Deadwave

by Michael Evans

  I step above them, taking a breath of the warm, humid air that is infested with tiny dirt particulates. They are wearing a camouflage outfit, their face covered in a dirt-filled red beard, their blue eyes signaling defeat. It is none other than Tommy, or more popularly known as Lumbersexual God (it’s his stupid online name, that I have told him multiple times to change but he feels it’s part of his brand). I don’t take the time to register how I feel about ending his hopes of a Deadwave World Championship victory and all the fame and sponsorships that will come with it.

  Instead, I focus on driving my foot with all the force I can muster into his skull, before the zombies begin to pursue me and two players that I can see in the distance manage to get within firing range. Only two violent stomps to his head do the trick, causing blood to spew out of his mouth and for him to become the first player to be officially eliminated from the Deadwave Semifinal.

  Thirteen more.

  I scan his body and open the brown leather backpack he carried for any useful items, but come up empty. The growls of the zombies, three of them now sprinting towards me, grow from a faint whisper to a disturbing howl in my ears.

  I know I need to run.

  But on all sides, I’m surrounded by either a massive unscalable mountain, a minefield, zombies, or fellow Deadwave players who certainly are not friendly. I decide to take the only risk that could possibly work out.

  I step over Tommy’s corpse and down into the mini crater that the explosion of the mine created. I exhale, trying to shake the doubt from my mind as I push my body to continue forward. This minefield better be only one mine deep. I try to imagine what a billionaire would have when it came to hi-tech security and am not keen on the possibilities that come to my mind, which consist of more mines, turrets, lasers, and violent attack dogs.

  I’ll say hell freaking no to all of those. But I don’t get to choose. I have to run. I emerge from the crater, making a beeline to the door on the side of the house, hoping that nothing deadly manages to kill me before I reach it.

  Within a few strides I reach the door with my entire body intact. The gamble paid off, but only temporarily. I attempt to open the door, and quickly realize it is locked. I then pull on the door handle, slamming my full body weight into the door in an attempt to get it to bust open. I wince as my left shoulder painfully collides a third time into the door, the white-painted metal not even budging.

  All the doors are likely locked. This place is a freaking fortress. I glance behind me at the zombies a few feet away from crossing the crater, and the two players with their guns raised not too far behind.

  The windows. A surge of excitement courses through me the second the thought crosses my mind. I hear the echo of a gunshot in the distance. The intensity of the game is beginning to heat up, and if I don’t find a way to escape this real fast, there will soon be no game left for me to play.

  I dash to the back of the house and approach the glass façade that overlooks the lake. It is easily three dozen feet tall of pure glass, and in my imagination one forceful punch will send the whole thing collapsing in a waterfall of clear shards. I punch it as hard as I can, my knuckles swelling upon contact with the glass. Much to my disappointment, the glass, which feels thick and layered, doesn’t even crack a bit.

  It must be bulletproof. Who am I kidding? Of course it’s bulletproof—this is the house of a billionaire. I turn around, my eyes instantly connecting with Maken’s ghoulish-looking avatar and his pal Robert (I like to think of him more as a toy in Maken’s eyes) who always helps to propel Maken to victory only to be killed by him in the end.

  I am now within firing distance of Robert’s pistol, but for better or worse, Maken will still have to come a bit closer if he wants to shoot me with his shotgun.

  I glance at the lower-left corner of my vision. Twelve people are alive.

  I can’t die. Not yet. Not yet.

  I run to the opposite side of the house from the hole in the minefield so that I have an extra few precious seconds to avoid their gunfire. Without any weapons or armor, there is no way I can take on the two of them plus three zombies without dying. I take a deep breath, trying to collect the thoughts running rampant in my brain as my heart thumps so loudly that it echoes in my ears.

  The only logical thing to do (and I use the word logical very loosely here) is to somehow jump over the minefield without setting it off and get away from this house. I hesitate, the adrenaline overcoming all the doubt in my mind and conjuring up the strength inside me I will need to try and time a perfect long jump that even an Olympian would be proud of.

