by Lamar Giles
He didn’t see us—yet—going for this fake cool aloofness as he glanced up from Fuse’s fake messages. I tried not to make eye contact with him. I failed.
“Fuse,” I said. “He sees me.”
She faced me, her back to him. “What?”
“Wait!” I hissed, all too aware that we weren’t really supposed to come in contact with him at all. Knowing what we knew about him—who he really was—we had to be sure not to tip him off in any way.
And Fuse was a notoriously bad actor.
I said, “We can’t spook him. He’s probably already nervous, wondering what we got. We need him comfortable until Barker gets here. Like nothing’s changed.”
She rolled her shoulders, bounced on her toes. “I understand.”
“Nothing at all.”
“I got this.”
“Okay,” I said, feeling the old showtime anxiety. A mix of butterflies in the stomach, spaghetti in the knees, and helium in the head in that hot minute before I stepped into a spotlight. The crowd between us and him thinned further, this was our window. I waved, polite as I’d always been to him.
Fuse turned, and I watched the whole thing go wrong in slow motion, too stunned to stop her.
In all their previous interactions, she’d been a Snark Queen to him. Rude enough that he’d joked about it the first time I met him, almost like he admired it.
In a typical bad-acting moment, Fuse played the emotion wrong.
She smiled and waved.
Oh no.
A uniformed security guard passed between. Winston’s eyes followed the man a moment, some assumption or deduction forming. His face became as emotionless as a Dark Nation mask. His chin bobbed, a slow the-jig-is-up nod. He folded himself into the diminishing crowd as smoothly as a wizard stepping into a vanishing cabinet.
“Kya, he—”
“I know.” I rushed forward, surprised by how quickly he disappeared. Dude was a serious ninja. “Do you see him?”
“I’m short. All I see are shoulders.”
I spun in place. Was anyone moving toward an exit, or backstage?
Fuse had her phone out. “I’mma text him.”
“What are you going to say?”
“Hey, we don’t think you’re a killer. Come back.”
There was no time for her sarcasm. I broke out my own phone too, intending to shoot a message to Florian. We got the notifications at the same time.
Our Twitter accounts were pinging. Some tweet about us—or for us—blowing up. Hesitation. A hot breeze blew across my neck. Fuse looked first.
The Truth Is Out There @X211ABE
#ParSecNation shocking new audio from the maestro herself. Did she name her own killers? @KCAppWiz and @FuseZilla14 more dangerous than we knew? You be the judge! #RIPParSec #CalmDownTurnUp #ParSecMemorialConcert
There was a link. Fuse snatched earbuds from her pocket, uncoiled them, and gave me one to plug in, while she wedged the other in her ear canal. She tapped the audio widget and maxed out the volume. It was still tough to hear it over the performers onstage, just not tough enough to prevent the damage.
Paris’s voice. She had very pointed things to say:
“Fuse and Kya backstabbing me like they did. It felt beyond betrayal. I would’ve trusted them with my life—now I know that would’ve been the absolute wrong move. Jealous heifers. They were just waiting to step on my throat.”
Who knew when she’d said it, or when Winston recorded it in those long, fraudulent times with her. He’d saved it for an emergency. His weapon of mass destruction. The link to that file had been retweeted seventy-eight times already. There were two more tweets threaded to the damaging audio link, both featuring the #ParSecMemorialConcert so there was no confusion. He wanted this crowd to know.
Oh, Winston and his sentimental goodbyes.
The second tweet in the thread was our pictures. Snatched from our other social media.
The third was a call to action:
The Truth Is Out There @X211ABE
#ParSecNation #ParSecMemorialConcert
Get them.
I snatched Kya’s hand, pulled her away from the performance area, toward the exit. “We gotta get out of here.”
Moving swiftly we cut through a crowd distracted by the things all people were distracted by these days. Their phones. A blessing and a curse in that instance.
Our window of opportunity would close soon.
