just do something for your own good.”

“School’s useless. They’re not teaching us anything. Nothing useful, anyway. And the rest is lies. They don’t know that half the crap they teach us is completely wrong. Or worse, maybe they do and they don’t give a shit.”

“Jessie—”

“And since we’re on the subject of our dear old Mother, where the hell is she anyway? Off drinking and whoring, just like old times, is she? If that’s acting normal, I don’t want anything to do with it!”

Eric freezes. Then something comes over him. He seems to wither right before my very eyes. “I haven’t heard from her,” he mutters. “She hasn’t answered any of my pings for a few days.”

“That’s nothing new.”

“She’s never ignored my pings before.”

I sniff in disgust. “Well, aren’t you special!”

“No, I’m serious. It’s like she’s just... dropped off the face of the earth. I’m worried.”

“You’re worried? You should’ve known this was going to happen when she signed over legal custody to you. You had to know she was going to bail, and you never said a word to me.”

“That has nothing to do with anything.”

I throw my spoon into the bowl. I’ve totally lost any appetite I might have had. “Don’t waste your time worrying. She’s not worth it.”

“She...” His voice trails off. He looks lost. “Mom doesn’t mean to hurt you. She just doesn’t know how else to act.”

It’s infuriating. How many times have I heard him saying exactly this about her? How many times has she betrayed our loyalty— ours, not just mine? How many times has she disappointed us both? “I don’t know why you continue to stick up for her,” I grumble.

“Because she’s our mother.”

“She’s a stupid, uncaring, selfish bitch.”

Eric clenches his fists. He looks like he wants to hit me, and I wish he would. I jump to my feet and take a step closer, daring him. I want him to punish me for all the hurt I’ve caused. He’s shaking. There’s raw emotion in his eyes. But he doesn’t act on it. He steps back and turns away from me. The muscles in his cheeks throb as he works to control his temper. “I don’t have time for this, Jess,” he says, throwing the scrubber onto the table. “Go to school.”

“Oh, right, because I’m just supposed to act like everything’s normal.”

“Yes, Jessie. Let me deal with this.”

“Like you’ve been dealing with it for the past five days?” I shout. “Six, actually.”

He stares at me for a moment. Then he brushes past me without speaking. I can hear him climbing the stairs. He doesn’t stomp, like I would. He doesn’t slam doors. He walks lightly, deliberately. That’s how angry he is.

Well, so what? I’m angry, too! Furious even. But it goes beyond fury. Hate fills me. I hate that, after everything she’s done to us, he still protects her.

And I hate that I still worry about her.

Chapter 14

“Jess?”

Eric appears in the kitchen doorway, startling me. I don’t know how long I’ve been standing here, paralyzed by my emotions. A couple minutes? A half hour?

He holds out his Link. “It’s for you.”

Is it her? I want to ask. Is it Mom?

“It’s Citizen Registration.”

My heart nearly stops. My skin freezes. “Why are they pinging you? We took back their stupid temporary Link, so what do they want now?”

You know what they want.

“I don’t know,” he says. “They asked for you.”

They must have pinged him after failing to get a hold of me on my Link, since I’d left it upstairs.

“Why did they ping you?”I ask. “Why not the House Link?”

“I don’t know, Jess,” he says, stiffly. He nods at the device, prompting me to take the call.

“Hello? This is Jess—”

“Is this Jessica Anne Daniels?” asks a mechanical, genderless voice. I confirm that it is, and it recites my Link identifier code and street address. “Please confirm that these are correct.”

“They— Yes, they’re correct.”

“You have been assigned an eleven o’clock appointment this morning for an implant device check at the central Citizen Registration office in Hartford. You must appear in person with your personal Link device. If you fail to appear, or you appear without your Link device, you will be subject to LSC review. Do you understand these instructions? Please respond by saying yes.”

“Yes.”

“Do you understand the consequences of not appearing at the assigned time? Please respond by—”

“Yes.”

The androgynous-sounding clerk — I’m almost sure it’s a real person and not a machine — provides me with the number for the earliest bus from Greenwich. “You are not required to pay the fare. Just swipe your Link upon boarding.”

The ping abruptly disconnects, leaving me stunned and uncertain.

Eric gently pulls the Link from my fingers. I can tell he’s angry I missed the screening at school, but he doesn’t say a word. “I’ll drive you.”

“I thought you didn’t have time.”

“Let me do this.”

“I’ll take the bus.”

“Damn it, Jessie! Can we just not argue over everything? Please?”

I can see the worry etched into his face. I know he’s just trying to protect me, like he always does, but there’s nothing he can do about this. Anyway, it’s not just worry I see, but sheer exhaustion.

“I’m not arguing,” I tell him. “You need to sleep. You can barely stand upright.”

He sighs and shakes his head.

“I’ll be fine. Really. I mean, it’s just to check my implant.”

“And you know what they’ll find.”

“Yeah, that I’ve rejected it. But it’s not like they’re going to put a new one in right there. They’ll schedule another appointment, and you can take me then. You have to sleep. I’ll be okay taking the bus, I promise.”

He looks like he wants to continue protesting, but he doesn’t. “Straight there, Jess. Then you come straight back. And if there’s any problem, you ping me. Don’t let them do anything to you without consulting me first.”

“They’re not going to do anything. Besides, those people at CR are all zombies anyway, and we all know I can handle them just fine.”

He grunts crossly, but I can tell he knows I’m right. Then, quite unexpectedly, he steps over and wraps his arms around me. I can’t remember the last time we hugged like this. I realize he probably would have the day he arrived in Gameland, but he was too injured then.

Before I can say or do anything, he’s already let go of me and left the room.

Chapter 15

I really hate the bus. Seriously. I hate everything about it— the hard, grungy seats and the smudged, greasy windows. I hate the weird smells. I hate the way the outside always stinks of burnt oil and plastic, while the inside reeks of tired, broken people, not quite dead but definitely well on their way. I hate how the passengers look at me when I get on, with their furtive glances and their slyly averted eyes when I draw close to their seat, as if they fear I’m going to sit down next to them.

I hate all that, but it’s still better than sitting for forty minutes in a car with Eric. At least the other passengers aren’t silently judging me. Or, if they are, I don’t care.

This time, I’m lucky enough to get a window seat to myself. If someone gets on now and sits next to me, I’ll just scowl like everyone else does. And if they still insist, I won’t talk to them. Talking causes problems. Talking can get people killed.

As the scenery drifts past my window, I can’t help replaying the argument with Eric. I know he doesn’t deserve my wrath, but he always seems to find a way to push my buttons. I feel bad about it, though. Same cycle of me losing control and feeling guilty, and him running away because he can’t handle me. It’s not fair that he should take the brunt of my anger, especially when it comes to our mother. He doesn’t deserve it. But he should know by now that I can’t help myself.

Why does it come so easy for me to hurt the people who love me the most?

Because the ones capable of hurting you back don’t stick around long enough to take your shit.

If I keep this up, I’ll eventually drive everyone away— Kelly and Eric, even Reggie. I can’t afford to lose any more people in my life. I’ve already lost my best friend.

I pull the Link from my pocket and finger the button. Gathering my nerve, I thumb in Eric’s quick-code. When I get his voice mail, I almost decide to just disconnect.

Almost.

“Eric, listen,” I mumble into the device. “About this morning. I’m sorry. You’re right about Mom. I know I shouldn’t blame you for her. It’s just that...” I let out a deep breath. “It’s just that she promised to try harder. And I wanted to believe her. I did believe her and so when she...”

I’m close to tears by this point. I know people are looking at me, but I don’t care.

“I just want you to know I really do appreciate you being there for me.”

When you actually are, the spiteful voice inside me grumbles. I push it away. I need to stop letting myself think that way.

“And for Mom, too. You’re the one thing keeping us all together.”

I suck in another deep, juddering breath. My chest shakes with emotion. I consider stopping right there and deleting the message, but I feel like I need to get this off my chest. How am I ever going to change for the better if I keep running away from doing what’s right?

“Anyway, I thought you should know that I have tried to ping Mom, I think maybe a—”

hundred

“—half dozen times, but she hasn’t answered me, either. I don’t know why she won’t. Even in the past she’s never gone more than a couple days, and I don’t know what to think. I— I’m worried about her, too.”

I swallow and wipe the tears from my face onto the sleeve of my shirt. I’m done crying. Like last night’s storm, this one had been building for a long time. Thankfully, when it finally burst, it wasn’t nearly as tumultuous.

“Anyway, let me know as soon as you hear from her. I promise I won’t be judgy. I’m... I’m done with that.”

Shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep.

I disconnect and slip the Link back into my pocket, then slouch down deeper into the seat, drawing my knees up so I don’t have to see anyone. I risk a furtive glance to the side, across the aisle. Nobody’s looking. They’re—

already dead. All of them. All of us. They just don’t know it.

—all too deeply immersed in their own personal dramas.

I sniff and turn back to the window.

God, I hate the bus. I hate everything about it.

But mostly I hate what’s waiting for me at the other end of the ride.

Chapter 16

As I had on my previous visits to the stark monstrosity of a building that houses Citizen Registration, I brace myself before going in. I don’t know why I hesitate. It’s not like it’s going to change anything. It’s not like I can turn around and come back another day. Or not at all.

I join the shambling crowds, and we squeeze our way in through the narrow double doors. I know it’s cliché, and a bit hyperbolic, but I feel like we’re all cattle being sent to the slaughter.

The Carcher Tower is as austere inside as it is outside: bare stone pillars, its bases dirtied by the oil of a million hands; unadorned walls; a high glassed-in security desk that also serves as the welcome area. Everything’s painted an off-white color, but years of sunlight, smog, and, before they were made illegal, cigarette smoke, has turned it all various shades of yellow. The floor is scuffed and dull. A single massive black ceramic pot has been placed near the screening gates to help divide and direct the flow of traffic. The dirt inside it is bone dry; the palm tree that once grew in it is now just a shriveled, ossified stump.

When I reach the desk, I give the clerk my name. She tells me to report to room four-twelve. “Fourth floor, first elevator on the right.”

“I’m just here for an implant screening, right?”

The clerk waves me past without answering the question. She shows no emotion at all when she repeats the room number. She waves the next person in line forward. I head over to the security line to be screened for entry.

The last time I came, I’d expected the scanner to turn me away and send me back to reception to be scheduled for reimplantation. After all, the device inside my head isn’t properly functioning, since my body rejected it. It seems like a lifetime ago, not just a handful of days. But the screener had simply waved me on without comment. Apparently, the handheld scanning device only registers the presence of an implant, not whether it’s intact and connected. That probably takes something a bit more sophisticated.

Room four-twelve.

What the hell is in room four-twelve?

Logically, I understand why having an intact, functioning device is so important. In the event of an outbreak, the implants of infected individuals will be activated. By doing so, Arc will be able to control them by overriding their singular drive to feed on the living and thereby prevent transmission of the disease between individuals. But I’m immune. I don’t need an implant. Sure, I might die if the wounds inflicted on me by an Infected are severe enough, but I’ll never reanimate.

Or so I’ve been told.

Unfortunately, no one can ever know that. Another thing people keep reminding me, including Kelly. If Arc or Government ever find out, I can kiss my freedom goodbye.

I don’t know if I agree. The world needs to know that natural immunity exists. It also needs to know that there’s a way to treat the infected before they die. We just have to find a way to come up with a cure.

Of course, Arc will never allow it. They make far too much money off the technology. And you won’t find a single politician who will risk campaigning on a platform that suggests otherwise. No one wants to reinstate taxes, even if it means eradicating the dead.

Well, almost no one. Some people are against the technology, a small minority. They protest. Or they go off-stream to avoid the government mandates altogether. Some people slip over the border wall into Canada. Or escape into the SSC; although in that case, the traffic flow southward is matched by traffic escaping north. The Coalition states have their own set of problems. Doesn’t matter which side of that wall you stand on, the grass always looks greener on the other side. Just ask—

I stop myself. Micah’s in no way indicative of people who are just seeking a better life for themselves. He was an opportunist. He deserves to be forgotten.

Government has focused a lot of time and energy trying to suppress those small bands of protesters, the outspoken ones voicing concerns about the technology’s risks, both biological and physical, as well as its potential for hacking and other abuses. Arc insists the implants are completely foolproof, both unbreakable and incapable of being activated while a person is still alive. Most people swallow those lines without questioning any of it. I know I did. But now I know how much those claims are complete and utter BS.

That’s why I don’t want to get a new implant. I’ve seen what can happen when someone takes control of you while you’re still alive. The Coalition figured out how to do it. Arc may have developed a way to stop them, but for how long? Once you know something’s possible, you won’t stop trying it again.

I approach the front of the line apprehensively, my gaze flicking from one person to the next. My heart’s racing. The scanner’s soft beeps confirm the presence of an implant in most people passing through. A solid tone sounds when someone doesn’t have one. Of the three this happens to in front of me, two are older men nearing their LSC age. They shuffle through the gates without expression or comment and are sent to the twenty-third floor. The third person, a young girl about seven, holds her mother’s hand and seems both excited and anxious. Her mother tries to reassure her.

The screener treats the girl just like everyone else. After telling her which floor to go to, she thanks her for her service, just like she did the two men.

As I wait my turn, I break out in a cold sweat. I worry the cramps and nausea will return and I’ll have to ask to use the bathroom. Thankfully, all I feel in my belly is the dull ache of worry.

The person in front of me is scanned, passed, and sent to her destination. Thank you for your service my mind chants. Then it’s my turn. The same woman who’d screened me just the week before, when Eric and I came to return the replacement Link I’d been assigned after losing mine on Long Island, is here again today. There’s no flicker of recognition in her eyes. She lifts her gloved hand toward the back of my head and gestures with her fingers to move forward. The little handheld scanning device she uses passes out of my view for a moment. There’s a confirmatory beep and the woman nods for me to move along.

“Fourth floor. Third elevator,” she says, stabbing a finger onto the screen of her computer. “Thank you for—”

“I was told the first elevator.”

“Third. Move along now. Thank you for your service.”

I step through the metal detector, then join the crowd gathered outside the elevators.

One or three?

What’ll happen if I get on the wrong one?

Three, I tell myself. The woman at Registration just misspoke.

But what if it was the screener who misspoke?

The door of elevator one opens, and the crowd presses forward, propelling me toward it. I step inside, then reverse my way back out. A guard standing beside the door eyes me suspiciously. “Wrong one,” I mutter, and make my way over to the third set of doors.

The car is packed when it finally arrives. It empties out and refills just as quickly. I ride it up to the fourth floor, and several others get off with me. But only one makes it all the way to room four-twelve. She’s a woman, maybe in her mid-thirties. It’s hard to tell ages correctly sometimes. When I glance at her, she quickly turns away and won’t meet my gaze. I get a brief glimpse of a bandage on the back of her neck. There’s a yellow stain that suggests an infected wound. I wonder briefly if it’s a new implantation that hasn’t healed properly.

She steps to the door first, but there she stalls. I step past her, twist the handle, and push. The room is wide, although only about ten feet deep. Plastic chairs line the near wall, facing a bank of service windows. All but one is shuttered with a rolling metal barrier. A large man with bloodshot eyes sits there. No one else is waiting.

“In or out,” the man calls over.

I step inside. The woman follows me. She slips directly over to the nearest chair and sits down. She stares at her knees and says nothing.

The man gestures at me. “Name?”

“Jessie— Jessica Anne Daniels. I’m—”

“Daniels? With an ‘s’ at the end?”

“Yes. I’m actually a little early. My appointment’s at—”

“Have a seat. Next! You!” He crooks his sausage finger at the woman and calls her over.

I shake my head. The people who work here are always so brusque and impersonal. You’d think that, as many times as I’ve been here in recent weeks, I’d learn to expect it. But it always surprises me.

The woman gets up and makes her way over. She stares at the floor and still says nothing.

“Young lady, please have a seat,” the man tells me again. He points to the chair directly in front of him. I dutifully take the indicated seat.

I’m really early, and now I’m starting to regret it. Eleven o’clock is still forty-five minutes away. But I’d hoped I could just get this over with.

The woman leans over and mumbles something to the man, her lips nearly touching the small metal screen in the glass.

“Remove the bandage,” he instructs her.

She glances nervously at me. I turn away. When she looks back at the man, I try not to stare. I know it’s none of my business, but I’m curious to know what happened to her implant. She reaches back and pulls her hair out of the way. Then she carefully removes the gauze pad. The tape is especially sticky, and she ends up tearing a bunch of hair out by the roots. She hisses in pain.

“How long have you been implanted?” the man asks her.

“Eleven years.”

“And this is the first time you’ve had any problems with it?”

“Y-yes.”

“How did it get infected?”

She looks furtively at me again. There’s unmistakable terror in her eyes.

“I— I don’t know.”

“It is a federal offense to tamper with implant devices or to attempt to remove or disconnect them,” he recites. “Implant devices are impervious to unauthorized removal. If our examination uncovers evidence of tampering, you may be held over for LSC review.”

There’s a click, and a large panel in the wall to his left slides open. He instructs her to enter. I catch a glimpse of another person waiting inside. He’s wearing medical scrubs and holds a computer tablet in his hands. The woman does as she’s told. The panel whispers shut.

I strain my ears to hear. I want to know what’s being said on the other side of that door. But my heart is hammering in my chest, and my blood is pounding through my head. I wonder what’s going to happen to her. I have some strong suspicions, because it’s becoming obvious what she tried to do. She’d attempted to remove her implant, but chickened out before activating the self-destruct. It’s the only explanation.

But maybe I’m wrong. I hope I am.

There’s no clock on the wall, so I check my Link. Still more than thirty minutes to go, assuming they don’t take me early.

I don’t feel like watching Media. Or anything else, really. I shut my eyes and try to calm myself. What’s the worst that could happen? I tell myself not to think about it.

My thoughts drift. For some reason, Reggie pops into my head. I see him standing inside his garage, looking confused. I remember  how scared he was that he might be going crazy. Although I had my doubts, I’d finally agreed with him that it was the Zoners that caused him to lose time. But I’ve never heard of that happening before. Zoners are supposed to enhance everything, not make you black out. But what other explanation could there be for him losing eight hours and abandoning his Player?

The next time I look at my Link, only a few minutes have passed.

I think about him going back to Gameland in The Game. He has to know how unlikely it is that he’ll find Ashley or Jake. They’re just two of the undead out of the tens of thousands roaming the thousand square miles of Long Island. And even if Gameland itself is only a tenth of that, he could spend an eternity looking and still never find them.

Closure. That’s why he’s doing it. He’ll never be able to move on until he knows for sure Ashley’s finally at rest.

And what if he actually does find her? Will he be able to do what’s necessary?

It’s the same question that plagued me the whole time we were there, the question Jake himself posed and I could never give him a straight answer for. I still don’t know what I’d do. I thought I did, the few times I’d found myself in the position to act. I’d quieted Casey and Shane and Miss Novak. I’d very nearly quieted Jake, until Brother Matthew showed up with a syringe of Father Heall’s blood. If I had just acted a little more swiftly and done it, I’d never have been bitten. And maybe everything else would have turned out differently.

Maybe Father Heall — Professor Halliwell — would still be alive, and I could ask him what really happened in Virginia fifteen years ago.

And maybe you’d still be trapped on Long Island.

That’s the problem with trying to recast the past. Every decision has consequences that affects everything afterward in unknowable ways. That’s why it’s useless to try and do it.

But moving forward from here? That’s a whole different question. The future’s a completely blank slate.