  As I run forward, the dew in the grass flying all over the bottom of my camo suit (I know it’s something that a fifth grader would wear, but I love it) and the black designer shoes of my avatar, a loud gunshot rings in my ears.

  Another one quickly follows, and my eyes scan the horizon, searching the forest of pink flowering trees for a figure shooting at us from the distance. The count of players surviving decreases to eleven. I finally spot the silhouette of a figure in the distance. The avatar is lying right behind one of the deciduous trees, the sniper rifle it has barely visible to the naked eye.

  Well, now I’m within firing range again. That completely ruins my plan of trying to escape into the forest—that would only be a death trap as I become an even easier target for the sniper. The growls of the zombies grow closer, and one of them rounds the corner of the glass façade to make their way to the far side of the house where I stand defenseless. Maken’s grunts and his distinctive arrogant voice echo off the glass as he curses at the zombies.

  I don’t waste another second standing around before I run to the front of the house, the one part of the house I haven’t yet seen. It is just as magnificent as the back, with another massive glass façade with a beautiful view of the snow-capped mountain that appears to be almost a vertical climb from our current point. However, on the front side, there is a porch on the second level, and suddenly my plan to get myself out of this precarious position comes into full view.

  I can hear the echo of three more bullets as another massive explosion rings in my ears. An unsuspecting player must have run into one of the mines in the front of the house—that only makes winning that much easier for me.

  I run to the door, which is a large metal sheet, and use my limited upper-body strength to jump and pull myself up on the hinge of the door, which sticks out a few inches from the glass wall. The growls of the zombies grow louder as they round the corner.

  I ignore the bullets Maken fires at me as he rounds the corner. I don’t even pay attention to my health bar as it dips dramatically and the pain in my right side grows to unbearable levels. I focus on getting my feet balanced on top of the hinge, and then jump up yet again to pull myself on top of the porch.

  The desperate move worked.

  In a few seconds I manage to get myself on the porch, with only about a dozen of the shells from his shotgun blast connecting with me. I glance in horror at my health, which is now down to 350 points.

  I scan the porch, immediately dashing over to the empty bar staged in one corner, away from the fire pit and animal-skin-covered seats that surround it. My intuition was right. In the bar cabinet, along with a dozen empty bottles of liquor, is an electric pistol, a couple dozen volt packs, and graphene armor, which is the best armor in the game and can easily suppress up to thirty percent of hit impact.

  Yes. I slip on the armor, load twenty of the volt packs into the electric pistol, and place the rest in my bag. I then duck behind the bar, waiting to hear Maken come up after me. The bangs of a succession of gunshots sound in my ears as the snarling of the zombies changes to a particularly ugly tone.

  They are dying. He will be up here soon.

  I check the count of people left living. Only eight now.

  Almost there.

  Before I even catch my breath, I hear the pounding of Maken’s footsteps on the oak porch. It won’t take him long to find me. I have to surprise him f
irst.

  I pop up from behind the bar, firing the pistol as soon as its barrel clears the granite countertop. My first two bullets connect with his chest, causing his body to vibrate with the wave of electricity rushing over him. He fires his shotgun, but due to his spasming muscles, the shot sprays wildly against the house, not even close to hitting me.

  I have him now.

  I keep firing at him, quickly approaching his spasming body. The volt packs act as mini tasers almost, and although it would take dozens of these to actually eliminate an avatar, only a few disable Maken for a few moments, which is all that I need to take his gun.

  I grab the shotgun from him, his convulsing body unable to put up even the slightest resistance against me. I drop the electric pistol, two rounds of the shotgun from close range easily doing the trick to end him.

  Seven left now.

  I search his bag, scooting around the pool of blood that spills from his abdomen to the wood. His eyes are closed, and his avatar looks lifeless enough to believe that it actually is dead.