We turned a corner by the concession and vendors, followed a sloping path toward the gates. I skidded on my heels, and Kya crashed into me, knocking me a few steps farther. At least four mask-wearing members of ParSec Nation hovered in a loose cluster by the exit, scanning phones, then the surrounding crowd.
“Back, back, back,” Kya said, and tugged me into retracing our steps on to vendors’ row.
If one person recognized us, it’d be over. If we couldn’t get out, we needed some way to hide our—
“Kya, you got money?”
“Ten bucks. Why?”
There was fifteen dollars in my purse, plus a debit card. I went to the closest seller that had what I needed. “Excuse me, sir. I need two masks.”
No. I wasn’t going to put one of those things on. Not ever.
Even as I shouted the declaration in my head, I trailed Fuse and didn’t argue. Gut reactions and smart decisions were rarely the same thing.
The vendor plucked two masks off his post, said, “Twenty-six fifteen with tax.”
I chewed my bottom lip, the math easy and bad. “Do you take cards?”
“Cash only.”
“Who doesn’t take cards these days?” Fuse said.
He did not seem open to her constructive feedback.
I said, “Sir, we got twenty-five.”
The vendor moved one mask to his far hand, away from us. “Well, that gets you this and some change.”
“Seriously, dude?” Fuse said. “You can’t cut us some—”
“Fuse.” Three masks moved from the performance area in a line. Eyes up, their heads panning.
“Fine,” she said, taking the mask and the money she was owed. Money that would do neither of us any good if Paris’s committed fans had their way.
We took the one mask and slid between a soda stand and a food truck that sold exotic personal pizzas. Fuse pressed the mask into my chest. “That’s all you.”
“Why me?” I’d yet to take it.
“I did my job a little too well. You look like a supermodel. Everyone sees you right now. I can stay low, tuck my head.”
Was she complimenting me or manipulating me?
“Take it, Kya!”
She was like a terrier puppy barking, and I wanted her to shut up. I took the mask, stretched the elastic strap, and pulled it on. Became one of the Nation. Regular or Dark? Didn’t much matter anymore.
“Now,” Fuse said, “we’re splitting up.”
“No!” My voice was muffled, and I caught a whiff of the mint gum I’d chewed earlier. My forehead was sweaty already.
“It’s not a horror movie,” Fuse said. “We split up because it’s easier for one person to move through the crowd. Use the mask to get to VIP. I’ll have to be a little stealthier about it, but I’ll meet you there. Should be easy to get off the property through the way we came. We’ll sort all the Winston stuff later.”
“How are you this scary calm? You’re like a master strategist.”
“One of my business books was called PR Is War. It crossed up all these marketing principles plus The Art of War book by that Sun Tzu guy. I’m finding it all very handy. Go!”
She shoved me from our nook, so I went. Waded into the crowd, praying there wasn’t some Dark Nation secret handshake I’d be asked to give. The mask did its job, I blended in with so little effort, I almost forgot about the friend I’d left behind, vulnerable and alone.
Awesome, Kya. This Dark Nation monster I created can be good for something. At least one of us might make it.
I stepped deeper into the shadows between conc
essions, tapped a message to the team.
ME
Flo, where are you?
FLORIAN
Still in my office. Bathroom stall number ewwww.
ME
Kya, you?
KYA
Almost to VIP.
FLORIAN
You two are still here? I’ve seen the Dark Nation chatter. Monumentally bad idea, guys. Just going on the record with that.
ME
Can you do something about them? You’re like their CEO, right?
FLORIAN
I’ve already tried. No one’s even paying attention to me. They’re rabid.
ME
Oh joy!
KYA
How’s your setup looking? Were you able to do what I asked?
FLORIAN
Yes, I did the thing. Worked perfectly. Also, most of the facility is on the network. I’ve got cameras, the engineer’s soundboard, lights, and effects. I don’t know what good it’s going to do you now. All things considered.
KYA
Fuse, where are you?
ME
I might be hiding behind the soda tanks where you left me.
KYA
I’m coming back.