Would I be able to quiet Ashley? I’m not sure I could. And if I can’t say, what makes me think Reggie will be able to do it?

The door beside the window slides open again, pulling me from my thoughts. The fat man’s gone from his station. I lean over to the side and see him waiting just inside that small anteroom. His back is to me. He seems to be waiting.

Is he waiting for me?

I stand up and start to walk over. But he must hear me, because he turns and gestures for me to go back. I step away, but I don’t sit down. A moment later, the medical attendant appears through the opposite panel. The woman who’d come here with me hangs on his shoulder. Her head lolls to one side. She’s been heavily sedated.

The two men guide her out into the waiting area without speaking. I expect them to sit her down in one of the chairs, but they head over to the door to the hallway and wait.

When I glance back at the window, I see that someone new has taken the fat man’s place. He’s typing on a screen in the surface of his desk and doesn’t pay any of us any attention. I back up to one of the shuttered windows and wait. I don’t know what’s going to happen, but I don’t expect it to be anything good.

The hallway door opens a couple minutes later, and the two men carry the woman out of the room. I step closer and see a third man waiting outside. The three of them lift her onto a gurney. They do all of this without speaking.

“Would you mind shutting that?” the new guy asks me. “The door there. Yes, that one. Thanks.”

I grab the handle and begin to pull it shut. Before it cuts off my view, a technician appears. She’s dressed in white and is pushing an equipment cart with a large boxy instrument on top. I’ve seen one just like it before. In fact, it was less than a week ago. It’s a conscription machine.

“Ms Daniels?” the man at the window says. The panel beside him slides open. “Right this way.”

I step forward numbly. All I can think about is how they’re taking that woman to be reanimated.

Chapter 17

“Okay, so... why exactly are we seeing you today?” the attendant asks as he ushers me into another room.

I peek at his computer tablet as I pass him, and frown when he angles it away. After what I just witnessed, I can’t help imagining the worst. My heart’s racing. My skin’s clammy. I’m sweating, even though the air conditioning is running full blast and the room is freezing. What will they think happened when they see the experimental implant Arc put in? What if it’s not in my records? Will they think I tampered with it when they realize my body rejected it?

“Ms Daniels?”

“It’s Missus,” I mutter.

“Why are you here today?”

I blink stupidly at him for a moment. “Um, the federal inoculation initiative?” My voice shakes. “I missed my implant screening at school. I was... sick that day.”

The man’s eyebrows lift in surprise. “And they sent you here, to this room?”

“Is it not the correct place?”

“Not for makeup screenings.”

He shrugs and sets the tablet to one side. “Odd. But... okay. We’ll get this straightened out.” He gestures for me to have a seat on the stainless steel examination table.

I step over to it. There’s only one other object in the room, some sort of instrument. I can’t tell what it’s used for.

The man — his badge says his name is Thomas — gives me an apologetic smile. “I don’t usually work this station,” he confesses. They called me in to fill in while they...” He gestures vaguely at the door. “Anyway, it’s not a problem. Should only take a minute to figure out what’s up.”

He reaches back and grabs the tablet again and swipes the screen. “Huh. Looks like there’s a note here to check your implant’s firmware. You know anything about that?”

I try to swallow, but my mouth is completely dry. I shake my head. All I can think about is the woman they took out of here. What if they try to drug me like they did to her? Will I resist?

You know there’s only one place you’ll be going if they do.

“Well,” Thomas says, shrugging, “I guess I’ll run the diagnostics. It’s possible there’s nothing wrong. They sometimes call in random individuals for quality control purposes. You know, to make sure the control program hasn’t been corrupted. Everything should check out just fine.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

He cocks an eyebrow at me. “I wouldn’t worry about that. Never had a failure before.”

“How long have you worked here?”

“Six months,” he says.

“That’s all?”

He chuckles. “Feels a lot longer.”

“And how long is this going to take?”

“Not very.”

“And when we’re finished?”

“You should be able to go home. Well, once I get a pingback from Records confirming everything’s good with your implant.”

“So, this isn’t because of the school screenings?”

The clerk sniffs. “This office doesn’t usually do routine verifications. Of course, you’ve got this added screening, so maybe that’s why they assigned you here.”

“What do they usually do here?” I ask. I’m not sure I want to know.

“Well, they’re supposed to deal exclusively with devices that have been corrupted.”

Just like mine.

“But with all the extra testing and such,” he continues, “they’ve been putting the overflow wherever there’s room in the schedule. CR’s been swamped, as you can probably imagine.”

“Because of the network problems?”

Thomas’ eyes narrow. Before I can take it back or change the subject, he quickly excuses himself and exits through a different doorway. I curse silently. I should know better than to mention the rumors here. Why can’t I keep my stupid mouth shut? Most Citizen Registration employees work for the state, and they’re loyal only as far as they need to be. But some are subcontractors hired out by Arc. It’s those people who take their jobs — and their employer — seriously.

Thomas returns a few minutes later carrying a handheld implant scanner. He seems to be back to his personable self. Whatever sent him scurrying out seems not to be bothering him now.

“Let’s just get your baseline, Ms Daniels. Sorry, Missus.” He gives me a strained smile, then reaches behind my head and passes the instrument over my neck. It beeps and he nods. He repeats the sweeping gesture, except this time holding the scanner close to the tablet to transfer the information.

I stay silent, not daring to say anything more. It’s best to just keep quiet.

“Your vitals look good— blood pressure, heart rate, temperature.”

“You got all that?” I frown in surprise.

“From your implant.” He chuckles at my expression. “I know. People seem surprised to know it can do that. Arc won’t license out the technology to doctors because of the potential for misuse.”

“But I thought my implant—”

“Was completely inactive?” He leans in close and whispers, “That’s a common misconception. The correct term is latent, as in ‘latent individualized neural connection’. That’s what the acronym stands for. But if the devices aren’t constantly monitoring for vitality, how else would they be able to detect if you’re dead?” He chuckles and adds, smiling wryly, “You’re alive, by the way, in case you were wondering.”

But I don’t understand. How can my implant be receiving any sort of biometric information if my body has rejected it?

“Is everything alright?” he asks. “You look confused.”

I blink. “It’s just... I guess I just never really thought about it.” It’s a lie. “I guess I should’ve asked the doctors when I was in the hospital.”

“Oh? When was that?”

“About a month ago. I was in an accident and they replaced my implant.”

“Replaced it?” He shakes his head. “Not according to my records. It’s still the original one as far as I can tell— fourteen years old, same implant identifier code and everything. Could stand to be updated, though. These older models lack some of the more advanced connection features. Lower latency, broader and more efficient streaming, etcetera. You should consider having it done.”

I reach behind me and feel the still tender incision on the back of my neck. It’s almost completely healed. How can it be the same identifier? Micah’s tracker used a different code.

“Says here the device was inserted...” He swipes his finger across the screen and gives it a tap. “Looks like you’ve had it since you were three?”

I nod, numbly. That’s when I had the original implant put in.

“Oh, wait. Nope, you’re right. Duh. I guess you would know your own body, right? Here’s a note saying it was upgraded at New York Medical Center a few weeks ago. That’s odd, though. I’ve never seen this model number before.”

“New materials,” I say, both relieved and newly anxious. “That’s what the doctor told me anyway.”

“Well, I guess that would make sense. Biocompatibility’s been a bit of an issue, but... Hmm. Actually, it says here they planned to replace it, but decided not to.”

“What? Why?”

He taps the screen, reads, taps again. “There’s only a medical code listed here, but I don’t recognize it and it’s not cross-referencing with anything.” He looks up at her, a strange look on his face. “I honestly don’t know what any of this means.”

“So, what does that mean for me?”

“To be honest, I have no idea. Let me run this up the flagpole.” He stands up again and tells me to sit tight, leaving me alone for the second time in the too-cold, too-bright room.

I try to relax. It’s going to be fine, I tell myself. So why is my heart racing like crazy?

Because they’re going to dig, and they’re going to find some reason to think you tampered with—

The door opens and Thomas returns. “So, I’m told I just need to run a couple of other tests. May I have your Link communication device, please?” He extends his hand, palm up. He’s all business now.

I hand it over. “What’s wrong?”

He doesn’t answer, just walks it over to the machine and inserts my Link into a slot on the side. The instrument immediately whirs to life. A screen lights up, flickering from black to white to green. After the machine produces a series of rapid beeps, Thomas taps a button on the menu.

“Lie back down, please. On your back. Feet to my left.”

“I thought I was finished.”

“Please, just follow the instructions.”

“But—”

“I don’t want to have to call for restraints.”

I do as he says, growing more terrified by the minute. My gaze sweeps the room, looking for a way out. It snags on the camera mounted in the corner of the ceiling. I sense his change in demeanor has something to do with it. Are we being watched?

I have to fight the urge to run. It’d be unwise. I’d never make it out of the building.

Thomas draws the machine close to the side of the bed, positioning it right next to my head. He starts pushing buttons.

“What’s that?”

“Continuity scanner,” he says.

“What does it do?”

I don’t expect him to answer, so I’m surprised when he does. “It’s a simple test to measure signal receptivity across the entire stream spectrum. Just relax. You’ll be fine.”

He extracts a set of electrodes from a compartment on the side of the instrument and untangles them. One end of each he inserts into the matching ports on the front. He attaches the other ends of the cables to a plastic band. “Lift your head. Now turn onto your right side.”

I feel a splash of coldness on the back of my neck. There’s the sound of adhesive tape being pulled from a roll, the end torn. Then he’s pressing something against the implant insertion site. “Okay, on your back again.”

I don’t look at him. I focus on a random spot in the ceiling some distance away from the camera. My pulse roars through my head.

“And... done.”

“Already?”

“With this step. Skin conductance test. Looks good. Lie still. Doctor Forrester will be right in.”

“Doctor? Is he— I mean, am I getting a new—”

He stops me with a raised hand. “She is not a medical doctor. She’s an Arc engineer. Just follow her instructions and it’ll all be over soon.” His eyes flick to the ceiling camera. Then he leaves.

Once more, I’m left all alone. I wonder idly if the door is locked. I wonder how far I’d make it before they realize I’ve run. Is it even possible to escape?

Not with that damn thing in your head.

Chapter 18

The woman who enters the room a few minutes later says nothing. She steps directly to the machine and stares intently at the screen. Her gaze shifts briefly to the tablet in her hands. She sets it on my stomach and tells me to relax. Oddly enough, I’m finding that a bit difficult at the moment.

“Is everything okay?” I tentatively ask.

She mutters something, but I don’t think it’s in response to my question. It’s more like she’s running through a mental checklist. I don’t understand any of it. Then she flips a switch. “Good Link-to-implant continuity,” she says. “I said relax, Miss Daniels.”

“Missus.” I cringe inwardly.

“Missus Daniels. I just need to confirm network patency. I’ll send both your devices a simple script. You may feel a strange sensation, a sort of fullness inside your head, maybe even a little dizziness. It’ll only last for a moment. Ready?”

“It won’t hurt, will it?”

“No.”

I nod. “Okay.”

There’s a click, then there’s a sharp pain. It starts in the back of my head and shoots forward. I cry out and start to sit up. But just as quickly, the pain is gone.

“Did that hurt?”

“A little, yeah,” I gasp. “What the hell was that?”

She actually looks startled. But she doesn’t answer. She types something into her tablet, once more mumbling underneath her breath.

The pain’s completely gone, but it’s left behind a dull throbbing ache behind my eyes. There’s also a high-pitched buzzing sound in my ears.

She squints once more at the screen on the machine. Finally, she reaches over and twists a knob. She shakes her head, scowling. She makes another adjustment.

Worry blooms inside of me.

Another tap and the buzzing vanishes. Only the throbbing remains. Doctor Forrester nods.

“Is everything all right?” I ask.

“You may sit up now.”

Doctor Forrester removes the headband and carefully peels the tape off of my neck.

“Both your implant and communication devices are fully functional. There’s good neuroleptic connectivity, and communication between them is actually better than one hundred percent efficiency, which is surprising given the implant’s age. However, I did find a few dead spots at certain frequencies along the stream spectrum. The diagnostic suggests it’s not a hardware defect.”

“How can you tell?”

“The gaps are present in both your implant and Link communication device. This suggests a programming issue rather than anything mechanical. I think this may be why the firmware diagnostic was requested.”

I frown. “But my Link works fine. I can send and receive pings. I can access the streams.”

She holds up her hand to stop me. “The inter-Link communications frequencies used by citizens aren’t affected. The gaps are concentrated in the high frequency secure streams, including those Arc sequesters for vitality monitoring, implant activation, and post-mortem control. The usual communication protocols with and between your devices is within normal limits. However, when I attempt to send a command program to modulate activity, that’s when I’m impeded.”

“Is that bad?”

“It is if we want post-mortem control.”

“Can it be fixed?”

She looks perplexed. “Not as far as I understand. I’m a hardware specialist. Maybe someone else knows better, but it’s not my area of expertise. If it were me, I’d recommend just replacing both devices.”

“Really?” I say, hesitantly. I’d love to get this damn failsafe out of my head, but I’m not eager to go back under the knife.

“Well, there are a couple things I can try first, like realigning the receivers in each device, fine-tuning them.” She shrugs. “It’d be the first time I’ve ever heard of them being out of sync. I could run a more thorough series of tests, but—” She checks the time on her Link. “Unfortunately, I don’t have time to do it now, as I have another appointment.”

She stands up, muttering to herself once more. I’m sure I hear the word tamper.

“I haven’t done anything, I swear.”

She replaces the cables and headband in a drawer in the machine. “Not you, honey. Arc’s messing around with their Stream protocols again. Maybe they introduced a new bug in the signal sequencing. You may just happen to be the first we’ve seen.” She rolls her eyes. “I hope not, though, since that’ll mean more will be coming. And that’ll cause yet another delay to reaching our inoculation goals.”

I watch her as she paces the room in a tight circle. She taps furiously on her tablet. “I’m submitting a work order for an application update for both devices. If we’re talking about an alignment issue, doing a complete firmware swap could fix the problem. At the very least, it’ll get you up to date with the new standards.”

“I didn’t think it was possible to modify the firmware.”

She gives me a suspicious look.

“I mean, that just what I’ve heard.”

“Most firmware is unchangeable; it’s hardwired in. But we do have to keep the ability to modify parts of it, given the rate of technical advances and how long the devices remain inside our bodies.”

I feel like she’s just giving me a line and hoping it’ll shut me up.

“So, when do I have to do the realignment?” I ask. “Will I have to come back?”

“The update will initiate as soon as Arc processes the work order and inputs your device identifier codes into the system, which I’ve just sent. Usually takes about ten minutes to clear. Once the alignment program starts, it’ll run in the background for a couple of hours. Did you drive here?”

I shake my head. “I rode the bus.”

“Perfect. I won’t have to place a medical hold on you then. I’ll let the front desk know.”

She steps over to the door.

“You’re free to leave. I advise you to go straight home, maybe even to bed. These things can sometimes lead to periods of disorientation while the update installs and the devices recapture the relevant stream frequencies. Once it’s completed, you’ll receive a confirmatory ping.”

“And if that doesn’t work?”

“More tests I would assume. Honestly though, like I said, it’d be far easier to replace your devices.”

She opens the door and steps out. But then she pauses and turns. “Remember, absolutely no driving or operating heavy machinery for the next few hours, Miss Daniels.”

I don’t bother correcting her this time. I just want to get the hell out of here.

Chapter 19

The next bus leaving Hartford for Greenwich isn’t scheduled to arrive for another half hour. There’s a three and a half hour gap before the one after, so if I miss it, I won’t get home until after six. Either way, I won’t get back in time for school, but I’d still rather not lose the entire day.

My stomach hurts, not so much from hunger as from stress. The muscles in my face and neck ache from holding the tension in my jaw throughout the whole ordeal. I consider whether it’s a good idea to eat something or just wait until I get home. The last thing I want is to be caught on the bus with a touchy stomach. On the other hand, I haven’t eaten a thing since those few spoonfuls of cereal six hours ago. If I keep starving myself like this, I’m really going to get sick.

The nearby cafés where the business people eat are beyond my financial reach. And besides, I’m not exactly dressed appropriately for them. There are a few cheaper places, but anything greasy is a bad idea. I head over to the curbside kiosk to see what they have.

Shouts coming from down the street draw my attention. It’s a small group of protesters. They’re linked arm-in-arm and marching toward the Carcher Building. As they draw close, I realize they’re chanting about the new federal mandates. Some of the signs they carry mention the new implant rules. Other signs are more broadly anti-government and pro-personal freedom. The people waiting outside Citizen Registration for their appointments all try to ignore them, wary of the negative attention they’re drawing. Someone nearby claims they’re shills hired by Arc, which doesn’t make sense to me. Why would Arc hire people to protest their own technology? Another person says they’re agitators who want the SSC to rejoin New Merica.

One of the cart vendors charges into the street, threatening violence if they don’t leave. An officer standing nearby watches bemusedly, but doesn’t intervene. He shakes his head at the vendor, who throws up his hands in disbelief.

My link pings. I recognize Arc’s familiar logo and quickly read the message:

<< STATUS UPDATE: NEW CLIENT FILE OPENED. INITIAL REVIEW COMPLETE. QUEUE ASSIGNMENT PENDING. >>

I wonder, does that mean the stream alignment’s started, or is it scheduled to start?

My head doesn’t feel any differently. There’s certainly none of the buzzing or throbbing I’d experienced inside. And thankfully none of that shooting pain, either.

“Can I help you? Ma’am?”

I hadn’t realized I’d reached the front of the line. A middle-aged man with a fat nose and cheeks smiles down at me. He wipes away a bead of sweat with a bandana that he stuffs back into his shirt pocket. “Are you going to buy anything?”

I stammer for a moment and scan the menu. The words don’t make any sense to me. There’s a bowl of whole fruit beside the window. I point to one.

“That’ll be five dollars.”

I nearly tell him to forget it. It’s twice the price as the grocery store, and the apple is small and soft-looking. I tap my Link and mutter a resentful thanks, before hurrying away with my prize.

I find a small shady spot near the bus stop. The scraggly grass is trampled down and dead. Plastic litter is scattered about. Apparently, the CU sanitation crews that usually sweep the area at night haven’t been operating.

Another ping, another message:

<< STATUS UPDATE: QUEUE POSITION #34. MATCH ASSIGNMENT REVIEW. >>

I have no clue what any of it means. I kind of hope it works so I don’t have to come back. But if it does, then I won’t get a device replacement and I’ll be stuck with this damn failsafe for who knows how long.

At last the bus arrives. I get on and sit down with a relieved sigh. The moment we pull away, I remember I’ve left the apple uneaten at the base of the tree.

I keep expecting the dizziness that the doctor warned me about, but it doesn’t come. At most, I’m just really tired, and now I’m shaking from hunger. I lean my head against the window and relinquish myself to my exhaustion. I feel myself falling, as if I’m physically slipping through the hard plastic seat, down through the bus and road, and into the earth. The sun coming through the window feels nice. My eyelids grow heavy. I have a hard time keeping them open. My head droops. I’m startled when a car honks at us and zips past, and I realize we’re already on the highway leaving the city. The concrete and glass façades of the office buildings flash past. The bus’s motion lulls me like the gentle rocking of a boat.

The grayness of downtown Hartford soon gives way to the drabness of the suburbs. The sun shifts to the other side of the bus, plunging me into shadow for a few minutes. I shiver, even though the air is still quite warm. But then the sun’s back, bathing me once again in its sedating heat. I want to sleep, yet I fight the urge. I worry about missing my stop. I let my mind drift to keep me occupied.