  I hear another explosion in the distance, this time too far away to be one of the mines.

  Whatever happened, there are only five people left now, and my plan to camp out on the porch is now in full swing. I drag the dead body behind the bar and kneel behind it, waiting for someone to emerge from the house or the outside to meet their ultimate fate at my hands.

  The seconds quickly bleed into minutes as I bandage myself and load the shotgun clip fully with ammo, along with the clip of the electric pistol. It doesn’t even hit me until I finally take a second to breathe, taking in the hot, humid air through my nostrils, that I killed Maken. I killed the second-place finisher in the regular season and last year’s champion—he won’t even be in the final now. One threat eliminated.

  I smile, that moment of watching his jaw shake, unable to even coherently curse at me, growing that much sweeter in my mind.

  The count of avatars left decreases to four as I hear what sounds like two doors discreetly opening. I wipe the blood running down my hand from the wound on my shoulder. A player emerges from the house.

  They must have spawned in there. Lucky bastard. I grip the electric pistol tightly in my right hand, readying to jump up and fire at them. But it is too late. They already know where I am, and they have already shot a rocket from a rocket launcher at the bar.

  I dive to the right, but my futile move doesn’t do much to minimize the damage. My health, which had been helped by the bandages to climb back up to 500 points, instantly decreases to 100 points. Without the graphene armor, I would easily be dead, but even with it, it won’t take much more to finish me off.

  I wince, pain overloading every nerve in my body. My ears ring, the hairs in my cochlea completely numb to all stimuli as the avatar comes around the bar. I instantly recognize the face that towers above me, revolver raised, ready to deliver my final death blow.

  It is Riva.

  I can sense a bit of hesitation in her face, but I likely manufactured that vision in my mind. I want to believe that she doesn’t want to kill me. I want to believe that she will save me.

  But when she exhales, she doesn’t waste a moment to deliver the first bullet to my chest.

  My body spasms, my abs pushing my body upward to try and flail away from the impact, but I have no chance at surviving this. Another bullet connects with me, and I don’t even feel any pain this time.

  Game over.

  Chapter 27

  I should be elated.

  I should be excited, pumped, ready to conquer life.

  Except I’m sitting here on one of the couches backstage, sulking on the inside, and with a stone-cold expression on the outside. I really want that half a million dollars. It’s not that I even want more money. After all, no amount of money can make me escape these people (except maybe a trillion dollars to build a colony on Mars, but even that would only be a temporary escape). Just the fact that someone else got half a million dollars is what annoys me. Seeing Aiden’s face light up as he threw off his helmet and emerged victorious from the portal was one of the most difficult things for me to watch.

  It’s not that I don’t want him to win, or that he doesn’t deserve it. He does. We all do. What hurts is knowing that I could have done better. That I should have done better, and having that reminder blasted into my mind with his smiling face being projected onto a screen that is over one hundred feet wide is the equivalent of having a pie thrown in my face after being kicked in the balls. It’s a brutal insult to injury.

  It’s a reminder that I failed to be the best—failed to meet my own mission in life.

  But I do get to survive another day.

  I have one last opportunity to prove my worth, to achieve my only dream in life, and that’s all that matters.

  I text my mom, hoping that will calm the adrenaline and vexation inside me.

  Me: Hey, I just lost… again.

  Mom: How was it, though? Life is never about winning anyway.

  Me: Well, it certainly feels like it is a lot of the time. And it was fine. I’m happy that I placed well enough to continue on to the finals.

  Mom: OMG! YAY! Sammy, I am so proud of you. That’s a victory right there. You always do so amazing with anything you put your mind to.

  Her response makes me smile as my body slowly calms down. I sigh, lying down on the couch, watching out of the corner of my eyes as members of the stage crew, family members of some of the competitors, and even the Deadwave players themselves pass by. For once, after this competition, I have no plans. In fact, I would be totally content lying here, staring at the light fixtures and decorative plaster on the white ceiling in the reception room for the players.