ME
No you are not! I’m fine. I can make it.
KYA
You better.
Okay, okay. What was it? Fifty yards, seventy-five, until I got to VIP? At least there’d be a limited amount of people back there. The Clutch Boyz set was halfway done. Olivia Merrick would be next. All attention would be on her and the headliner, Omar Bless. Little old me shouldn’t even pop on anybody’s radar in midshow frenzy. Just had to get there.
Slowly, I ventured from my hiding place, visualizing my path and identifying all threats. The good thing about those creepy masks … they stood out. I spotted eight hostiles with cyborg-like vision and mapped a course between them.
Fast, head down. Focus on the objective.
Go!
You know those really good sportsball runners that caught the thing on one side of the field, and got all the way to the other side of the field despite there being like fifty heavily padded gladiators between where they started and where they finished? I was like one them! (Even if I didn’t know the proper terminology.)
People loaded down with snacks were my cover. I sidestepped groups of girls that never looked up. Stuck to the shadows of people larger than me.
I almost made it unnoticed.
“Hey,” someone roared, “there she is.”
There was no need for confirmation. I saw white masks angling my way like ghostly sharks breaking the surface for a feeding frenzy.
Screw it. I sprinted, swerving around people with nimbleness that had my social media nerd lungs straining. The guard at the VIP barrier seemed oblivious to the mini mob chasing me, simply waving me through as I held up my badge.
Inside the cordoned off area, I finally looked back. Five masks had reached the threshold, all without the proper credentials. Safe for now.
Though not for long. I made for the exit, but there was no clear route. Masks here. Mask there. Masks everywhere.
Blending in with the backstage chaos kept me safe in the immediate, but I needed another pit stop. Some place to chill, contact Kya and Florian.
At the stage steps, watching the Clutch Boyz going into their finale songs, Olivia Merrick and all her dancers stood in a prayer circle. Hands clasped, heads joined, Olivia, undoubtedly, doling inspiring words. With the Olivia Merrick entourage in that good, holy headspace, I slipped past them into the unguarded dressing room she’d occupied previously. Gently, I closed the door and rested against it, gasping. Eyes squeezed shut.
Think, Fuse. Think.
My phone buzzed with incoming text. Kya or Florian, for sure. I stepped deeper into the harshly lit dressing room, snatched a handful of pretzel sticks off a table of mangled meat-and-cheese trays, sad-looking salsa, and a bowl of all red gummy bears.
KYA
Tell me you’re not still stuck behind the concession.
ME
Nope. Made it back here. Had to dip into Olivia Merrick’s dressing room. Too hot near the exit.
KYA
I know. I think we’ll have to wait until Omar Bless goes on. I heard some stagehands talking … he’s going to do his last collaboration with Paris first. That should draw the masks like a bug zapper draws flies.
ME
IDK if I can wait that long. Olivia’s gonna come back after her set, and
That’s as far as I got with that message. The dressing room door opened and closed, fast enough for one mask to join me. We faced each other. His hoodie cinched tight around his plastic face like a Dark Nation pro. He loosened the string, peeled back the cloth. Then flipped the mask up so it sat atop his dreads.
My pretzel sticks fell from my suddenly slick and trembling hand, clattering on the floor.
Looked like Winston Bell and I were going to have a little chat after all.
Fuse, answer your freaking texts!
She hadn’t responded. She started to, I saw the flashing ellipses that meant she was typing. Then, nothing.
This area filled with more and more people repping the Nation. Maybe it was because Omar Bless’s set was supposed to be some special tribute to Paris. Maybe they smelled us back here. Even hidden behind one of their masks, I felt exposed. We needed to be gone like yesterday.
I wasn’t leaving without her. That was starting to look like neither one of us was getting out of here. Not unscathed.
More masks came.
He removed the mask clumsily, his dreads tangling in the elastic strap, so he had to break it to free himself. My feet scrabbled on the concrete as I backed into a corner, bumping into several stacked crates. Nowhere else to go.