Soon, my head is filled with vague images and nebulous thoughts. They’re neither worrying nor calming, so I don’t try to force them. By the time they eventually coalesce, I’m fully invested in seeing where they lead me.

I’m in a room. It’s dimly lit. The dimensions are... uncertain. Mom is sprawled out before me on the floor. Her clothes are torn. She’s wearing a tee shirt this time; the red shirt’s gone. Her clothes are dirty, and there are scratches on her thin, pale arms. The shirt is pulled down over one shoulder, and her bra strap hangs loose over her arm. The whiteness of her skin seems shocking in the gloom. It’s almost gray and makes me think of the ashen skin of the undead.

The walls of the room are hidden in shadow. I can’t see the ceiling, but I can feel it looming over me. It’s low. I have the urge to duck.

A filthy remnant of green shag carpet covers the floor. It looks like she’s been sleeping on it.

No, not carpet. It’s...

Is it grass?

I can’t be sure. I try to move so I can see her face. It’s smudged. Or maybe bruised. She’s asleep. Her eyes are shut, and her hands are folded beneath her head. Her lipstick, always too thickly applied, always so red, is smudged. It stretches across both cheeks, reaching nearly from ear to ear in a sinister grin.

What an odd dream.

Not a dream, I realize, but my subconscious mind working out some issues.

Is this how I think of my mother, as one of those prostitutes they find used up and tossed like trash in some back alley?

I guess it tells me a lot about myself. I feel guilty.

I approach her, wanting to pick her up, hold her, apologize to her. I circle her prostrate form. The floor here is soft, almost cushiony beneath my feet. I can actually feel how uneven it is through my shoes. I can hear the rasp as they scuff across the—

“Last stop!” someone shouts. It sounds far away. “Everyone off.”

I feel my arm shaken. I blink and look up. The image of my mother lingers, as if superimposed over the interior of the bus.

The driver’s already walking back up the aisle. He turns and wags his finger at me. “That’s you! You need to get off. This is the last stop. I’m going straight to the garage from here.”

I try to stand. I still feel like I’m stuck between my dream and reality, occupying both worlds, barely in either. I shuffle down the aisle, banging my hips on the seats. I stumble down the steps. The concrete is hard against the bottoms of my sneakers, yet that oddly yielding sensation remains, like I’m walking on soggy ground. I turn left and am blinded by the setting sun. It’s late evening.

Did I miss the first bus in Hartford and just forget?

I look around. The bus is disappearing down the road. Nothing looks familiar. I’m all alone.

This isn’t a street I recognize in Greenwich. The buildings are too tall. The sidewalks are too empty. It’s not even Hartford.

Where the hell am I?

I keep walking, block after block. The vision of the dark room and my mother persists, like a ghost image burned onto my retinas. Except it’s not static; it shifts, as if I’m actually moving around in it. Like it’s another world superimposed on this one. Or like a different plane of existence altogether. The scene changes. I’m leaving the place I was in, leaving behind my mother. I sense trees around me, a forest. I smell the air. My physical body is moving through an urban jungle, but my mind is trapped inside an organic one.

It’s the realignment. They said you might experience periods of confusion.

It’s the strangest thing I’ve ever experienced. I find it fascinating, not alarming.

The double image in my mind’s eye, is it a glitch in my brain as it tries to process the physical world and something wholly fabricated at the same time? There appear to be thick vines taking over the burned out frames of the old abandoned buildings here. Graffiti, hastily scrawled many years before and now faded, spreads across bricks and trees alike. Creeper vines strangle rusted streetlamps. Green tendrils dangle everywhere, weeping dew and frayed wiring.

Which begs the question once more: where the hell am I really?

I keep walking. Time slips. The sun is troublingly low in the sky. It shouldn’t be this late. The air’s humid, thick with the smell of moss. The smell of mud. And the sea. I can’t tell what’s real and what’s not. These disparate smells come from far different places. I hear the wind winnowing between skyscrapers, yet underneath it is the gentle trickle of water over mossy tree roots.

Like a voice from a distant hilltop, I hear myself shouting: Wake up! Wake up!

I’m not asleep, and yet it sure feels like a dream.

WAKE UP!

And then it’s all gone, everything, the double vision and the smells and the sounds. All of it save the echo of my own voice shouting at me to wake. I snap fully into the present, the right here and the right now. Gone are the forest and stream. Gone are the trees and mossy vines. I’m in the middle of an empty city, alone. And night is about to fall.

Panic rises up inside of me.

What the hell happened?

I slowly turn around. Frayed sheets of plastic flap from the gaping windows of empty buildings surrounding me. They loom overhead, leaning in close and staring judgmentally, as if from sightless cataract eyes.

We’re not in Kansas anymore, sister, Reggie’s voice echoes inside my head.

No shit.

So, where am I?

A word whispers up in my mind: Gameland. That’s where I am. I never actually left Long Island. I was bitten. I died.

So, getting back home, marrying Kelly was... It was all just a dream, my life flashing before my eyes. Or at least the unfulfilled part of it. Mom, returning to school: nothing but a brief flash of residual memory trying to manifest itself as real. My brain is shutting down. This is the interlude between life and afterlife, while my implant fully activates.

And before my true nightmare begins.

Chapter 20

The lonely wind moans my own voice back at me.

I run then, not knowing where I’m going or how far. Down empty streets and past abandoned buildings, searching for—

Jake and

Kelly and Reggie and

Ashley and

—a way out of the game. Every corner I round, I fear I’ll find an army of even more undead. But every street I come to, every alleyway I pass, is empty.

You’re still dreaming, Jessie. This isn’t real. You’re on the bus. Wake up!

I start to sob as I run. The dead don’t cry. Am I going crazy? Am I really dead? I can no longer tell what’s real anymore.

I run until I’m out of breath, and every inhale is a scream of agony, every exhale a gasp of desperation. I want to wake. I want to escape this nightmare.

My pulse pounds, the sound of it in my ears like the ocean breaking on the shore. Like the grind of engines. Like—

I stop and hold my breath and listen. The sound is both inside of me and without. The dead have no heartbeat.

And machines? In Gameland?

To be honest, this doesn’t feel like the arcade. I don’t know why I think that. Or sense that. But it just feels different.

Where the hell am I?

What’s the last thing I remember?

The bus, of course. I remember getting off the bus. I remember hearing the driver call last stop.

Imagined it all. My last reliable memory was...

Jake, standing behind me, right before he opens his mouth and falls upon me.

No. That can’t be it. So much happened afterward.

All imagined.

No, too real. More real than—

The trees. That room, low-ceilinged and dark. And—

Mom.

I’d been there. Why would I think about her?

You’re worried about her. You’re—

“Hey! You! Stop right there!”

I freeze.

“Don’t move, or I’ll shoot.”

I’m spinning around before I can think about what I’m doing. It’s like I no longer have any control over my own body.

“I said DON’T FUCKING MOVE!”

The street behind me is empty. But then a shadow detaches itself from a nearby building and steps into the slanted sunlight. He’s dressed in urban camouflage. He lifts the rifle in his hands and sights it at me. “Say something! Now!” he screams.

I try. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out but a whisper of air.

“On your fucking knees!” he orders. He tilts his head to sight his aim and inserts a gloved finger into the trigger guard. “Either speak or get down, or I will put you down! You’ve got three seconds before I put a fucking bullet in your skull!”

I can’t speak. And my knees won’t bend. My body seems incapable of obeying.

“Two!”

I’m not dead! I try to yell. I’m not one of them!

“One!”

I don’t know how or why, but I turn and run. And even as I do it, I know he’s taking deadly aim at my back. I can almost feel the tiny pinprick of red laser light centered on my skull. I can envision exactly where the bullet will shatter my spine.

“Stop!” the man barks.

Deceiver! He’s a Deceiver!

There’s a clatter of echoes, the sounds of our running feet hitting the pavement bouncing off the walls of the buildings.

“Damn it, lady! I won’t shoot! Okay? But you need to stop right now!”

I stumble and fall, arms outstretched. My palms hit and skid, scraping skin off my hands. Knees hit. Shoulder next. I roll and jump back to my feet.

“Please,” the Deceiver says, begging. “I don’t want to shoot you.”

Lies.

But I turn. I glance down, and the tiny burning spot is focused on the center of my chest.

“You’re bleeding,” he says. He turns slightly, and now I see that I was wrong. He’s not a Deceiver. I recognize the patch on his shoulder: he’s a soldier, a member of the New York State Guard, not someone role playing inside the arcade. Does that mean I’m not in Gameland?

I raise my hand. My palms sting.

The dead don’t hurt.

Blood drips down one of my wrists.

The dead don’t bleed.

I’m not reanimated.

“Jesus, lady,” he says. “Why’d you run? I could’ve shot you. Why didn’t you say something? I thought you were—”

“I’m— I’m not dead.”

“Fuck, I know that. Shit.”

Apparently, I’m more surprised to hear my own voice than he is.

“But you still shouldn’t have run.”

“I’m sorry. I— I just panicked.”

He shakes his head, then slings the rifle over his shoulder. “Okay. Okay,” he says, and gestures for me to stand up. “But you know this is a quarantine zone, don’t you? What the hell are you doing here?”

“Quarantine?”

“Manhattan?” he says, raising an eyebrow.

“New York City? But that’s impossible.”

“Are you saying you didn’t know?”

“No.”

“How did you get here? We’re you kidnapped? Did someone bring—”

“No! I mean, I don’t think so.”

The alignment, I remember. The engineer had warned me about becoming disoriented.

That’s a goddamn understatement!

“You don’t think so?” the soldier echoes, incredulously. “What do you mean you don’t think so?”

“I was on the bus from Hartford,” I stammer. “Connecticut. And... I think I fell asleep. The driver kicked me off at the last stop. I guess I—”

“Yeah, no one’s supposed to enter the zone. There’s signs posted everywhere. Are you on drugs or something? Poppers? You drunk?”

“What? No!”

My heart skips. What did I do with the baggie of Zoners? I can’t remember. If I get caught with them, they’ll arrest me.

“I’m really sorry, sir. I just fell asleep on the bus. I haven’t slept very well in several days, and I guess I was still just a little out of it when I got off.”

The soldier’s young, maybe in his late twenties. He steps closer, but keeps enough distance between us to give himself time to react if need be. He’s shorter than I am, has a cow-catcher of a jaw that makes him appear aggressive. But there’s a boyish look in his pale blue eyes. “I don’t want to arrest you,” he says. “But you have to give me your word won’t come back.”

I nod.

“And you really should stay away from those things. Poppers’ll rot your brain faster than anything.”

“But I don’t—”

The Link on his shoulder pings. He gestures for me to be quiet.

“Grady here.”

“This is Ferguson. Why are you away from your post?”

He glances over at me. I can see the muscles in his cheek throbbing as he considers what to say next. “I was...” He sighs and shakes his head, and in that moment I know he’s going to report me. “We had a breach,” he says.

My heart sinks.

“Live? Apprehended? Or put down.”

“Live. I’m questioning her now. Civilian, says she got off the bus and accidentally wandered in.”

He glances over at me and asks me my name.

“Jessie,” I tell him. “Daniels.”

“Says her name’s Jessie Daniels, from...”

“Greenwich, Connecticut.”

“From Greenwich.”

“Well, I need you back at your post ASAP, Grady. Situation at sierra echo has gone gray.”

“Gray?” His face pales. “What should I do with the girl?”

“I don’t care, Corporal. Contact local law enforcement and hand her over to them. Just get the fuck back to your post. Ferguson out.”

Chapter 21

“Damn it! I told you, Jessie!” Eric hammers the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. “Straight there and back. Didn’t I say that? I don’t remember telling you to break into the quarantine zone in Manhattan! What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Stop treating me like I’m a child, Eric! It’s not my fault.”

“I’m not treating you like a child, Jessie.”

“Yes, you are! I told you what happened. I fell asleep on the bus. I missed my stop. It’s the stupid driver’s fault!”

“You didn’t see the signs? They’re posted everywhere!”

“No, I didn’t. I wasn’t feeling well.”

He sighs. “I’m just worried about you.” He grips the steering wheel hard, the muscles in his jaw rippling. “You could’ve been hurt.”

“How?”

He looks over at me, and for a moment I’m not sure what he’ll say. Hurt by the living or the dead? Is that why they haven’t opened it up yet? That soldier sure acted like he was expecting to see the dead. He didn’t know I wasn’t one of them until I ran.

“You could’ve been shot.”

“But I wasn’t.”

“I had to leave work.”

“I didn’t ask you to. I can take care of myself.”

“They wanted to arrest you for trespassing.” He shakes his head. “Things are touchy right now. We need to be careful.”

“Touchy how?”

“I can’t— Nothing. Never mind. Just try and stay out of trouble.”

I pull my feet up onto the seat and stare out at the passing scenery. “Right,” I mutter. “Like I go looking for it.”

“You kind of do.”

“Well, not this time!”

We reach the first checkpoint and Eric slows. At the gate, he flashes the guard his NCD badge. The man leans over and peers inside the car at me, then waves us on.

“What does ‘gray’ mean?” I ask, once we’re up to speed again. “As in, ‘The situation is gray’?”

Eric looks over, frowning. “Where did you hear that?”

“What does it mean?”

“Gray usually means a situation is deteriorating. Why?”

“Is the situation in Manhattan getting worse?”

“Did someone say that to you?”

I study his face. He really doesn’t know what’s happening in Manhattan. Why doesn’t he know? What aren’t they telling us?

He sucks in a deep breath. “Rumors. I’ve told you before, you shouldn’t be listening to what they’re saying on the black streams, Jessie. In fact, you shouldn’t even be on them at all.”

I consider telling him it wasn’t a black stream, but I already know he’s not going to tell me anything useful, even if he did know. He thinks he’s protecting me, when in fact he’s hurting me by withholding information. The public needs to know what’s going on. I need to know, and the black streams are the only place I’m going to find out.

Neither of us speaks again until we reach the state line. I can tell he’s itching to lecture me some more. I should tell him how I really ended up inside the quarantine zone, rather than just saying I fell asleep. But for some reason, what actually did happen seems a little too... strange. I don’t think he’d believe me if he knew. He’d probably tell me again to go see a shrink.

“I’m sorry,” I finally say. “They did tell me to go straight home. I guess I lost track of time or something and missed the stop in Greenwich. When the bus driver told me to get off, I just did it without even thinking about where we were.”

Eric turns to me. There’s still questions in his eyes, but he does seem a little more mollified by my apology. “That doesn’t explain why you ran from the patrol.”

“I told you I was out of it. He was yelling at me. I guess I panicked.”

“If you were getting proper sleep, you wouldn’t be like this, Jess.”

I don’t say anything.

“You’ve been having nightmares, Jess. I’ve heard. I think you should—”

“It’s not sleep! They told me I might get a little disoriented,” I blurt out. If he mentions therapy one more time, I’m going to jump out of the car right now.

“What do you mean disoriented?”

“From the...”

Great. Talked yourself into a corner, eh?

“They had to do some sort of realignment on my implant.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” he barks. “What happened at CR? I told you not to let them do anything to you! We still don’t know what Arc did to your head. Or the Coalition, for that matter. And if they ever find out about your—”

“They didn’t do anything! It was just some examination. They hooked me up to a device that could tell if the implant is connecting properly to the Stream.”

“Damn it.”

“There’s nothing to worry about. It’s functioning properly. My body didn’t reject it, it was just—”

“What do you mean it didn’t reject it?”

I shrug. “It’s working perfectly fine apparently. They just needed to do some sort of realignment because of gaps in certain frequencies.” It’s only half the truth. I’ll tell him the rest only if I need my devices replaced.

“Realignment?” he squawks. “What the hell does that even mean? And why would it screw you up so badly that you wander into a quarantine zone?”

He stares furiously at me for a moment. When I say nothing, he pulls over onto the shoulder of the road. Drivers whizz past, some honking their horns at us. Eric ignores them.

“I want to know exactly what they did to you, Jessie.”

I turn from the window and the view of the swamps of the southwestern coast of Connecticut. There’s fear in his eyes. And now I’m worried he knows something I don’t.

“Talk to me, Jessie.”

“I’m fine,” I whisper, more to myself than him.

“I don’t think you are.”

“I don’t need help. I just need sleep, like you said.”

“Tell me.”

“No, you tell me why you’re so scared!”

He stares at me; I glare back. Neither of us yields. After a moment, he mutters something to himself, starts the car, and pulls back out into traffic.

Chapter 22

“Eat,” Eric instructs. He sets a plateful of reheated casserole in front of me, along with a fork. “And when you’re done, straight to bed. No television. No black streams. We’ll figure this out after I get back from work.”

He leaves shortly after.

I push the mush from one side of the plate to the other with my fork. My stomach aches and my head throbs from not eating, but I have no appetite. I consider just dumping it and going to bed.

But I’m not tired, either.

My Link pings. I snatch it up from the table and check the screen. But it’s just Kelly messaging me to say he’s with Kyle at the hospital for another follow up check and won’t be home for a while. I set the Link aside and lower my head onto my arms. I can’t be bothered to reply.

I keep going over the exam in my head, and in particular the conversation with the tech. I’d known the moment she mentioned collecting my vital signs that my implant wasn’t rejected. Good neuroleptic connectivity. Translation: fully insinuated into my brain. Then, later, that sharp, intense pain. None of that would’ve happened had my body really rejected the device.

So why did I believe it had been? I can’t even remember now if I’d been told or if someone told me. Was it Stephen? Why can’t I remember?

I try to think back to my time in the arcade. Was there ever a moment when I was out of signal range of the towers?

The server under Jayne’s Hill.

But I always had my Link with me with the script Micah and I wrote to defeat the failsafe on it.

I think about the day we tried to escape from the airport, before we learned our implants had been hacked. We’d managed to get maybe a quarter of a mile before the trouble began. Everyone started throwing up, convulsing, passing out. Including me.

Until it wasn’t me. That moment on the tram when I seemingly miraculously broke free of the failsafe’s grip, that was the moment I’d unconsciously marked as my body severing its connection with the implant. Freed from the terrible pain and paralysis. I’d spent the rest of my time on the island believing I could just come and go as I pleased, like Kelly, without worrying about my implant trying to kill me.

I’d wanted so badly to believe that my body had rejected the implant that I’ve since then ignored every single little clue telling me it’s still connected and working like it’s supposed to. There was that day, for example, after we’d returned home. I remember inserting my Link into the media console and waiting for it to connect to the Stream. I remember telling it to mute, and the sound had immediately stopped. Of course, that proved nothing. Voice control doesn’t require a direct neuroleptic connection. Anyone can use voice commands, regardless of whose Link is inserted into the device.

But thought control requires a direct, functioning connection between the brain and one’s Link via implant. And I’d been switching between Media and Entertainment all day simply by thinking it.

And it never registered to me why I could.

“Fuck,” I whisper.

I didn’t want to believe. I’d refused to believe. Yet I must’ve known, deep down. I’d just kept it from everyone, even myself.

I squeeze my eyes shut and let the disjointed movie of the recent past play out. My mind keeps trying to reconstruct and reorder things in order to make sense of it all. But how can I trust my own memory when I can’t even trust my own judgment?

I check my Link. Nine hours have passed since I left Citizen Registration. Surely, I should’ve gotten the ping by now telling me the alignment — or whatever the hell they did to me — is finished. Is it still running? Does it mean it failed? Did they lie to me? Are they doing something else to me?