  I feel a wave of exhaustion beginning to pull down on my eyelids, and despite how loud everything is around me, I can feel the darkness slowly tugging on my consciousness, begging me to sleep. If it wasn’t for a sharp voice snapping in my ear, I likely would be asleep right now. At first, I tune it out, hoping that by some chance the voice is not calling for me. However, when a face blocks my vision, interrupting my pristine view of the ceiling above, I sit up, startled.

  “We need to talk.” This time those four dreaded words do cause my heart to skip a few beats in my chest. Riva stands right in front of me, having changed out of her game time form-fitting bodysuit and into a pair of sweatpants and a baggy sweatshirt. Her hair is tied up in a messy bun, which makes her look cute in a rugged way that I like.

  “Oh, well, hello to you too.” I try not to let the sarcasm in my voice be too obvious. It is hard for me to take anyone seriously when they approach me all worried as I am in the middle of trying to relax, especially after they killed me in a game of Deadwave. I can see the fear and weariness in her eyes.

  “Sam, I’m being serious.” She holds my hand and squeezes it. “Let’s get outta here. I need to see you.”

  I sit there for a moment, my legs engaged in a full-on man spread as I tilt my head at her, confused. Her lips remain pressed together, but one more squeeze of my hand and I know she is being serious. There is a desperate hollowness to her eyes that signals to me she won’t let me get away even if I try.

  I follow her, still holding her hand as we move past the few people still lingering in the reception room, ignoring the sporadic calling of our names.

  “Do you even know where you’re going?” I apprehensively continue to follow her as she makes a left down a dark hallway.

  “I have no clue.” She turns around and blinks to wash away the tears in her eyes. “I need to get away from everyone. I need to be alone with you.”

  This is not how I was expecting my night to go. I look down the hallway, and at the red Exit sign piercing the darkness. I still don’t know whether to trust her, whether to trust whatever the hell is going on, but part of me wants to be alone with her too. Part of me needs to, except after everything, that thought scares me more than anything else. I can’t let them kill her. I can’t let them have an excuse
to pour more guilt upon me. I don’t care if this is a game in my dad’s mind, everything, even if it’s nothing compared to the stakes one day, has consequences, and I’m not willing to have anyone else pay for the game I’m playing.

  She opens the door that leads out to a black metal staircase. It goes in a boring spiral down to the pavement below. In the distance, the skyscrapers of the business district tower above the loading dock of the stadium with only a few dozen lights on in each, most workers having already gone home to their families for the weekend. Even more likely, the businesses that used to make up the towers don’t exist anymore, instead being gobbled up by massive corporations who outsource all office work to Africa, artificial intelligence, or people who work from home.

  I shiver, the chilly air of the night hitting me at the same moment that the rancid smell from the row of dumpsters lining the far side of the pavement decimates my nostrils. To the right there is a large loading dock with mounds of cardboard and plastic on it. I sigh, sitting down next to Riva as little ripped-up bits of trash blow in the wind over the large wooden fence at the edge of the loading dock that keeps everyone on the streets from seeing the ugly heart of the stadium, which from the outside looks like a massive spaceship.

  “We need to talk,” she repeats, this time turning to face me, the deep purple circles underneath her eyes visible.

  “I’m here.” I feel in my pocket for my hologlasses, which I can feel vibrating, signaling that I am getting some sort of notification. There is an uneasy feeling in my stomach, and I instinctively scan the darkness, searching for any silhouettes or items that could be out of place.

  “This last week has been the worst of my life.” Tears flow down her face, and this time she doesn’t try to stop them. “Every moment I feel like I’m being watched. I feel like I’m about to die. And I have wanted to see you, to talk to you. I’m so hurt, so tired, so done. And yet, when I sit in bed and close my eyes with the darkness all around, I feel so alone. I feel so alone. And I want you with me. I want you here.”