Rummaging in my bag, I grabbed the stun gun. Tried forcing my hand not to shake when I wielded it. “Stay back, or—” I depressed the trigger. A weak spark, something like static electricity, flickered and died. I jammed the button again and again. I never recharged it.
He observed my weapon, almost sad for me.
“I’ll scream!” I said. “Don’t come closer.”
“What do you think you know?” he asked.
I spoke loudly. Enunciating. “You murdered ParSec. Care to tell me the rest?”
“That’s not what happened. You always had a poor opinion of me. Believe it or not, no one murdered Paris. It’s the last thing I’d want to do to her.”
“So you were there when she—”
“Fell. Accidentally. Sure.”
My fear tapered, anger cresting over it. “She fell? Accidentally? And you left her there for Kya and me to find?”
“It was for the best.” His voice cracked, like he meant it. “It would’ve been too confusing if I’d stayed. It wouldn’t have changed anything.”
“Maybe it would’ve changed the trash fire set to mine and Kya’s lives over an unsolved mystery that was perfectly solvable. Maybe if you’d been honest about who you were to her, she might’ve kicked you to the curb before you’d done any real damage!”
Winston crumpled his mask in one fist, took three quick steps forward. Roared, “What do you know about who I am to her?”
I whimpered then. All that was between us was the beat of a Clutch Boyz song. Their big hit, “Do Not Pass Go.” The finale.
A few bars in, he confirmed what we’d suspected and feared. “I didn’t hurt my little girl, okay? What happened to Paris was an unfortunate accident that will haunt me forever. Maybe I should’ve been gone, but I thought my sudden disappearance would arouse more suspicion. I planned to wait until things had cooled. You and your friend wouldn’t let them. I hope you’ll be able to move on now.”
“You think that’s it?” Fury tempered my tongue. “That I’m just going to let this go?”
“I’m a ghost, kid. With one more thing to do.” Winston fished his phone from his pocket, tapped it with his thumb. Seconds later, my phone vibrated with a not
ification.
The Truth Is Out There @X211ABE
#ParSecNation #ParSecMemorialConcert
@FuseZilla14 is in Olivia Merrick’s dressing room. Happy hunting.
Awesome.
He backed away, keeping his word. He didn’t plan to hurt me. He didn’t have the guts to do it himself.
Winston dropped his phone. Stomped it dead. Then slipped out of the dressing room. I rushed to the door and turned the dead bolt I’d neglected earlier. Trapped myself inside. Mere seconds before the pounding started. Heavy fists like drumbeats, playing a song I didn’t like. A danse macabre.
My angle on Olivia Merrick’s dressing room was good, though I didn’t like a thing I saw. Fuse still hadn’t texted back, and when Winston Bell stepped out, my heart lurched, expecting the worse. While he walked away from the dressing room, a platoon of Nation masks swarmed the door, pounding like zombies. He slipped through them all, and my first instinct was to tackle him in front of everyone. Would’ve done it, if I didn’t finally get the text I wanted.
FUSE
In a bit of a pickle here, gang. Barbarians at the gate.
ME
I see you. What do you want me to do?
FUSE
Tell me how many are out there.
ME
Ten or twelve. They’re going to break down the door.
FLORIAN
I see both of you on the security feed. This looks pretty bad.
ME
Captain Obvious, where’s Barker?
FLORIAN
He’s inside and hooking up with venue security. They’re all coming to you. Just not in time.
Nothing at this venue was constructed to withstand a mob assault; both ParSecNation and the Dark Nation were angry enough to do real damage if they got to Fuse. Someone needed to distract them.
The crowd cheered as the Clutch Boyz finished their set. The brothers bounded down the stage steps shirtless, sweaty, and high off the adrenaline. Olivia Merrick waited to go on, bouncing nervously on her toes. Near her, a rolling cart with a bunch of powered-down wireless microphones. I walked over and grabbed one. Red tape circled the handle and the number twenty-five was written in marker.
I sent my last text.