It doesn’t appear to be hardware related. This may be why the firmware check was requested.

But requested by whom?

A voice floats up from my subconscious, no context, just a voice. But I immediately recognize it as belonging to Mabel, the nurse who had guarded us at LaGuardia. She’d been talking to that man outside of my room, mentioning something about having to adjust the implant’s interface parameters. And rebooting my implant.

The Coalition?

I hear Micah’s voice, the day of his conscription, his words slurred. I sit bolt upright. He’d mentioned another script. What had he called it?

Jacker’s code.

On my Link.

They’re all using you, Jessie. You’re a pawn in some larger game.

I slide the device over and wake it. Under RECENT DOWNLOADS, I sort the files by date, the most recent at the top. I expect to find the proxy we created to replace the tower’s failsafe override signal, but it’s not there.

Strange.

In fact, the most recent file is the photograph Kelly sent me that first day we broke onto the island. I stare at the image, at the marriage proposal he’d made to me in bright orange paint on the side of a building: Marry me, J. I love you. It feels like a lifetime ago.

The absence of the proxy is puzzling, but it’s not what I’m looking for anyway. I scroll down, past older files. Nothing seems out of place. Nothing looks like it might be what Micah had been talking about.

He was drugged. It was just random bullsh—

“Unless it’s hidden,” I find myself saying.

I start to search through my other folders. Then, in disgust at myself, I shove the Link away. “What am I doing?” I ask the empty room. “Looking for things that aren’t there.”

Micah’s last act of vengeance: sending me tumbling down rabbit holes until I lose myself completely. He’s probably laughing at me right now.

He’s dead, Jessie. He’s not laughing.

He’s laughing anyway. He’s fucking laughing at us all.

I need answers. But I keep hoping someone will give them to me all neatly wrapped up, answers that will take away all the doubt I ever felt about anything in my life.

“Doesn’t work that way, stupid.”

I pull the Link back again. If there’s something hidden on here, it could be in a hidden directory. I’d have to dig down past the user interface to find it. And I can’t do it without help.

What are you doing?

Shut up.

You’re doing it again, chasing smoke.

Link in hand, I hurry down the unlit hallway to my grandfather’s office. I unlock the door using his secret key, then slip over and into the chair behind his desk. As long as I can remember, he’s always had this same computer. It’s this massive, ancient, wedge-shaped monster, lime green and white, and nearly as wide as it is deep. It’s technically contraband, since it predates stream tech and iVZ protocols. But Grandpa, given his connections, could get away with having it. I never understood why he was always so attached to the thing. The screen’s got terrible resolution and is missing pixels. The processor runs at a glacially slow speed, and its main storage is on-board, rather than on the Stream like every other device in the country. This thing can’t even connect to the Stream.

Micah used to say that tech like this is actually safer to use — for the kinds of things we like to do — because it’s air-gapped. Personally, I never could understand the utility of a device that can’t access the sum of all human knowledge.

Not even the parts of it Government wants us to access.

While I wait for the old machine to boot up, I search his desk drawers for a cable that might allow me to connect my Link to the ports on the back. I’m not even sure one exists.

Micah would know. He’d have figured out a way to do it.

I know, because I’ve seen him do it before. I think that’s how he managed to hack our Link identifier codes before we went to Long Island.

Deep down under a pile of random junk in the bottom drawer, I find a tangle of cables, including one with ends that look promising. I’m a little anxious when I connect the two devices.

At first, nothing happens. The processor whines and the fan rattles alarmingly inside the green plastic box. I’m about to give up, when there’s an exultant chirp, and a new window pops up on the screen. I scan it, recognizing the directory of files on my Link. The old computer depicts the folders using the outdated paper icons rather than the spinning three-dimensional digital box modern computers use. I smile at their whimsy.

I start going through them one by one, starting with the more obvious places a file might reside. I’m still not sure what to look for. I’m not even sure I’d recognize it once I find it.

If I find it.

I ignore the unrelenting nagging voice of doubt.

There’s nothing here. Stop looking for excuses.

I keep searching.

An hour passes. My eyes grow bleary from staring at the dim computer screen. My hand cramps from using the clumsy pointer-clicker device. I keep trying to touch the screen directly, but it does nothing except frustrate me and smear the dust on the glass. My head aches. It intensifies until I get the first warning signs of an impending migraine. I should stop.

I keep searching.

When the Link suddenly pings, I snatch at it, accidentally disconnecting it and sending it flying off the desktop. I scramble over to retrieve it.

“Hello?”

Nothing.

I pull the Link away and squint blearily at the screen. The ping counter ticks from ten to eleven to twelve seconds. The connection is still open. I swipe to check the identifier code, but there is none. My thoughts immediately go to Kelly’s Link and the series of mysterious pings he’s exchanged with the hospital since our return. I can’t ask him about them without him knowing I’ve been snooping through his Link.

“Who is this?” I demand.

Silence.

No, not quite silence. I swear I can hear whoever’s on the other end breathing.

But who would ping me like this, then not say anything? Are they trying to frighten me? Maybe they’re—

“Mom?” I say, without thinking. “Is that you?”

There’s a faint click and the timer stops at seventeen seconds.

“Mom?”

Anger floods through me. I don’t know what made me say her name, but the simple fact that they disconnected when I did convinces me it was her. I swipe through the screen and tap my mother’s quick-ping icon. It goes straight to voice mail.

I stare at my Link for a moment, confused. Why won’t she answer? Worry replaces the anger. As much as I want to hold onto it, I can’t. My instinct tells me something’s terribly wrong.

Instinct and those strange visions.

Not visions, dreams. Daydreams, to be more precise. Just my subconscious trying to deal with my anger and worry for her.

“M-mom?” I stammer. “It’s me. Listen, Mom, it’s okay. I don’t— I don’t hate you for missing... for staying away. I think I might even understand why you are, why you didn’t want to come to City Hall for me and Kelly. We’re just kids, and...” I wipe the tears from my eyes. “Mom, I’m worried. Please, please just ping me. You don’t have to come home, just ping me.”

I swing my thumb over to disconnect, but stop. I need to say this. “I just want to know that you’re alright. Okay? And to say that I love you. And you can come home anytime.” I take a deep breath. “When you’re ready.”

I set the device back on the desk, the screen blinks off a few seconds later. I’m suddenly so tired— of trying, of being angry, of worrying. A half hour passes, and I don’t move a muscle. I just sit and breathe and listen to the house tick around me. I wish I could freeze time. No, make it go in reverse. But I can’t. It’s wishful thinking. I can’t undo all the things I’ve screwed up in my life. I can only go forward and try to fix them.

I lean back toward the desk. It takes a herculean effort. I reconnect my Link to the computer, but this time I’m certain I won’t find anything. The justification for doing so no longer seems so urgent. I only do it because I don’t know what else to do.

I spend another twenty minutes halfheartedly searching through more of the subdirectories. And when I actually do find the file, I can’t believe it at first. But there it is, clear as day. It hadn’t been hiding deep inside the bowels of my Link, as I would have expected. Instead, it had been sitting right there on top, in plain view the whole time.

And that’s when I know Micah hadn’t been the one to betray us.

It was Kelly who did.

Chapter 23

“I’m not going to school,” I groan. “I’m sick.” And I really am. My heart’s racing and I’m short of breath. My body feels feverish. My face is burning, yet my feet are ice cold. I’m sweating and shivering, and nothing feels right.

Is it possible for a body to reject itself? I wonder, because that’s exactly what it feels like.

Eric clears his throat and shuffles his feet on the carpet just the other side of the bathroom door. “Jessie, this can’t go on. After what happened yesterday, I think—”

“Leave me alone!”

The walls, which had been content with slowly pitching around me, begin to gyrate faster. I lurch off the edge of the tub and collapse to my knees in front of the toilet bowl. I barely hold on to the rim as the spasms hit my body. The echoes of my retching are loud in my ears. I don’t want Eric to hear, but I know he must. Nothing comes up, and after a few minutes, the spasms recede. I cough a few times. Saliva drips from my lips. I grab a wad of toilet paper and wipe it away.

Eric doesn’t say anything, but I know he’s still out there, waiting, wondering what to do next.

“I’m not faking it,” I groan. I spit into the toilet, where a few pieces of slightly grayish, barely recognizable noodle float, the undigested remnants of last night’s attempted dinner.

“Then you should see a doctor.”

“And what? Tell them how I’m infected and been given the blood of an immune dead man, except that it doesn’t seem to be working?”

He doesn’t answer.

I don’t know what time he came home last night, but he probably knows I spent most of it in here, since he would’ve found the door locked. I didn’t hear Kelly coming around. If he did, he left without looking for me. And I know he isn’t here now, because Eric had asked about him.

“You’re sick. Your body can’t take much more of this.”

“I’m not sick,” I tell him, then quickly add, “Not like you think. I just need... I need to stay home today.”

His feet shuffle some more.

“Is there anything I can do?”

I don’t want him to see or hear me like this, but I also don’t want him to leave, either. I don’t want to be alone. Not if Kelly returns.

“Jess?”

“I’ll be okay in a little bit,” I lie. “Just... stay home. Please.”

He doesn’t answer, and that’s enough to tell me that he won’t. Can’t.

I lean my head on the rim and close my eyes. I listen for him to leave. I silently beg him not to. I just want this horrible, terrible sickness to go find someone else to torment. But I’m so exhausted, so utterly spent, tired of the constant weariness and the unending, overwhelming sense that the world is going to come crashing down on me at any moment that I just want to give up.

The world already did come crashing down, Jessie. Last night.

“I have to go, Jess. Work is—”

“Why can’t someone else do it?”

“You know why.”

It’s the closest he’s come to admitting what I’ve been saying is real, things he’s tried so hard to deny, thinking he’s just protecting me. Maybe he realizes it’s not working. Maybe he thinks the truth — or sneaking up on it, anyway — is going to stop me from getting sicker. Maybe he knows he can’t hide it from me anymore.

It isn’t just the outright accusations and supposed news stories on the black streams, or the hints alluded to in the otherwise rosy reports coming from Media. Or the increased lockdown drills at school. The rumors are everywhere, spreading like wildfire, in school and on the bus. Reggie had pinged me another list of cities last night that were the latest suspected to be either under lockdown or with new curfews. He’d put asterisks next to Detroit and Chicago, the latest two large cities now believed to be under emergency quarantine. No one has heard anything from them in over twenty-four hours. Philly, Boulder, and St. Louis have Media blackouts. Boston is... It’s under a travel advisory. The situation isn’t just gray in Manhattan, it’s gray everywhere and getting grayer. It really does feel like the whole world is crashing down.

I’d pinged Reggie back after reading his message, not because I doubted any of it, or thought he might have any further insight, but because I’d wanted to tell him what I’d found on my Link. But after he connected, I chickened out.

“Scary, huh?” he’d said, before I even had a chance to say anything. “I just got wind that the network here in Hartford is on the verge of collapse, too. If that’s true, we’re sitting on a potential disaster. Connecticut’s still got more than a hundred thousand people without implants. My parents are really starting to worry. They’re talking again about leaving the country.”

I don’t bother reminding him that it won’t matter if everyone is implanted, because if the networks fail, then there’s no way for Arc to activate the implants of anyone who gets infected. There’d be no stopping the outbreak.

“I’ll ping Kelly,” Eric offers. “See if he’ll come and stay with you.”

“No!”

I sense his alarm. Questions must be piling up inside his head. I should tell him about the file on my Link, but I resist, just like I’d ended up resisting telling Reggie. It’s irrational, I know, but I feel like the moment I tell someone else, it’ll make it real. At least now I can still pretend it isn’t.

“Jessie?”

“Just go.”

“I wish I didn’t have to.”

“I’ll be okay. I’m feeling better already.”

“If you’re sure...”

“Go.” The way I say it, it comes out sounding resentful.

“Ping me if you need anything.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t.” I stifle the moan as another cramp rolls through my body.

I hear him gather his keys. I hear the low murmur of his voice as he speaks with someone on his Link. I don’t know if he’s pinged school, or someone at his work, or Kelly. At the moment, I don’t really care. I just want to curl up and die.

The front door clicks shut. I can feel and hear the rumble of the engine when he starts his car. The sound hits a different note when he shifts from idle to drive. Then I hear the sticky sound of the tires as he backs out of the driveway, so I know it must’ve rained a bit during the night. There’s the brief crescendo of the motor as he accelerates. Then it fades away. After that, when everything is quiet again, and my stomach isn’t threatening to explode outward, like in that space alien movie the boys used to like so much, I ping Reggie. Despite all the uncertainty over what’s happening everywhere in the country, he’s on his way to school. His parents keep insisting they all act normally. It’s a refrain I’m tired of hearing. And I worry that they’ll pull the same disappearing act that the Evanses did. If Reggie leaves, I’ll have no one.

“Will you come over after school gets out?” I ask.

“With Kelly?”

“No,” I tell him. “Not a word to him. Understand? I don’t want him here.”

Chapter 24

I wake up around ten. I’m still on the floor, except I’m no longer in front of the toilet. I’m now in my bedroom. Sunlight streams through my open window, and it takes me a moment to remember how I got here.

My shirt and shorts reek of sweat and vomit. My hair is a mess.

I go downstairs and stand in the living room for a few minutes. I don’t know why I’ve come down here. I’m not hungry. I sit down on the couch feeling lost. Then I stand up again.

I step over to the window, and even though the curtains are drawn and the room’s dark, I can feel the oppressive heat of the day pounding against the walls of the house. I wander aimlessly through the other downstairs rooms and shut any open curtains. I go into the kitchen for a glass of water.

I’m feeling jittery, light-headed and heavy-hearted. I cook an egg and force myself to eat it. It quells something in me. Whether it’s hunger or nausea, I can’t say, but something’s different. However, it doesn’t stop the shakes. A nervous sort of agitation, expectant and full of vague anxieties and self-doubt, seems to be what’s causing them.

What if I’m wrong about the file?

I just can’t believe Kelly would do something like this. And yet I can’t deny what’s staring me in the face: he created it, sent it to my Link. What other explanation could there be?

Unable to sit still for very long, I take to cleaning. I try the kitchen first, but the cloying smell of grease resurrects my nausea. I open the window and blast the air conditioner. A hot wind swoops into the house and envelopes me.

I decide to tackle the upstairs bathroom instead. I scrub the toilet until it gleams. Then the sink and mirror. Finally, the tub, even taking to scraping away the mold in the grout between the tiles using the toothbrush Kelly left here. I know it’s passive-aggressive, but I don’t foresee him staying over anytime soon, not once I confront him. I finish with a cold shower to wash the sweat and dirt off my skin.

Feeling reinvigorated and grateful for the distraction the cleaning provides, I move next into the living room. I vacuum the floor, pulling the couch away from the wall to get underneath. I’m working up another sweat, but this one feels good, cleansing. The whine and roar of the vacuum scratches at my ears; it’s a welcome reprieve from the scratchy whispers of my own thoughts.

At last, I face the kitchen. The room is hot, but only the faintest of odors remains. A stiff, dry breeze blows in, ruffling the curtains. I don’t bother closing the window. It actually feels good now. I wash the breakfast dishes, empty the refrigerator of old leftovers and spoiled meat, take out the trash. My sundress is drenched and sticks to my skin.

When I’m finished there, I take a satisfied look around. The sink gleams. There are stains in the worn Formica countertops that no amount of scrubbing will remove. But they do seem fainter.

I take the dirty towels to throw into the laundry basket in the hallway by the cellar door, and my mood sours when I see the muddy boot prints Eric’s tracked in from the back porch. I reach down and pinch a bit of it off the floor. It’s dry and crumbly, like it’s been here for a few days. I don’t know why he didn’t clean up after himself. He’s usually so finicky about such things. But then again, he hasn’t been around much except to sleep and grab a bite to eat.

I sweep up what I can of the dried clumps and scrape away the rest with a butter knife. When that’s done, I head into the kitchen to retrieve an old towel from under the sink to finish the job.

Just as I’m bending down to reach inside the cabinet, a shadow catches my eye outside the kitchen window. I lean over the sink to look out into the side yard, but there’s nothing there.

Cloud, Jessie. Just a cloud passing overhead casting a shadow.

Except the sky’s clear.

Then it was a bird flying past.

Except it felt much larger. And now, in hindsight, I swear I’d heard the soft crunch of gravel.

I check out all the other windows on the first floor, but I see no one.

The heat slams me when I step outside the front door. But for some reason, my body has gone ice cold. It feels like someone’s watching me. I become aware of the way my dress clings to my body. I hadn’t bothered to put on a bra after my shower.

I race around the side of the house. I check the dead grass underneath the kitchen window, but I can’t tell if someone walked over it recently. I continue on until I’ve circled the entire property, but find no sign of an intruder. Or anyone else.

Deep down, I hope it’s my mother coming home. But on the surface, I feel like I’m being stalked.

The day is quiet, unnaturally so, as if the world is expecting something to happen. A cicada plays its annoying kazoo, but it sounds far away. The breeze flutters the leaves of someone else’s maples, but the air around me is dead. A car slowly and silently passes, a rare electrified vehicle from before the war. It speeds up briefly before its tires screech when it reaches the stop sign at the corner. I run out to the curb, my arms folded over my chest and my fists tucked under my chin. The tires screech again as the car turns onto the next street. The raucous laughs of high school kids floats back.

School’s out.

I hadn’t realized how late it’s gotten.

I do another lap around the house before wandering into the back yard. I pause by the opening in the fence and look out in both directions. All is quiet in the woods.

You’re seeing things, hearing things that aren’t there. You’re getting paranoid.

I start to wonder if it’s time to take Eric’s suggestion to see his shrink a little more seriously. After what Reggie had said the other day, about feeling like he’s going crazy, maybe our time in Gameland really did screw us up more than we’d like to admit.

Nerves, I try to rationalize. That’s all it is. Just nerves.

And finding out the truth about Kelly. I guess, I’m just feeling a little paranoid, like everyone’s now out to get me.

I head back inside and finish cleaning the back hallway. I add the muddy towel into the overflowing laundry basket. That’s another out-of-the-ordinary thing: Eric normally wouldn’t allow the basket to get so full. How long has it been since he’s done a load? A week? Two?

I lift the basket and shove the bottom edge against the door handle until it pops open. A musty smell wafts up from below, and suddenly the closed, dark, confined space of the basement feels menacing. I’ve always hated the low ceilings and musty odors and cobwebs. Just thinking about them calls back to mind the strange day dream I’d had the day before. Even though I’d been surrounded in it by trees, the place where I’d imagined my mother had felt a lot like a basement.

I imagine her down there, lying alone in the dark, and suddenly I wonder if maybe she never left the house. Maybe she fell and hurt herself, and she’s been down there all this time, unable to climb back up. Maybe I’ve been hearing her weakening cries for help just on the edge of my consciousness, and my subconscious has been screaming back at me to save her by sending me these visions.

Maybe she fell and broke her neck.

Maybe she’s lying at the bottom of the stairs right now.

Maybe she dead.

Or undead.

Turned.

Stop it!

“Mom?” I croak.

I lean forward a little into the darkness. The basket slips from my grip and goes tumbling down the steps. I grab the door handle to steady myself. I’m suddenly feeling lightheaded. My eyes cannot pierce the gloom below the fifth or sixth step down.

jessie?

A whisper.

“Mom?”

yes, jessie, it’s me.

Suddenly, the damp, sweet earthy smell of the basement turns rancid. I reel back, gagging. But the next breath I take holds none of that. The smell of rot and mold is gone. I’d just imagined it.

“Hello? Anyone down there?”

help me...

An icy finger of air caresses my cheek.

Stop it! Stop freaking yourself out, Jessie!

I lean forward again, straining to reach the pull string to turn on the light. My heart hammers a thousand beats a minute in my chest. My blood pounds through my head. A scream catches in my throat.

Just breathe.

I force myself to calm down and wait. I listen. But the whispers don’t repeat. Nothing moves in that inky blackness below. Nothing speaks.

“Alright, I’m coming down!” I laugh at myself. Who am I warning? “You hear me?”

Nothing.

Because nothing’s down there.

I straighten up again, and silently chastise myself. Whoever thought it was a good idea to put a pull string halfway down the stairs is a moron. I step down onto the first riser, one hand on the banister, the other sweeping the gloom. And that’s when I really hear it, a dull rasp of a sound, like the scraping of bare feet on the packed dirt floor. The shuffling sound starts to move faster and draw closer.

My throat closes up. All my strength abandons my legs. I tilt. I lose my grip on the railing. The shadows swoop up the stairs and fold around me. And just before I collapse, I hear my name one more time, the sound as lifeless as dust, propelled from lungs that no longer breathe, formed by lips that only know hunger.

“Mom!” I scream, as I tumble.

There’s pain and chaos. Then all is black.

Chapter 25

The dark, hulking shape hovering overhead terrifies me. It speaks, and its voice seems to whisper and roar at the same time. The words make no sense, yet are laden with ominous overtones. The figure shifts, altering its shape. It appears to sprout a second head, then split into two separate, individual beings, like cells dividing. The second shadow speaks, and its vocalizations are just as incoherent.

I don’t move. I know I’m still alive, because my neck aches, and the shoulder I’d dislocated weeks before on Long Island burns with fresh agony. My legs feel funny— both there, and yet not there. I can’t seem to move them. My head pounds like my skull wants to split open.

I cough, weakly.

The smaller of the shadows descends upon me so quickly that I flinch. Pain thrums through my body. I’m stuck. I can’t move. I realize now that the larger shape, the first one, is pinning me down. Panic spikes.

“Luh...” I say. It comes out as a grunt. I’m not sure what it was supposed to be.

There’s suddenly more light, and the shadows take on features. A face comes into view. It speaks again. It’s familiar. I recognize it. I recognize the word it spoke: my name.

“R-reggie?” The word tumbles from my lips, hard and raspy, sounding strange to my ears.

“Don’t move,” he tells me.

I try to lift my arm, but the pain is too great.

“Damn it, Jessie! I said don’t move! We need to check your neck, make sure you didn’t break it.”

We?

I flick my eyes to the right, past Reggie’s shoulder and over to the other figure. For a brief moment, I feel relief seeing Kelly.

Then panic.

“Can you move your fingers? Jessie! Wiggle your fin— Good. Now, toes?”

I do as he says. I still can’t feel my feet or legs, so I don’t know if my toes move. But the look on his face suggests they do.

“You fell down the cellar steps. Banged yourself something good this time.”

If I look down, past the rest of me, past him, I can see the stairs rising up. They seem miles away, the doorway the top of a mountain peak. My ankles still rest on the bottom sets of steps.

The boys run me through a battery of tests until they seem satisfied I haven’t done significant damage to my spine. I’d laugh at their paltry attempts to diagnose my injuries, but I’m starting to really hurt down... there. I start to suspect I might have broken my hips. Or, more specifically, the back part.

Most cushioned part of you, honey.

I struggle to sit up, but Reggie’s having none of that just yet. He pushes me back down, his hands strong but gentle on my shoulders. “Be still,” he grunts. “And quiet.”

But I won’t be quiet. I lose patience and push him away. “My neck’s fine,” I growl. “Just hurt my...”

He gives me a half amused look. “Your dignity?”

“It’s not funny.” I wince as I sit up and reach back and grab my butt cheek, which is when I discover it’s making direct contact with the cold basement floor. Reggie snorts and backs away.

At least they had the decency to pull my dress back down over the tops of my legs. The coolness of the skin on my upper thighs tells me it must have lifted up past my waist when I fell and exposed pretty much everything from my belly on down. How long was I lying here like this? Thank god I’m wearing underpants.

I swing my legs down off the steps and try once more to sit up. I hiss and realize I’m going to have a massive bruise. There’s a stinging sensation on the surface of my left knee. When I look, I find some of the skin scraped off and a trickle of blood. Dried blood. I guess I was out a while.

“What happened?” Reggie asks.

I open my mouth to tell him, but my mind goes blank. I feel like the knowledge was stolen out of my head. It’s gone, and all I’m left with is the sensation of once having possessed it.

“Laundry, Reggie,” Kelly says, kicking a pile of loose clothes beside me on the floor. “The good thing is, it doesn’t look like you broke anything.”

“Except that bottom step,” Reggie says. “Guess you landed on it pretty hard.”

“Yeah, with my butt.”

“Better that than your head.”

“You shouldn’t even be doing that if you’re sick,” Kelly chastises me. His voice is thin, the look on his face hard.

“I’m not sick.”

“Oh really? Because Eric pinged me and said you were staying home again today. He says you haven’t been eating or sleeping for weeks. Jessie, I can’t...”

He runs a hand through his hair, leaving a smudge of dirt on his forehead. He bends down, and I flinch without thinking, shying away from him.

“Jess?”

I don’t know why he scares me so much, but every bone in my body recoils at the thought of him touching me.

“Hey, it’s just Kelly,” Reggie says. “We’re here now. You’re safe.”

No. No, I’m not!

I want to reach out to Kelly. I want to hold him. But that voice inside my head is screaming at the top of its lungs right now to get away from him, to run as far and as fast as I can. I don’t know why. I can’t remember.

My hand rises up of its own volition and reaches back. I touch the healing incision on the back of my neck, and a shiver of revulsion passes through me.

Chapter 26

I shut my eyes and lean into the steam rising from the tea Kelly sets down on the coffee table in front of me. I inhale deeply. My whole body aches, some parts more than others, like the side of my head where Reggie thinks I may have hit the railing on the way down. My left elbow and my whole right side hurt, too, but primarily my butt cheek. Amazing how much a bit of fat can hurt. Not even the extra couch cushions they’ve put down for me help very much.

The boys sit in different chairs and watch over me like worried mother hens. Kelly’s still waiting for an explanation. Reggie keeps giving me odd looks. He stands up and paces a little before sitting back down again. I have the couch all to myself.

“Eric’s on his way,” Kelly says. “We should take you in to Sisters of Mercy, make sure you don’t have a concussion.” He gets up and steps closer, then stops when I flinch again. “You honestly don’t remember what happened?”

Sisters of Mercy, my mind whispers. Something about it...

I shake my head and wince at the stiffness and creaking in my neck. I take a sip of the tea but I don’t really taste it. I’m just grateful for the way it warms my insides and doesn’t make me want to throw up.

“Do you remember pinging me this morning?” Reggie asks.

I try, frowning at my tea and hoping something comes to mind. I remember arguing with Eric in the car. But everything after that is fuzzy. Was that just last night? Or have I lost more?

There are flashes of various conversations, telling Eric I’m not feeling well, arguing. I see myself puking into the toilet and wishing I could die. But that could be any number of different days. I wish I could remember why I’m wearing a dress. And no bra. I rarely do either outside of the house, no I guess I wasn’t planning on going anywhere. My hands ache, not just my skinned palm, like I’ve been working with them. They’re tired, and the skin on my fingertips is raw.

I shake my head. “What did I say?”

He frowns, and I see him throw Kelly a worried glance. Except there’s something else in his eyes, something that makes me think he doesn’t want to say it in front of Kelly.

Does it have to do with why I’m suddenly so afraid of my own husband?

Did he push me down the steps?

I shake my head again. No, Kelly’s always loved me. He’d never hurt me. We’re married, for god’s sake. Why would he—?

I flash on the picture he sent me, his marriage proposal. I’d sent him away in anger that day. I’d hurt him. Maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m afraid of hurting him again.

“Jessie, try.”

I take another sip of the tea, and pretend gag. “It’s too sweet,” I lie.

The look on his face breaks my heart. Why am I acting this way? Why do I keep hurting him?

Reggie knows something.

“Would you mind making some fresh,” I ask Kelly. “Less sugar this time.”

He throws Reggie a frustrated glance, then takes the cup and heads into the kitchen.

Reggie seizes the opportunity. “What the hell’s going on with you two?” he whispers. His eyes flick anxiously toward the hallway. “You’ve been acting like he has leprosy.”

“I— I’m not sure.”

“Not sure? You told me to come after school — without him, like you’re afraid of him — and when I arrive, I find you at the bottom of the basement steps unconscious! Did he—?”

I shake my head. “I don’t think so, no.”

“Then what?”

“It’s something else.”

“Are you...” He takes in a deep, shaky breath. “Are you trying to hurt yourself?”

“What? No! Definitely not that!”

“You need to start making sense, Jess.”

“I wish I could remem—”

But then it all returns to me in a mad rush: yesterday’s trip to the capitol, the screening, the disoriented bus ride back and Eric rescuing me after I’d wandered into the quarantine zone, using Grandpa’s old computer to look for a file on my Link that Micah said would be there.

And finding it embedded within Kelly’s photo. But then, not being able to access the underlying script.

He was the one who betrayed us.

“I remember! I told you not to bring him! Jesus, Reggie. You couldn’t even do that right.”

He leans back, hurt in his eyes. “I came alone, Jess, just like you asked. I knocked on your door, but you didn’t answer. I pinged twice. And when you didn’t answer those, I started to get worried. You’re damn lucky your back door was open and I found you when I did.”

“The back door was locked. I locked it myself after—”

“After what?”

Someone was here. That’s why I locked it.

“Well,” he says, “the latch is broken.”

I frown. I’m certain it wasn’t.

“Anyway, when I found you unconscious at the bottom the basement steps, I guess I sort of freaked a little bit out. I mean, what’d you expect me to do? I had to ping Kelly.”

I shut my eyes and slowly exhale, trying to calm myself. It’s difficult, not knowing if I’ve remembered absolutely everything. What more might I know? Well, I’m glad it was Reg who found me and not Kelly. No telling what he would’ve done to me, alone. At least with Reggie around, he has to pretend like he’s the worried, faithful husband.

“Turns out he was already on his way here,” Reggie continues, defensively. “Arrived not two or three minutes after I pinged him.”

“I found a file,” I whisper. “On my Link.”

“Okay? And...?”

“The code. The Jacker’s code.”

“The what?”

“Remember what Micah said, right before he was—”

I stop, unable to say it.

He nods. “Okay. Go on.”

A drawer in the kitchen opens and closes. A spoon stirring inside a cup.

“Micah said something called ‘Jacker’s code’ was on my Link. Well, I found it. Kelly put it there. Micah was telling the truth.”

“Micah was a liar.”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“He was working for the Coalition, Jessie.”

“Not him, Kelly was.”

Reggie starts to shake his head. “No. I don’t believe that. He was working with Arc, not the Coalition.”

“You don’t want to believe it because of what we did to Micah.”

“No, that rat bastard got what he deserved. He lied to us from Day One. He’s why we ended up in Gameland. Maybe he’s the one who put that code on your Link. He embedded it in the photo to make you suspect Kelly.”

“When would he have done that?”

“He had direct physical access to your Link in Gameland.”

“But it’s embedded inside the image Kelly sent me!”

“That wouldn’t be a challenge for Micah.”

“Look, there’s not enough time to explain everything,” I whisper. “Just, whatever this file is, I think it’s screwing with my implant.”

“Screwing with it how?”

“I don’t know. Blocking communication with certain stream frequencies. The scanners picked it up yesterday.”

“What scanners? What are you talking about?”

“I went to Citizen Registration yesterday. That’s why I was out of school.”

“You went up to Hartford?” Kelly says, appearing suddenly in the doorway, causing me and Reggie to jump. He steps into the room holding a tray in his hands, a bowl of something steaming hot and a glass of juice balanced on it. “Yesterday?” he says. “Why didn’t you tell me? I would’ve taken the day off and driven you.”

“It was last minute,” I stammer. “Anyway, Eric offered.”

“And?” he asks. “What did they say?”

I don’t answer. Instead, I glance at Reggie, who’s watching the exchange warily.

Kelly sets the tray down hard on the coffee table. The soup spoon tumbles out of the bowl with a clatter. “Damn it, Jessie, what the—”

“Whoa, hey, brah,” Reggie interrupts. He puts an arm on Kelly’s shoulder and tries to pull him back. “You’re scaring her.”

Kelly sweeps Reggie’s arm off of him. “I want to know what the hell is going on here! You’re both acting really strange!”

“Nothing!” I yelp. “I’m just—”

“Don’t tell me it’s nothing! It’s not nothing!” He bends down and grabs my arms.

“Kelly, you’re hurting me.”

“Is there something going on between you two?”

“What?” Reggie exclaims. “Where the hell is this coming from?”

“Back off, Reggie!” Kelly roars. His face is twisted in rage. I don’t recognize him anymore.

Before I can stop him, he reaches around the back of my neck and presses his fingertips to the skin there.

“What are you doing?” I shout. “Get away from me! Stop it!” I bat his arms away.

“Did they put a new implant in?”

“Nothing happened! They screened my Link and implant devices. That’s all.”

“That’s not all! You’re hiding something. Tell me!”

“Kelly, you need to back off, man!” Reggie says.

“No, you back off! This has nothing to do with you!”

“Both of you, shut up!” I scream.

“You asked me to—”

“You’re not helping, Reg.”

Kelly shuffles back, apologizing. He shakes his head and mutters something about being on edge because he’s not getting any sleep. “I just feel like you’re not telling me things, Jessie.”

“There’s nothing to tell.”

“They didn’t...? They didn’t replace your implant?”

“I already told you no.”

“But what did they say when they found out it’s been rejected?”

“It isn’t.”

“Not rejected?” Reggie says, surprised. “I’m confused.”

“I don’t understand it either,” I say, studying Kelly’s face. But the only thing on it is the same surprise and confusion I see on Reggie’s.

“So that’s it?” Kelly asks. “Everything’s... okay?”

“There was a glitch,” I reply, still watching him carefully. “Something wrong with the devices. They said something was blocking how they communicate with each other and the network. Something in the firmware.”

It may just be my imagination, but Kelly seems to tense up.

“And they fixed it?” Reggie asks.

“You can’t fix a firmware issue!” Kelly snaps. “You can only replace the hardware, and they’re not touching you, Jess!”

“Dude, what the hell is your problem?” Reggie demands.

“I’m sick of all this bull crap, that’s my problem!” Kelly yells. “No one’s laying another finger on you! I don’t give a rat’s ass if it’s Arc or Government or whoever! Enough is enough! This stops now!”

“You mean no one but you,” I throw at him.

“What? Jessie, I’m your husband. It’s my job to protect you!”

“Protect me? Or are you just protecting what you did to me?”

“What?”

“Tell us what you did! Both of us! Tell me what’s on my Link!”

He steps away, stumbling over his own feet and nearly falling. Reggie follows him. “Kelly, whatever the hell you—”

“I— I have to go,” he quickly says, warding Reggie off with his hands. He turns and snatches his Link off the table. “I’m sorry, Jessie. We’ll talk about this later.”

“You can’t just leave right in the middle of—”

“It’s Kyle!” he says. “I was supposed to go to the hospital. I’m late.”

“Are you freaking kidding me?” Reggie shouts. He tries to stop him, but I tell him to let Kelly go.

“We will talk about this when I get back, Jessie,” Kelly says, backing up toward the front door. “I— I’m sorry.”

Then he’s gone.

The front door closes. I get up, grunting in pain. I’m already stiffening up. I hobble over to the front window and watch him hurry away.

“Well, if that’s not suspicious,” Reggie says, “I don’t know what is.” He sighs. “I just wish I knew what it’s suspicious of.”

“I think you know.”

I go into the kitchen. I’m suddenly parched and need something to drink. I’m also feeling jittery again, like the floor will suddenly give way beneath me, or the walls will collapse or dissolve away. I sense Reggie trailing me. I know I need to tell him everything I know. He deserves as much. But right now I don’t know what to think. Kelly’s abrupt departure right when things got hot pretty much gave me all the confirmation I needed to know he’s guilty. Of what exactly, I still don’t clearly know. But the fact that my suspicions were true has given me even more reason to question the people around me, the people I’ve known and trusted forever. And loved. And that includes Reggie.

What if I can’t trust him, either? What if he’s not the person I thought he was?

I stand at the sink and lean against the counter to steady myself. I’m shaking all over, and it only seems to be getting worse.

Reggie places his hand on my arm, and I immediately tense up.

“Jessie,” he quietly says. “Hey, it’s me, sister. Talk to me. What the hell is going on?”

Do I trust him?

I shut my eyes and take in a deep breath. For once, the voice inside my head has nothing to say, no guidance to offer. The fact that she’s so quiet only seems to underscore one simple fact: I’m alone in this now. And it terrifies me.

Against my better judgment, I tell him to sit.

Then I tell him everything.

Chapter 27

“I don’t get it,” Reggie says, staring at my Link’s file directory on my grandfather’s computer screen. “Why would Kelly do something like this? And what the hell could it be? It’s, like, freaking massive. Clearly not just a photo.”

I slump down in the overstuffed chair and shake my head. I’m on my third dose of pain killers, grateful for the relief they bring, yet worried that the effect will wear off again before I’m allowed to take some more. But there’s a pain deep inside of me that no pills can ever dull.

I’m really scared. Terrified, in fact. The world has gone from a strange dream of denial to a nightmare from which I just can’t seem to wake.

And I still don’t know for sure if I can trust Reggie.

“Is it possible this isn’t as bad as it looks?”

“He hid a secret script in a photo he knew I wouldn’t think to delete. Everything that has happened afterward, all the weird stuff related to my Link and implant, has to be because of it.”

“I just can’t see him doing something like this to you. He’d never hurt you.”

“We felt the same way about Micah.”

“Are you saying we were wrong?”

“I guess I’m saying we don’t really know what a person is capable of. Micah, Kelly. Me and Ashley. Any one of us is capable of—”

“No.”

“And what about you?” I ask. “Could you ever hurt me?”

Surprise and pain flashes in his eyes. “Jessie, you know I love you like a sister.”

“That’s not what I asked you.”

“Never. I swear it.”

“Yeah, well, I believed ‘till death do us part’ and all that bullshit, too,” I grumble. “Promises mean nothing.”

“I would never hurt you, Jessie. You know that, I know you do in your heart.” There’s pain and disappointment in his eyes. I don’t think he’s acting. I want to believe him.

“Yeah, well, I thought I knew Kelly.”

“All these years...” he mutters. “I just can’t believe it. I mean, it looks bad, but this is Kelly we’re talking about, Jessie. I’m seriously having trouble seeing it. You two have known each other since you were, what, thirteen? Anyone could see he loved you from the very start. You know he hasn’t been planning this for the past five years.”

“He’s changed.”

“But to then just abandon all that?”

He’s right. Kelly has always professed his love for me, long before either of us really even knew what love was. Not once in all that time had he abandoned me, not even when I abandoned him last summer.

The memory leaves a terrible taste in my mouth. Could Kelly he holding a grudge over that?

It seems so unlike him. It isn’t like him. I know this with all my heart. I want to believe it. So why am I so determined to make him the bad guy?

Why are you so determined to think he’s the good guy when the evidence is staring you straight in the face?

“You checked the entire drive?” Reggie asks. He’s scrolling through the other files on my Link, opening random folders, clicking random photos.

“Excuse me!” I exclaim, pushing him away from the computer. “There’s private stuff on there!”

“Nekkid selfies?” he says, excitedly. But his face immediately flushes, and he turns away, embarrassed. “Sorry, I didn’t mean— I mean, that was—”

It’s these little things about Reggie that have always endeared me to him, the way he always tries to act tough and macho, but is really sensitive inside. The redness on his face makes me smile, despite how terrible I feel about everything else. It feels good to get rid of some of the tension, even if it’s the tiniest little bit.

“What do you think will happen if you delete the file?” he asks. “I mean, I wouldn’t, just in case it does something to your... you know, the implant.”

I shake my head. “First thing I tried. I couldn’t.”

“What do you mean you can’t? Just delete it.”

“Yeah, I know how this works.”

He reaches over and clicks on the file and drags it into the trash. It snaps right back, and a dialog box pops up informing us that we don’t have the right privileges.

“What the hell?”

“Told you. I also tried copying it to my grandfather’s computer. Same thing. Seems I’m stuck with it for the time being.”

“Man, that’s not good. Not good at all. Unless...”

“Unless you’re able to get CR to replace your devices.”

I nod.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his own Link. “Do you think maybe Kelly...?”

I gesture for him to take a look. He swaps out the Links and does a quick check of the directory on his. “Doesn’t look like there’s anything like that on mine. I mean, here’s a pic Kelly sent me earlier that same day.” He opens the image. It’s of the five of us standing around in our wetsuits half peeled off, our arms and shoulders still glistening from the water. I’m smiling, but I can see the hint of the trauma I’d recently suffered haunting my eyes.

“What’s the file size?” I ask.

“No bigger than any other photo.”

In the center of the group stands Ashley. The sunlight shines brilliantly off her auburn hair. She’s wearing a huge grin. Her teeth flash white. She could be a model, except that she never thought of herself as that kind of pretty. She’s holding up the broken umbrella she found inside the trunk of the abandoned car.

I can understand why Reggie kept the photo. And why it pains him so much to look at it.

“That was right before we all split up that day,” I whisper. “Before Micah told us about his tracking script and left to find a node to connect to. You and Ash went off to...”

He raises his eyebrows and waits for me to finish the thought.

“Kelly and I got into a fight, and I ended up saying some stupid things. I stayed behind with Jake. Maybe Kelly was angry at me.”

Reggie curses under his breath. He knows how much Jake and Kelly rubbed each other the wrong way. “Angry enough to make him do this to you?” he asks.

“Maybe. God, how could I be so stupid?”

He shakes his head. “Couples fight all the time. They say stupid things. God knows Ash and I have had our share of fights.”

“Yeah, I know,” I mutter. Ashley was never shy about filling me in on the details. In fact, when it came to their makeup sex activities, she tended to over-share.

Once again, Reggie’s face flushes. But then his shoulders droop, and he looks like he wants to cry. “You didn’t do anything, Jess. Kelly did. And it wasn’t spur of the moment, either. You don’t just write this massive a script in a few minutes.”

I reach over and disconnect his Link. I don’t want to see that photograph anymore. The memory hurts too much. But Reggie reattaches it and resumes searching through his files.

“Here’s the little program Micah sent, the one you came up with. Remember?” He sniffs bemusedly. “Damn little failsafe proxy saved my life more than once.” His face darkens. “What if you’re right, and Micah really was innocent? What if Kelly set him up?”

“I don’t know, Reg.”

“We might’ve killed our own friend!”

A strangled cry rises up out of his throat. He rips the cord out of his Link and hurls the device across the room. It embeds itself into the plaster of the far wall.

“Jesus, Reggie!” I yelp. “Are you trying to break it again?”

I go over and pull it out.

“Sorry, Jess. I’ll fix the wall.”

“I don’t give a crap about that. It’s your Link I’m worried about. And you. You’re dead if it breaks again. And right now, I need you.”

He swipes the Link out of my fingers, and for a moment I swear he’s going to hurl it again. Or crush it in his bare hands. There’s a look on his face, homicidal and maybe just a little suicidal. I’ve never seen it before.

There’s no doubt he’s changed since Ashley died. We’ve all changed, but he most of all. He looks like he wants to kill Kelly. But I can’t let him.

“I need to know why he did this,” I say, hoping he’ll pick up on the unspoken implication that he can’t do anything to harm Kelly. Yet. “I need to know what this file does.”

He slips his Link into his pocket. He makes no promises.

I shrug. “I need to find out what this thing is and why he put it here. I wish Micah were still around so I could ask him to hack it. If anyone could do it, he could.”

“Him or Ashley.”

“Yeah, both gone, and neither of us is near as good.”

“But neither is Kelly,” he says, thoughtfully. “He must’ve had help.”

I think about the mysterious pings on his Link.

“Too bad we can’t hack Kelly,” he muses.

I know he’s only joking, but there’s also a bit of truth to it, too. If there was one place I could break into to find out the truth, it’s inside of Kelly’s head.

Chapter 28

“Jessie!” Eric shouts, slamming through the front door. “Jess? Where are you?”

“We’re in the kitchen, brah,” Reggie answers.

Eric appears in the doorway, his face flushed and his coat sprinkled with silver droplets from the light rain that’s begun to fall. He slips over to my side. “What happened?”

“Nothing. I’m fine,” I say, but I wince and pull away when his fingers brush my cheek. My skin everywhere feels hypersensitive. “I just fainted. I’m fine now.”

“Fainted?” Eric asks Reggie.

“I fell, but I’m okay now.”

“You’re covered in bruises! Where the hell did you fall?”

“Down the basement stairs,” Reggie offers.

“What?”

“I’m fine.” I glare at Reggie, but he just shrugs.

“Yeah, no broken bones. We checked.”

“We?”

“Me and Kelly.”

“Oh, good, he’s here. I need to talk to him.”

“He left,” I grunt.

“And good riddance.”

Eric frowns at the both of us, confused. “What do you mean?”

“Because he’s an asshole,” Reggie says.

Eric slips his jacket off and places it over the back of the empty chair beside me. “Okay, talk. Did something happen between you two? Did he hurt you?” He stops, startled. “Did he push you down the stairs?”

“No!”

“Then where is he? He should be here for you.”

I give Reggie a look, warning him to zip it. I don’t want Eric asking about Kelly, because then we’d have to explain about the file on my Link, and after yesterday, he’s already freaked out over anything having to do with my devices.

“He’s at the hospital.” Or so he says. “Kyle’s been readmitted.”

“Is that why you’re angry with him, because of Kyle? That’s not like you.”

“It’s okay, really. I’m fine.”

“Yeah, everything’s fine,” Reggie grumbles. “Well, except you’re going to need to fix that bottom step. And replace your laundry basket.”

“I knew I shouldn’t have left you this morning. You even asked me to stay and I didn’t! Why didn’t I listen?”

“It’s not your fault. I told you to go. And I did start feeling better after you left. I even cleaned the house.”

He looks around and notices the dishes in the drying rack.

“I guess I overdid it.”

“If you were feeling well enough to clean, you should’ve gone to school. But clearly you’re not feeling right if you fainted. You need to get to bed. Right now.”

Reggie takes this as his cue to leave. He bends down over me and kisses the top of my head, something he’s never done before, and squeezes my shoulder reassuringly. “Ping me later,” he says, wagging his Link.

I nod, suddenly feeling guilty for ever doubting him. It was stupid to think Reggie could ever hurt me. Or anyone, for that matter. He’s just not capable. “Thanks for everything,” I say, choking up.

“No problem, sister. Get some rest. And eat something. You’re so skinny you practically disappear when you stand sideways.”

I bark out a laugh.

After he leaves, I reiterate to Eric that I’m fine, just bruised and tired. I don’t mention the phantom voices I’d heard or the visions I’d been having. And I definitely don’t tell him about the file on my Link.

“I have something for you,” he says. He reaches into his pocket and draws out a folded piece of paper. “It’s a note from Mom.”

I take the small square of pink parchment and carefully unfold it with shaking hands. Few people actually bother to write anything by hand anymore, much less on paper. It has less to do with paper being so expensive and more that Links are a lot more convenient and reliable. No one ever lost a note on a Link because it went through the wash.

The paper is thin and delicate. On one side are the faded markings of an ancient receipt from the Golden Dragon restaurant, the order a delicately scribbled orgy of dancing stick figures spelling out egg fu young or moo goo gai pan or some other such dish. On the other side is my mother’s note:

My dear daughter,

I know how much pain you have endured, and it kills me so to know that I am the cause of so much of your suffering. You didn’t ask for it, yet you always bore whatever came with grace. Well, usually. But you always forgave. That’s your greatest gift. And I always took it for granted. When I promised you I would stop drinking, I knew full well how hard it would be not to break that promise. But I tried. I can’t change the past, although I am determined not to repeat it. I can’t bear the thought of letting you down again. I won’t. You’ve suffered enough.

I will always love you, even if you stop loving me.

Your mother,

L

“It’s dated last Thursday,” Eric says. “The day before you and Kelly got married. I think this means she’s not coming back this time, Jessie.”

“No.”

“It’s her handwriting.”

I know it’s her writing. I’ve seen enough of it over the years to be certain of that. And there’s the way she always wrote her capital ‘L’ with all the extra loops and curves, like the twisted path of a falling leaf. I know the note is genuine, I just can’t believe what Eric thinks it means.

“Where did you get this?”

“Jessie, I don’t think—”

“Where?”

“I asked a friend of mine to check in on some of the guys she’d been seeing recently. As a personal favor.”

“Been seeing.” I spit the words from my mouth like they’re bitter. “You mean screwing.”

“Jessie!”

I push myself stiffly out of my chair and cross the kitchen. The room spins. I grip the edge of the sink and stand there, panting and trying not to be sick. But it’s not my stomach that rebels this time, it’s my mind that wants to throw everything out.

I spin around as soon as I can catch my breath. “What friend? Who? Someone on the police force?”

Eric nods tentatively.

“What’s the address? Tell me the address where she’s staying!” I’m screaming now, slapping the countertop, which sends waves of pain reverberating through my battered body. I don’t care. She made promises to me. But instead of keeping them, she thinks she can just cop out entirely? “I want to see her, now!”

Eric shakes his head. “I can’t—”

I crush the paper in my fist and hurl it. It hits him in the face, bounces away and rolls under the refrigerator. Eric barely flinches.

“I want her to look me in the eye and tell me she’s sorry herself! She expects me to forgive her after a paper apology? There’s no goddamn way that’s ever going to happen!”

“Jessie, sit down.”

“No! I want to see her right now! You take me there right this minute!”

“I can’t.”

“Why the hell not? You said your friend got this from her. He knows where she is!”

“No, Jessie. The guy she’d been staying with gave it to my friend to deliver to me. To... you. She’s not there anymore. She’s moved on.”

I glare at him. “Where is she now? Sponging off some other creep? Can’t you track her down? Use her Link identifier!”

He raises a hand to try and calm me down. “Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t, Jess. It takes a warrant, and to get that I have to provide evidence of a crime. Or get a notice from Arc that her implant was activated. If there were some other way to track her, I would. I want to find her just as much as you do.”

I squint at him, trying to read his face, his intent. Of course there’s another way to track her down— Micah’s illegal tracking script. Problem is, it’s on his tablet, and that’s still inside Gameland.

“I think she just doesn’t want to be found right now,” Eric says.

“You don’t know that.”

“This guy she was seeing, this George character, he said that she just up and disappeared. He says it might’ve been Friday morning. He thought she’d come back, because she didn’t take her clothes.”

“Friday? The day we filed.”

Eric nods. “You and Kelly getting married probably triggered memories of her and Dad. You know how much it messed her up when he died.”

“Your father, not mine.”

“Jessie, this note is—”

“Why didn’t she deliver it then?”

“What?”

“If she wanted me to have this, why wouldn’t she make sure I got it? Especially if she was so goddamn sorry?”

Eric opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He shakes his head in frustration.

“Something’s wrong, Eric. I can feel it.” I flash back to the dream I’d had of my mother’s broken body in that dark room. It was so vivid, so... visceral. I know it was just a vision. But what if it wasn’t?

“You don’t know that.”

I know the chances of Eric being right are probably much better than even, that she’s just waiting until enough time has passed and she feels like she can face me without the recrimination I have a tendency to dole out in spades.

But what if, just this once, I’m right? What if there’s something to that vision?

“She’s hurt,” I say.

Sleeping in the dirt. Somewhere in the woods.

Red shirt, butterfly pocket jeans.

Stop it!

“She’s not hurt, Jessie.”

“Then she’s trapped.”

“Or maybe she simply changed her mind. Maybe she’s ashamed of the way she acted. I don’t know. She made you a promise and then didn’t follow through. I may defend her a lot more than she deserves, but I know how much missing you and Kelly signing those papers meant to you. She hurt you bad this time. And me.”

“You?”

He nods. Then he sighs. “But it’s not all her fault, either. You hurt her, too.”

“How the hell did I hurt her?” I demand.

“You know how you can be, how you can make people feel when you think they’ve betrayed your trust or your feelings.” He snaps his fingers. “You have a tendency to swing from one extreme to the other, sometimes without proof.”

“This isn’t about me! And we’re not just talking about anyone, we’re talking about Mom!”

“Look, she’ll come home when she’s ready. She always does. You just have to be patient.”

“And what if she doesn’t?” I demand. “What if she can’t?”

“She will. She just needs to...”

“To what, Eric?”

He seems to deflate. “To sober up.”

I collapse back into my chair and cover my face. I don’t know what to think about anything anymore.

“She’ll come home.”

I pray he’s right. But I have this deep fear he’s wrong.

Chapter 29

Kelly wakes with a start, jerking and gasping from yet another nightmare. The dark dreams have been plaguing him more and more lately, visions that make him feel as if he’s a Player in Gameland and someone is manipulating his mind and his body to do things against his will.

He knows he’s not the only one having bad dreams. Jessie’s had them especially bad. And Reggie did mention suffering from them, too.

He tells himself it’s the guilt, but this feels a lot worse. Guilt shouldn’t feel so real or have such lasting physical effects on his body. And it can’t explain all the little clues that tell him something more is going on. Like the dirt on his shoes a couple morning that wasn’t there the night before. And the lost hours. Is he sleepwalking?

More like sleeprunning. Still trying to get away from Gameland.

The horrifying images of that place have seared themselves onto the very walls of his mind, and while they give his nightmares a familiar terrifying form, they’re not the cause of his worst anxieties. The dreams themselves spring from a much deeper well, one that has been dug over a very long period of time, since long before the folly of their Gameland misadventure.

He’s startled to find Jessie awake and sitting up, her head and shoulders framed in silhouette by the wan light from the streetlamps. She sits like that for a long time, as still as stone. She seems unaware he’s awake.

Is she asleep?

He sits up. Her eyes glisten, reflecting the light, but she’s got to be sleeping, since she didn’t react when he woke, didn’t ask him if he was okay or wondered aloud why he’d so unexpectedly started gulping air like he’d just finished a mile-long sprint.

He reaches out and touches her shoulder. She still doesn’t move.

Well, that’s something, he thinks. Every other time he’d tried to connect with her since coming home, she’d flinched like he was infected.

“Jessie?”

“Shh!” she says.

So, she is awake then.

He moves closer to her, feels her body stiffen. She draws away, and the ache in his heart doubles, triples, grows to immeasurable proportions.

I’m losing her.

Does it surprise you, after what you’ve done? She knows.

He can’t tell how he feels about that. Relieved? Scared?

How much does she know?

Enough, comes the inevitable answer. Enough to know that you lied to her after you said you wouldn’t. She’ll never trust you again.

He wishes now he hadn’t run off earlier. But he had to, before he made the rash decision of telling her the truth without first consulting with the woman pulling his strings. The one responsible for everything.

He wishes he knew how to fix this. He wants to fix everything. But he can’t. Even just trying will make things worse.

“What’s the matter?” he asks. He reaches a hand out, then draws it back before it makes contact.

She turns her head slightly, not toward him, but away. She seems to be listening, waiting.

“Do you hear it?” she asks.

Kelly closes his eyes and listens. But there’s nothing to hear, nothing out of the ordinary. Just the same silence, broken only by the occasional rumble of thunder far away. The transient whisper of tires on a wet road a bit closer. A fitful breeze patiently pawing just outside the window.

Maybe it’s the absence of the undead, their moans, he thinks. The night’s almost too quiet. It’s eerie.

“No, hon.”

Jessie lies back down, slumping onto her side, facing away from him. She stays as close to the edge of the mattress as possible without falling off the narrow bed. Don’t touch me is the message she sends.

He ignores it and tries to pull her to him, but she resists. “What was it? What did you hear?”

“Nothing,” she answers, her voice so low that he can’t be sure she’s actually spoken. But then, a little louder: “Someone crying. Calling my name. Voices. People.”

She falls silent.

He thinks he knows what she means. He can hear them too, inside his head. The dead they left behind. Crying out for them to help. Their dying pleas, Ashley and Jake, left to wander forever.

And others. Hundreds and thousands of others.

He shudders and closes his eyes and listens to the slow and reassuring sound of her breathing. He tries to sync it with his own, but he can’t seem to be able to.

After a while, with his arm still draped over her shoulder, an arm he knows is unwelcome there, he falls back down into that deep, dark well, which he has dug for himself, this terrible pit of deception and chaos. It’s a nightmare that has taken over his life. He just can’t seem to wake up out of it.

Chapter 30

I wait until Kelly’s asleep, then carefully slide out from beneath his arm. I set it gently on the pillow so he won’t wake. I don’t bother getting dressed, just grab my robe and drape it over my shoulders.

After what happened today, I hadn’t expected Kelly to come home tonight. And when he still hadn’t shown up by eleven, I went to bed, both relieved and heartbroken. I was nearly asleep when the sound of the front door opening snapped me awake. I heard him come inside the house, then up the stairs. I recognized the irregular pattern of his slight limp. He slipped into the room like a thief. He whispered my name. I didn’t move. I pretended to be asleep. I listened to him get undressed and slide in beside me. The feel of his skin on mine flooded me with emotion— mostly anger and revulsion, but also desire and loss. I longed for the way things used to be, even as I knew they had all been an illusion.

The tears had come then, spilling out of my eyes unbidden and unrestrained. They poured down my face and soaked my pillow. That’s how I, relenting to my own exhaustion, finally fell asleep.

But now, as I stand over him and peer down at his shadowy form beneath the covers, I feel a strange sort of resolution. My pillow has since dried. Tomorrow will be hard, confronting him, but for now there is something more urgent needing my attention. For my own sanity, I have to prove once and for all that what I’ve been seeing, what I’ve been hearing, is just my imagination.

A car passes beneath the window, and its headlights wash the ceiling. In the reflection, I catch a glimpse of Kelly’s face. Slack from sleep, it’s utterly devoid of guile. This is the Kelly I had always known and loved, the boy who cared so deeply about everyone that I feared it would consume him someday. This boy, this man with whom I fell so irrevocably in love, who had wooed me with his quiet patience, with his timeless and ageless sensibilities that transcended everything that was always so wrong with the world. My friend and lover, who had always been so boringly consistent and reliably trustworthy, almost to the point of becoming practically invisible to everyone else. And it turns out it was all just a mirage.

“What happened to you?” I whisper, so faintly that not even my own ears pick it up.

I shake my head and leave, silently closing the door behind me. I linger there for a couple minutes to see if he’ll rise and follow. If he does, then I’ll abort.

I tiptoe down the hall and stop outside Eric’s room. His door is closed, which he only does at night. I don’t hear him snoring. He’s here, but is he asleep?

There’s no light slipping out from underneath the door.

I float down the stairs, down the hall, past the darkened living room. The moonlight shines in through the kitchen window. The faucet sparkles. The refrigerator hums quietly against the wall. Everywhere, tiny lights glow, like unblinking eyes: the clock on the microwave oven, the timer on the coffeemaker and the stove, the house Link with its permanent connection to the Stream.

There’s a rumble in the distance— thunder, followed by a brief, dim flash. The night skies have been full of dry lightning this summer; the past couple of weeks have been wetter and hotter than I can ever remember it being for this time of the year.

When I get to the back hallway, I pause for a moment to look out into the yard. The darkness makes me dizzy, so I steady myself on the door frame, holding on as if the house were a ship on a gently rolling sea. Through the window, peeking out from behind the tattered black fabric of storm cloud, is the moon. It burns with a cold, white light. I turn, step, and place a shaky hand on the door handle to the cellar.

I have to know. I have to go down there and see if it triggers anything. I need to know my mother’s not down there in the darkness.

I turn the knob and crack open the door. Silence roars in my ears. The night seems far too quiet. Even the crickets that usually fill the emptiness of night have fallen mute. I’d earlier wished them into silence so that I could listen for the sound that had woken me, the voice that beckoned just over the high wall of my consciousness. Now I long for their lonesome, raucous song, if only to mask the hammering drumbeat of my heart inside my chest.

But the only buzz I hear is the persistent ringing in my ears, which has been plaguing me ever since my tumble down the steps.

These steps.

I hope the ringing isn’t permanent. I worry it means I’ve done some sort of damage. Maybe I have a concussion.

The sound that woke me up, like crying, had come to me while I slept, at first not in my ears but inside my own mind. It had ushered forth a sense of such utter desolation that I’d woken feeling as if my soul had died. It took a while to convince me I wasn’t imagining the sound, because I could still hear it. It had found me in my slumber and chased me out of it. It had reached in and grabbed me. I wanted to reach out then and touch it.

To orient myself to it, I’d sat up in bed. I’d strained my ears listening. But it only confirmed what I already knew: it was coming from the cellar.

My sitting up had also roused Kelly from his own slumber. And it was like a switch had been flipped. The crickets, the voices, the crying— all of it vanished in an instant, leaving me wondering if Kelly’s waking had prompted me to do so for real this time, and that what I had sensed in the moments before, what I’d thought I’d heard, had actually been in my sleep the whole time.

After he nodded off again, I laid awake for another hour, waiting for the crying to resume. It never did.

I release the knob, and the springs inside it make their thin metallic sounds. The hinges whisper and sigh as I push the door open wider. I wait again, listening so intently that I’m sure I’d be able to hear even the slightest inhale from the tiniest creature. Maybe even the delicate rush of blood through its veins.

Assuming its heart still pumps and its blood still flows.

A whisper of air caresses my cheek. It’s the same familiar smell of bare earth and dust overlaid with laundry detergent. I breathe deeper, and this time I notice the musky woodiness of molding cardboard and mouse pee.

What it doesn’t smell like is dead, plastinated flesh.

I dip a toe into that inky pool of darkness beneath me, and I flash back to the basement stairs of the house on Long Island. I had felt the same dread then, too, going down into the basement. The string for the light switch dangles just out of reach. I stretch again, once more with one hand on the rail. I lean perilously forward.

Where is it?

Something brushes the back of my wrist and I jerk back. My heart jackhammers its way into my throat.

The string, stupid. It’s just the string.

I find it again and pull.

The stairwell tunnel explodes with light, the bulb buzzing with a quiet mosquito whine. The incandescent filament twitches and jiggles, sending the shadows scurrying into the cracks and crevices below. I’d never before noticed how dark everything is down here, in the places the light doesn’t reach. I’ve never before given a second thought to the open slots underneath each step and behind each riser. They’re perfect hiding spots, large enough to crouch behind, the gaps perfectly positioned to reach out and grab an ankle. Perfect for tripping someone and sending them crashing to the bottom.

Stop freaking yourself out! No one tripped you.

I force a humorless chuckle up my throat and through my clenched jaws.

Just get it over with so you can go back to bed.

But sleep is the farthest thing from my mind.

I plunge down the steps, taking them two at a time, my hand trailing along behind me on the banister like a parachute. I reach the bottom in a rush, skipping over the broken step and landing hard on one ankle. I then hurry over to the corner where the washer and dryer dwell. This is the darkest part of the basement, farthest from the stairs, and I frantically wave my arm around to find the other string.

Where the hell is it and shit shit shit SHIT I can hear something behind me and I’m NOT DOWN HERE ALONE!

A choking cry claws its way up my throat.

But finally the string snaps around my wrist. I pull, and another circle of light floods over me. The walls jump forward, pushing the darkness away. The ceiling drops down low. This is exactly how it had felt in my vision, and my eyes automatically drift to the floor. But there’s no carpet here, no bed of grass or leaves.

I gasp for air. With the backs of my thighs braced against the machines, I clutch the tops, white-knuckled. I scan the room. Shadows dance around me, waltzing in time with the swaying light bulb. They slow and finally stand still.

Nothing moves. Nothing jumps out and attacks me. Nothing utters a word or takes a breath. Nothing cries.

Relief washes over me. And disappointment. A bubble of laughter erupts from me, a sound filled with relief and embarrassment. The noise startles me into silence. I raise a hand to my mouth.

“What did you expect, idiot?” I chastise myself. “You heard nothing because there’s nothing here.”

But that voice inside of me tells me it’s not because of that. It’s because this is the wrong place. It feels a bit like this, but it’s not here.

In the darkness behind several boxes is a large empty space. I drag them away and discover only the remains of old wash rags and the dilapidated sepulchers of long dead spiders and their collections of mummified sacrifices. The corner of one box has lost all substance. Mouse-eaten and moldy, it crumbles in my fingers and spills its guts over the floor, the relics of ancient baby toys and pop-up board books and other odds and ends.

There’s nothing here but memories and someone else’s misplaced sentimentality.

I yank the string again, and the shadows immediately reclaim the ground they had forfeited minutes earlier. I make my way back to the stairs and up them. Darkness surges toward me like water rising in a well as I turn off the other light. But I’m not frightened anymore. I did what I came to do. I have conquered my demons for tonight. I close the cellar door and retreat into the hallway. And just as I step past the back door to return to my bed, my eyes catch a chunk of the darkness moving. Before I can duck, it disengages from the night and swoops down over me.

Chapter 31

“Goddamn it, Reggie!” I nearly shout. “What the fuck?”

I expect him to start laughing, as if this is just another of his stupid pranks. But he staggers toward me, clutching his arm against his side.

“I cut myself pretty badly,” he says.

I guide him toward the kitchen, flicking the lights on as I go. I no longer try to be quiet. I get him to the sink and turn on the cold tap. Water cascades over the gash in his arm. He hisses in pain.

“What the hell happened to you?” I demand. “And why are you here? It’s the middle of the freaking night!”

The cold water is numbing. Reggie closes his eyes and sighs with relief. “Feels good,” he moans, and starts to gently rub away the dirt and clotted blood.

“You weren’t perving on me, were you?”

“Yeah, you wish.”

I tell him to stay put, then head to the downstairs bathroom to gather up some bandaging supplies. By the time I return, he’s got his shirt off. The gash on his arm isn’t the only new injury. His neck and chest are scratched up, too. I realize I’m looking for bites, but the wounds are clearly not made by teeth. His jeans are covered in blood, and his knees and face are smeared with mud. I wet some paper towels so he can wipe it off.

“You’re not leaving here until you tell me what happened.”

The bleeding on his arm isn’t so bad now, but it’s so deep and long that it soon soaks through the bandage. Rather than change it, I press a clean wad of cotton to it and tell him to apply pressure. “You’re going to need stitches.”

“Fuck that.”

The thick muscles in his back ripple beneath my fingers as I guide him to a chair. He sits with a heavy grunt and gingerly places his injured arm on the table.

“Well?” I say, wiping the mud off his face and other shoulder. I can feel him trembling. “What happened?”

But he lowers his head to the table and says nothing.

“You want something to eat?”

He wags his head no.

“Reggie? Are you okay?”

He sits up again and gives me a baleful look that tells me everything I need to know. I’m not the only one suffering. In fact, he appears to be in far worse shape than me.

Over the next twenty minutes, I manage to wash most of the blood and mud off Reggie’s chest and arms. I apply bandages to the worst of his injuries. At one point, he actually falls asleep on me. I consider not waking him, but I worry his snores will rouse Eric. Or even worse, Kelly. The last thing I need to do is explain why I’m giving a half naked Reggie a sponge bath in my kitchen in the middle of the night.

“Look, Reg. It’s almost four o’clock in the morning and Eric’ll be up soon for work. You need to tell me how this happened. What the hell were you doing out at this time of night? And why did you come here?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” he replies.

“So you thought wrestling with barbed wire or something would help?”

He shakes his head, not even cracking a smile. “It happened again.”

“What happened, Reggie? What are you talking about?”

He lets out a long shaky breath. “Remember when I sort of blacked out the other day?”

“You mean the day you stole those Zoners out of my backpack?”

“Jessie! I told you I only took a couple, and that was hours before. There’s no way they last that long.”

“Okay fine. You sleepwalked,” I growl, scraping at another cut on his scalp.

“Ouch! What the hell! Stop it. That hurts!” He pushes me away with a wounded look.

“Stop being such a wimp.”

“I’m not a wimp. I’m... scared.”

This catches my full attention. Reggie wouldn’t admit to being scared unless he really meant it. I pull my chair over and sit down next to him. “Okay.”

“I was in The Game, and it happened again.”

“You were playing, and you blacked out? Did you get your Player—”

“Killed?” he says.

I have this image of the two of us, him as a little boy and me as a grown up chastising him for not putting away his toys: That’s what happens when you leave your zombies out in the rain, Little Reg. They get ruined. Well, I’m not buying you another dead person until you learn how to properly take care of the one you’ve got.

He shakes his head. “No. But it wouldn’t matter if it did. I’m done with Gameland. I can’t keep doing this.”

“And what about Ashley?”

His face pinches. “I can’t. I just can’t.”

“It’s okay. She wouldn’t want you to torture yourself like this,” I tell him, even though I’m not so sure about that. Ashley could be selfish like that sometimes.

“It’s killing me,” he moans.

I put my hand on his and squeeze.

“I mean that, Jessie. It’s actually literally trying to kill me.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The gear’s defective. Has to be. It’s dangerous. And it’s Kelly’s fault.”

“Are you just saying that because of what he’s doing to me?”

“I don’t know! All I know is that it’s seriously screwing with my mind somehow. I keep blacking out when I’m in The Game and then waking up hours later someplace different.”

“Where’s your Link?”

He checks his pockets. “I assume it’s still in the console.”

“How is that possible?”

He shrugs.

“Okay, forget about that for now. Maybe the signal’s getting transmitted via your Link to the towers.”

“Maybe. I don’t care. I’m finished with it.”

“Are you sure it’s not just post-traumatic stress? We’re all suffering.”

“And how are you suffering?”

I raise an eyebrow. I want to tell him about the visions and the voices, but they seem utterly crazy. “Not eating and not sleeping,” I say. “And falling down stairs, apparently.”

“Well, I haven’t done that yet.”

“That’s stage two.”

“I think I’m way past that. There’s definitely something weird going on, something...” He pauses. “It’s not just inside my head. I can’t explain it. I’m hearing things, seeing things.”

“Voices?”

“No. It’s more than that.”

I wait.

“Ghosts. I keep seeing Ashley.” He laughs uncertainly. “You probably think I’m going crazy.”

“No.”

But what I think is, what if he’s right, and it really is all because of Kelly?

He gets up and starts pacing. He holds the injured arm against his side, but I get the sense it’s less to protect it as it is to keep him from losing control. He looks terrified.

“Last night,” he says, “after I left here, I couldn’t stop thinking about what you said. About that file on your Link. And Kelly.” He stops and looks at me expectantly. But I don’t know what he wants from me. “I didn’t want to believe it,” he finishes.

“Yeah, well, I don’t want to believe it, either. But what other explanation is there?”

“That’s why I couldn’t sleep. I mean, I tried. I went to bed, and I was trying not to think about anything but how nice it was to have clean sheets and a soft mattress. And suddenly Ashley’s face pops into my head. And then I was thinking about how she’s out there somewhere, lost and alone, with nowhere to sleep, no one to—”

“Reggie, stop.” I want to tell him that Ashley doesn’t care about any of that anymore. But he knows that. That’s not what’s happening here.

“I just kept imagining her standing on some hill somewhere, you know, just standing there and watching the moon. Surrounded by all the other undead.” His face goes slack, like he’s seeing it right now. “It was— You know, it actually seemed kind of peaceful in a way.”

He shakes his head, and his eyes refocus. They fill once more with pain. He turns to me and steps closer, and for a second I think he’s going to grab me. But he sits down and leans toward me. “But then I saw this Player. It went at them like it had only one thing on its mind. It was a monster.” He sucks in another shuddering breath. “I watched it take them all out, Ashley included.”

“Just a dream, Reg. Your mind’s just trying to work through some shit.”

“Was it, though? All that was left afterward was her body lying in the dirt, all broken and empty.” These last words come out in a sob. A tear slips down his cheek. “No one came and tucked her into bed. And her bones were—”

His voice cracks.

“Reggie, stop it. You’re not responsible for her death.”

He doesn’t hear me. “Her body just sitting there on top of that hill, rotting away. Her bones drying up and turning to dust.” He looks up suddenly, the same dark intensity in his eyes that I’d seen yesterday. It scares me. “How long do you think it would take for that to happen? Couple of years? Ten maybe?”

“I don’t know.”

“I knew I had to find her right away. I had to take care of her because if I don’t, then someone else — something else — will, and I just can’t stand the thought of that happening.”

“So you went into The Game.”

He nods. “It was late, after midnight by then, I think. I went down to the garage and booted the console. I remember starting to gear up. It was—”

He stops and just stares, his eyes glassy again.

“What is it?” I ask.

“I saw them, hundreds of IUs all around me — I mean the Player — just standing there staring at the moon, just exactly as I’d imagined in my dream.”

A shiver passes through me. “Coincidence.”

“No, it wasn’t. It was the same hill, the same moon.”

“And the Player? Was it there? Was Ashley there?”

He moans. “It was me. I was the Player. I was the one going to them and killing them. They were all so... so quiet and peaceful, staring up at the moon like that. And I was killing them!”

“And Ashley? Did you find her?”

“No. I killed them all, but not her. And the next thing I knew, I was no longer there on the hilltop. It was like I’d leveled up into a different place. I was... I was inside again.”

“Inside The Game?”

“No. The hill and the undead were all gone. I wasn’t outside anymore, I was inside.”

“Your garage?”

“I was still wearing the gear, but I wasn’t in the garage anymore. I wasn’t even in my own house, Jessie. It was...” He gives me a horrified look. “I panicked. I ripped off the gear and ran.”

“Here? You ran here?”

“I’m telling you, Jessie, there’s something wrong with that equipment. And after what you found out about Kelly putting that file on your Link, I’m starting to think he’s done something with that gear and it’s fucking me up big time.”

“Are you sure you didn’t just dream the whole thing up?”

“Go to Micah’s if you don’t believe me.”

“Micah’s?”

“That’s where I woke up! Inside his house!”

I blink stupidly at him. He couldn’t have made it all the way there in his sleep. Could he have? Of all of our houses, his and Micah’s are the farthest apart. “You blacked out and walked all the way across town to Micah’s house? How did you get inside?”

“I didn’t black out!”

“Shh!”

“The only thing I can figure is that I walked there in The Game. But you want to know what the scary part about it was?”

I wait.

“When I first realized I wasn’t in The Game anymore, you know what I was doing? I was standing at the window in his living room staring up at the moon!”

Despite knowing it probably means nothing, I get another chill. “Just like the IUs on that hill.”

Reggie nods. “Waking up like that — or coming to, or whatever you want to call it — freaked me the hell out. I was sure the house was filled with all those other IUs. I couldn’t figure out how to open the door to get out, so I punched through a window and jumped. That’s how I cut my arm.”

He covers his face in his hands. His shoulders hitch with emotion.

I fetch a blanket from the living room and wrap it around his shoulders.

Is it possible, I wonder, what he said about Kelly and the equipment? Could this be some sick new level of the game? What if we never left when we escaped the island? I mean, physically we’re here, but what if we’re still functionally inside The Game? The visions I’ve been having, both at night and during the day, that strange sense of disconnect at times, like I’m looking through someone else’s eyes, are they hints that someone’s hacked my implant? Maybe it’s not stress after all, not my mind playing tricks on me as it tries to deal with the trauma we’d endured. If that’s true, then a nervous breakdown would be preferable.

Reggie’s visibly shaking.

“I think maybe you should go home,” I tell him. “You can’t be here when the boys get up.”

“Boys?”

“Kelly’s here.”

His eyes go wide.

“We haven’t talked.”

But he shakes his head. “I can’t, Jessie. I can’t be alone.”

“You have to get some rest. Don’t go to school in the morning. No drugs, no Red Bull. You need sleep. You haven’t been getting enough and maybe that’s why—”

“I wasn’t sleepwalking! I didn’t dream it!”

He jerks angrily away from me.

I raise my hands. “I didn’t say you were. But if we’re going to deal with this properly, we’ll need to get our heads on straight, and we can’t do that if we’re not getting enough rest. You’re clearly dead on your feet, and so am I.”

I stand up, grunting from all the aches in my body. I bend down and wrap my arms around him, careful not to squeeze his injured arm.

“Someone want to explain what’s going on here?” Kelly says. His voice is scratchy from sleep, but there’s no mistaking the anger in it.

Reggie pushes me away from him. “It’s not what you think, brah.”

“And what exactly do I think?”

“Calm down,” I tell him.

He crosses his arms. His face is red, and there’s a murderous look in his eyes that I don’t like.

“Reggie’s been having trouble dealing since we got back. We all have, Kelly, you know that. But he’s been sleepwalking. I found him at the door, hurt.”

I feel Reggie stiffen next to me, but he doesn’t challenge the inaccuracies or gaps in my description of what happened.

Kelly’s eyes narrow. “Still doesn’t explain why you’re in my house! Hugging my wife! Or are you sleepwalking now?”

“Kelly—”

Reggie steps forward, cutting me off. He lets the blanket slough off his shoulders and, with a grunt of pain, extends his arm to show Kelly the bandage. “I cut myself, like Jessie said. Fell on something, I guess. I think that’s what woke me up. I was in the greenbelt and passing by on my way home again, when I saw the lights on in your basement.”

Kelly looks over at me. “Why were you in the cellar again?”

“I thought I heard something.” At least that much is the truth.

“Brah, you gotta believe me. There is nothing going on here.”

Kelly’s clearly not convinced.

“Look, you can check the sink,” I say. “His shirt’s in there. It’s a bloody mess.”

Kelly marches over and stares into the basin. He takes so long that, for a moment, I begin to wonder if there’s nothing there, that I’d just imagined the whole thing. That’s how screwed up my head is lately.

Finally, he turns to us, and there’s this look of utter defeat on his face. He sighs and apologizes. “I guess I better make some coffee then,” he says. “There’s some things you need to know.”

Chapter 32

“Jessie! Hey, Jess!”

Kelly waves frantically over the milling crowd of students and shouts her name again. He’s out of breath from his jog over from the other side of campus. Although technically a part of the same high school, the students are actually physically segregated into college and trade tracks for most of their classes. But it’s lunchtime, and she’s been avoiding him now for two days, ever since Reggie showed up in the middle of the night.

They really need to talk, especially since he hadn’t gotten the chance then. Eric’s untimely arrival into the kitchen before he’d been able to confess everything had upended his plans. He’d sent both him and Reggie home immediately, worried that they were agitating Jessie and preventing her from getting the rest she so badly needed.

Since then, they’ve all been avoiding him, not answering his pings, pretending not to see him whenever their paths crossed.

But after two days of this, he can’t take it anymore. It’s long past time to come clean. And not just because she already knows. She couldn’t possibly, not everything. But because she knows enough, including the file on her Link. As for the rest, well, she’s made her own conclusions. But she’s wrong about the why, which is obvious in the way she’s been treating him lately.

He calls out her name again, but she either doesn’t hear him or she’s pretending not to.

He can’t blame her. The way he’s been acting is unforgiveable.

He thinks he’ll chase her down, but when she makes a sudden turn and heads for the main gate, he stops. Puzzled, he watches her thread her way between two large groups of students, one a circle of a dozen or so girls, all wearing tennis outfits and chirping excitedly among themselves, the other a smaller mixed cluster of kids all dressed in black.

A trio of girls peels off the second group. They slip into Jessie’s wake and begin trailing her. He recognizes the tallest of them, a girl he knows Jessie doesn’t get along with. Or used to, anyway. Ever since she told him who’d given her the Zoners he found in her pocket, he’s been worried about what it all means.

He hurries down the steps, apologizing to the people he bumps into.

Before he can intercept her, someone knocks him on the shoulder and tells him to watch where he’s going. He ignores the warning. He doesn’t want to lose sight of Jessie. He sees her reach the gate just as someone grabs his shoulder and spins him around.

“Well, if it ain’t Kelly Corben,” he hears, the voice dripping with derision. “College track dweeb slumming it with the tech trackers today?”

Avery Constable swings into view. He’s wide enough to block the entire sidewalk. Kelly tries to step past him.

“What’s your hurry, man?”

“Nothing.”

Avery drops a beefy palm onto Kelly’s shoulder. He hits him with a smile that’s just as beefy.

“I said, not today,” Kelly snarls, and he bats Avery’s arm away.

The bully’s smile falters. A glimmer of doubt settles onto his moon-shaped face. He’s not used to the college track kids standing up to him. He drops his hand and backs away.

Kelly steps to the side to pass him. His body tenses up for the inevitable second grab, knowing it’ll be bad. But it doesn’t come. It must be his lucky day.

He exits the schoolyard and turns left, expecting to see Jessie a block away, heading for home. She’s not there. He stands for a moment, confused, then turns around just in time to see her disappearing around a corner several blocks away. Siennah and her friends are nowhere in sight.

Is she getting more drugs?

He starts to run. As he passes the gate again, he glances over, expecting to see Avery there, ready to pounce. But he’s gone, off to harass someone who’ll give him more bang for his buck.

Kelly catches up to Jessie four blocks away. He says her name and this time she stops. He thinks he sees a flash of panic in her eyes. But then it’s gone.

“Where are you going?”

Her eyes narrow. “What happened to your shirt?” she asks, instead of answering.

“What? Nothing.”

“It’s not nothing. Your collar’s torn.”

He adjusts it. “Avery Constable.”

Another flash of emotion, this time worry. Or is it anger? He can’t tell.

“Did you say something to him?”

“No. It’s just him being his normal Neanderthal self.”

She studies his face for a moment, nods, then turns and resumes walking.

“You didn’t say where you’re going.”

“It’s none of your business.”

“It is my business!”

“Fuck off.”

“Jessie, please. We need to talk.”

“Too late for that now. Anyway, I can’t. I’m late.”

Kelly wipes a bead of sweat from his forehead. This isn’t going the way he’d hoped it would.

Well, what’d you expect?

“Look, Jess, if this is about the file on your Link—”

She makes a disgusted sound and keeps marching.

“If you could just wait a minute!”

“I told you, not right now.”

“At least tell me where you’re going then.”

“Why do you need to know?”

“Because I’m your damn husband!”

“What does that even mean, Kelly? Huh? Because to me it means being faithful and always having each other’s back.”

He stops and watches her, stunned. He’d tried to fool himself into believing she didn’t really understand the extent of his betrayal, but it seems she does.

I don’t know how, but she knows.

“If you must know, I’m going to the hospital,” she calls over her shoulder. “Isn’t that what you always say when you need to run away?”

Another moment of panic, and he thinks, Why the hell is she going there?

She knows. She knows!

“What for?” he asks. He struggles to keep his voice from shaking. “Who are you going to see?”

She shakes the back of her head at him. “Just go back to school, Kel. You don’t want to miss class.”

“Who are you going to see?”

She turns, and the hardness on her face crushes him.

“Please, Jessie, I just want—”

“It’s just a blood test,” she says. “Citizen Registration pinged and said I have to get it done. Why else would I be able to leave school?”

“Like you need an excuse lately.”

“Whatever.”

“Why do they need a blood test? What’s it for?”

“You’re asking me why? Don’t you know? You’ve been spying on me.”

“I haven’t been spying on you!”

“Maybe not you,” she replies, evasively. “But it’s still your fault.”

“Please, just tell me.”

“Because, Kelly. Because they tried to fix my implant and apparently they couldn’t! Because for some strange reason my devices can’t communicate properly with the streams. Because that file you put on my Link is blocking it from properly aligning with the network. Anymore questions? No? See? Now that we’ve had our talk, leave me alone.”

“But it’s not—”

“No. You do not get to speak to me right now, Kelly Corben. This is all because of you.”

Chapter 33

“This is all your fault,” Kelly says into his Link. “Jessie’s on her way there right now. She says she’s getting blood tests done. I think she’s might have her implant replaced.”

The woman on his screen raises her eyebrows. “I told you to be—”

“Nothing. You’ve told me nothing. I tried talking to her. It’s useless. She knows about the file. She’s furious, and I don’t blame her. I should ping her brother.”

“No! Leave him out of this for now. He won’t be able to do anything. Just go back to school before they miss you. I’ll see what I can do from here.”

“If she gets her devices replaced—”

“She won’t. Citizen Registration won’t schedule anything for today, and tomorrow’s Saturday, so we’ve got at least the weekend to figure this out.” She exhales noisily. Kelly can hear the quaver in it. “You’ll just have to bring up your timeline a bit. Whatever you do, hon, do not panic.”

Kelly’s fingers tighten over his Link. He’s tired of other people telling him what to do and when to do it. He’s tired of always feeling like he owes others. He needs to start looking out for himself. And for Jessie. “And what if I tell her everything I know? What if I, for example, tell Eric? Or the police?”

“Kelly, please, you really don’t understand the scope of this, or how serious this is. If the wrong people—”

“But, see, that’s the problem. I don’t understand because no one will tell me. So why don’t you enlighten me?”

The woman shakes her head. “Soon. We’re close.”

“Close?” he asks, surprised. “How close?”

“Very. Just promise me you won’t do anything rash. Give me the weekend.”

He closes his eyes and counts to ten before answering. “What will happen if she gets her implant replaced? At least answer that.”

The woman nods gravely, her lips disappearing in a frown. “You already know what’ll happen, Kelly. If they try to remove it, she’ll die.”

Chapter 34

The laboratory forms are blessedly brief. They ask for the standard identification information, plus a few questions regarding my health. I don’t know how to answer the question about medications. Should I mention my inhaler? If what Eric says is true, the drug inside of it is illegal. Or at least highly experimental and problematic as far as Arc is concerned. Will I put myself at physical risk of harm if I list it? Will I put myself at medical risk if I don’t?

A nurse, Sarah, comes over and asks if I have any questions. She’s young, probably still a student. Her eyes are bright with the newness of her responsibilities. I can’t imagine what it must be like, when the sum of one’s life’s calling is condensed down to drawing blood and asking personal questions of complete strangers. Sarah has to be at least four or five years my senior, yet I somehow feel so much older.

“Oh, and don’t bother listing vitamins and supplements,” Sarah says, noticing where I’ve stopped. “We don’t need that.” She gives me a wink, as if we’re both in on the same secret. “Not unless you’re pregnant. Just prescriptions, nothing over-the-counter.”

I type in: NONE.

Sarah nods and makes a note on her own tablet. She’s grinning like an idiot. She’s just way too chipper for this line of work.

“And are you sexually active?”

I blush and nod, almost reflexively, but even this feels like a lie.

“Single or multiple partners?”

“Single.”

Sarah’s smile broadens. She clears her throat, as if to say she knows better. “And have you ever been exposed to, or are you a carrier of, any communicable diseases?”

I nearly choke and blink stupidly at her.

What if they screen for the Reanimation virus?

But then I realize that it wouldn’t make any sense to even bother. The disease is almost always symptomatic within an hour of infection, and fatal within twenty-four. Infection would be readily self-evident; no test necessary. And with there being no immunity or treatment as far as the world is concerned, it’s not like people are walking around with the disease in their blood.

Except you are.

I don’t know if that’s even true. Maybe my immunity will prevent me from being a carrier. Or infecting others. Or maybe it doesn’t work that way. Maybe I am infective.

I start to wonder if maybe I shouldn’t let them draw my blood. Maybe I should just forget the whole thing and leave.

You can’t. You have to go through with this. How else are you going to get this damn implant out of your head?

I cough lightly. “No, no diseases.”

“And have you been, either to visit or to live, in any place where any of the following diseases is known to be endemic?”

I scan the list and am relieved to see that Reanimation virus isn’t one of them. At least I can answer honestly this time.

She asks me to roll up my sleeves. And when I do, she inhales sharply at the sight of all the half-healed cuts and bruises. “I was in a car accident recently,” I lie.

Sarah seems to accept this without further consideration. She draws two tubes of blood. I stare at them as they fill. The blood is dark red and viscous, no different than anyone else’s blood. No different from any of the hundreds of other times I’ve given samples. And yet I know it holds three terrible secrets, two of them new: a virus which could kill almost everyone on the planet, a variant of the infective protein that can neutralize it, and a masking agent.

You can’t tell anyone. They will come after you. They will put you in a laboratory somewhere and they will kill you.

Wonderful terrible secrets, which my mother had warned me not to share with anyone. But I did tell someone, the one person in the whole world I thought I could trust. Except now that he’s now the one person I fear the most.

Not for long.

“You’re all set,” Sarah tells me. “Everything looks fine. We’ll send these results right over.”

“Already?”

Sarah nods. “White blood count is normal. Normal platelets. You’re slightly anemic and your electrolytes are at the high end of the range, but nothing to worry about. This should just about complete your application.”

“When should I expect to hear back from CR?”

“Citizen Registration?”

“Yes. I was hoping to get my implant replaced as soon as possible.”

Sarah stares for a moment, her face filled with confusion.

“Because...” I say, hoping to prompt her. But maybe she really doesn’t know why I’m here. Maybe she just draws blood all day and never really knows why. “Because my implant is faulty.”

“Oh.” She shrugs. “Well, if you’d like, I can ping them and see if they have an opening. No promises. And you’ll need to get yourself up to Hartford—”

“That’s not a problem. Just check. Please.”

“Okay, honey. Sit tight.”

Chapter 35

I ping Eric as soon as the appointment is confirmed.

“They have a four-thirty opening. I’m going to get my devices replaced this afternoon.”

“What?” he squawks. “Today?” He looks surprised.

“I’ll grab the bus. There’s still enough time.”

“Don’t be silly. I’ll drive you. I mean it this time.”

“It’s okay, Eric. Really.”

“I said I’ll drive you,” he repeats. “No arguing. Just— Just let me ping my boss.” He turns away from his screen for a moment before returning. “You should ping Kelly, let him know so he won’t worry.”

“He won’t.”

Eric gives me a strange look.

“Never mind. I’ll send a text.”

To Reggie though, not Kelly.

I’d looked for Reg in school today but hadn’t seen him. I hope he’s okay. That cut on his arm was bad, but not bad enough to keep him out for a second day in a row. And he hasn’t answered my pings. I have this feeling he and his family have fled town.

It takes Eric nearly forty minutes to arrive, but there’s still more than enough time to get up to Hartford in time for the appointment. For once, he’s quiet. For once, I’m the one who wants to talk. I guess I’m more than a little nervous.

He seems distracted. I mention how little traffic there is. It’s off-rush-hour, but even so, the scarcity of automobiles on the roads seems odd to me. Eric just shrugs.

We have to pull over once, just south of the city limits, to allow a long line of emergency vehicles to pass. Their lights flash and their sirens blare, and Eric watches them with a look of concern in his eyes. Two of the vehicles have the NCD logo on the side, and one of the vans is from the county coroner’s office. But when I ask him if he knows what’s happening, he gives me a terse shake of the head and says, “Probably nothing.” But he keeps glancing over at his police Link mounted on the dash, as if he expects it to ping at any moment. I wonder what he’d do if it did.

After they pass, we merge back into traffic.

“I heard there’s a problem with the network,” I say.

He gives me a sharp look.

“Do you think—?”

“It’s nothing, Jess,” he snaps. The muscles in his jaw ripple. He’s always had this nasty habit of chewing the insides of his cheeks. I remember the doctor once had to tell him to stop because he was getting ulcers. “Everything’s fine. Just...”

“What?”

“Just stop it, okay?”

“Stop what?”

“Stop asking questions. Everything’s under control.”

“Fine. Sheesh.”

We check in at Citizen Registration and are directed to the surgical suite, where I’m instructed to change into a gown and lie down. Eric waits with me until the prep nurse arrives. She tells him he can’t be here.

“I’m her legal guardian.”

“Even so...”

“Okay. I’ll be waiting just outside in the hallway,” he tells me, and gives my hand a squeeze. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The nurse gives him a patronizing smile. There’s no amusement in her eyes. “You’ll have to wait outside the building.”

He protests when she ushers him to the door.

He tries to give me an encouraging nod. It’s the last thing I see, just before the door shuts on his face with a resounding click. And for the first time, a soft flutter of anxiety rises up in my belly. What if I’m not doing the right thing? I’d been so eager to get my devices replaced that I hadn’t really given much thought to the actual procedure. The device at the base of my skull is supposedly fully entwined with my brain stem. Extracting will be a lot more complicated than putting it in. How on earth will they possibly disentangle it?

“You’ll be fine, dear,” the nurse tells me. It feels mechanical, like part of the same speech she’s given a thousand times before. Everyone who comes through those doors and lies down on this table probably gets the same exact reassurances: “You’ll be fine.”

I wonder how often it’s not true.

“Do you do many replacements?”

“In the six years I’ve been here, I’ve only seen a handful of others,” she says, surprising me. “But don’t worry. Replacements are a lot faster and easier nowadays.”

“Why is that?”

She blinks at me like I’m stupid and not worth the time or effort to explain this to. Nevertheless, she does: “The device comes in two parts. First, there’s the hybrid biosynth adapter. It’s the part that grows and becomes rooted into your brain; it acts as an interface for the actual device. That part stays in. The second part is the processor, which is what we’ll be exchanging today. It’s all plug-and-play now.” She interlocks her fingers to illustrate how they fit. “Just like swapping out worn power cells in a Link.”

Except that doesn’t require anesthesia or cutting, I want to say.

The nurse wheels over a cart with a machine on it very much like the one I saw on my previous visit.

“What’s that do?”

“It modulates device activity during the procedure,” she replies, and busies herself preparing the instrument.

She doesn’t elaborate, but I can guess what she means. The implants are designed to prevent anyone from tampering with them. Or reverse engineering them. It makes sense that Arc would have a way to override the autodestruct mechanism so it doesn’t explode inside my skull the moment they cut me open.

I remember Micah trying to pry the implant from the neck of a twice dead Player in Gameland. He’d barely stuck the tip of his knife into the corpse’s neck and begun to wheedle it out, when it triggered. There was a loud whine, like he’d disturbed a nest of angry wasps. We’d barely had time to duck before it exploded. It hadn’t been much of a blast— just large enough to spray us with bits of rotting zombie flesh and gore. But it left a ragged, gaping, smoking hole in the Player’s neck large enough to kill twice, regardless of whether you alive or dead.

“Link please.”

I hand it over and she inserts it into the machine.

“In thirty minutes,” she says, “you’ll be as good as new. You’ll have a whole new implant and the absolute latest in Link device technology, including full access to all the new sub-streams.”

She raises her hand and shows me the syringe. It’s filled with a clear liquid. “Anesthesia,” she announces. She plunges the excess air out, finishing with a tiny squirt. A few droplets sprinkle onto my cheek. “Oops. Sorry about that, honey.” She wipes it gently away with a tissue. “Now, roll over onto your side.”

I obey. There’s a pinch. Then a warm sensation infuses through my body.

My last thought, coming far too late to worry about, is whether the file on my Link might actually prevent them from overriding the autodestruct mechanism. Fear spreads through me, but it’s a distant thing. I casually think about telling her to stop, but I can’t move. I’m paralyzed. Darkness plunges over me.

My head fills with a high-pitched whine. At first I think it’s just the ringing in my ears. But then I realize it sounds just like a nest of angry wasps.

‡   ‡

CONGRATULATIONS!

You’ve survived EP09: Live Another Play

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READY TO LEVEL UP?

Get EP10: Return to the Arcade here

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

My undying thanks to the devoted people of Brinestone Press for their keen eye and gentle but firm touch in helping me bring this story to life, for believing every step of the way that I could raise the dead.

To my devoted fans and followers on Twitter, especially the zombie apocalypse junkies. Everything’s better with the #zombie hashtag.

My deepest gratitude goes to my family for their unflagging support. Without them, I would not be able to create worlds with such richness to them.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Saul Tanpepper is the speculative fiction pen name of Kenneth James Howe. A former combat medic and molecular biologist originally from Upstate New York, he now calls Northern California home.

If you are enjoying his ZPOCALYPTO series, then make sure to check out his other titles, including the post-apocalyptic series BUNKER 12 and the international thriller companion series THE FLENSE. All are available in digital and print form.

For more information about the author and his writings, please check out his website: http://www.tanpepperwrites.com and Facebook page.

Live Another Play

Episode 09 of ZPOCALYPTO

by Saul Tanpepper

Copyright © 2013, 2022 by Saul Tanpepper

All rights reserved.

Previous edition published Dec 11, 2013 as

Signs of Life – Jessie’s Game Book 1 – Part One

Episode 9 of S.W. Tanpepper’s GAMELAND

by Brinestone Press, San Martin, CA 95046

Cover: Deranged Doctor Design

Copyright © 2021

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

LICENSE NOTES

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

http://www.brinestonepress.com

Tanpepper, Saul (2022-01-11). Live Another Play (Episode 9 of the Zpocalypto series)

Tanpepper, Saul (2013-12-11). Signs of Life – Jessie’s Game (Episode 9, Part One of S.W. Tanpepper’s Gameland series)

Brinestone Press Digital Edition

(rv211213)

For more information about this and other titles by this author:

authorsaultanpepper@gmail.com

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Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Live Another Play (ZPOCALYPTO, #9)

Episode 09

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

CONGRATULATIONS!

READY TO LEVEL UP?

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

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