Countdown

by Michelle Maddox

  The noise was coming from inside my head. And it was getting faster. And faster. I looked to my far left. Rogan had stopped running and was holding his head.

  And then I remembered what the voice told us.

  Your implants have been activated and tuned to each other's frequency.

  And what else? I racked my tortured brain.

  To separate more than ninety feet from your partner will lead to immediate disqualification.

  I started to crawl on the pavement toward Rogan, trying to ignore the blinding pain as much as I could. It wasn't easy but I finally made it. The beeping decreased the closer I got to him, as did the pain. He had collapsed on his side; the only thing moving was his chest going up and down with erratic breathing.

  "Rogan …" I grabbed his shoulder.

  He blinked his eyes open and looked at me. "That hurt"

  'Tell me about it."

  He frowned. "You run really fast for a girl."

  "Faster than you."

  "I have an excuse. I'm mortally wounded."

  "So you keep promising." I let out a long sigh, but it wasn't from relief; it was from frustration. "This disqualification and elimination that bastard was talking about in there? He means death, doesn't he?"

  His throat worked as he swallowed, and he propped himself up on one elbow. "Smart girl."

  "If I was that smart I wouldn't be here, would I?"

  "Touche."

  I licked my lips and gave him a good look now that we were outside. The light wasn't all that great It was overcast It seemed to always be overcast these days. Something to do with global warming and pollution levels. I never really paid much attention to the news. All I knew was that it had been years since I got a really good suntan.

  Yeah, the world was dying. Tell me something I didn't know.

  Despite his hard-to-ignore rock-hard build under those dirty clothes, at the moment Rogan barely looked strong enough to harm a fly. But there was still an undeniable aura of danger that surrounded him. Something in those pretty eyes that made me think that I shouldn't turn my back on this guy if I could help it. I didn't trust him. Not now. Not ever.

  I would never trust a murderer.

  But apparently we were partners. That is, if I didn't want my head to explode.

  "I'm not going to beg," I said softly. "But you're going to tell me everything you know about this … this countdown."

  He nodded and tried to get to his feet. He failed. I stood and offered him a hand. He took it, and I helped him up. He didn't let go of me immediately. His hand was as dirty as the rest of him, but firm, with long fingers that warmly wrapped around mine. I didn't pull away.

  I considered using my ability on him, but I'd had just about as much pain as I could deal with for one day.

  Back when I was still a teenager, I realized that I had a very special talent. If I touched somebody skin-to-skin and flexed my mind in precisely the right direction, I could get a read on them. As I've gotten older, my talent has gotten better and better. It's a very useful tool, actually.

  The only thing I could compare it to was those Magic Eye posters that were popular years and years ago. It just seemed like a jumble of pattern and color unless you looked at it just right. Looked just beyond it and then suddenly the true picture appeared as clear as day.

  I wasn't really psychic, I didn't think. It wasn't like I could actually read minds or anything. I knew that. But it scared the hell out of me, and I used it as little as I possibly could, but I did have it, quite literally, at my fingertips.

  I could tell who somebody really was in their-it sounded stupid-but in their soul. If they were honest or if they were lying. If they were hiding something. Not exactly what they were hiding, but I'd know if there was something just waiting to be found.

  Every now and then, when I was very desperate, I used my ability, my flex, as I liked to call it, to pick my marks. If there was any doubt in my mind that the men I was about to steal from were scum, I'd do the flex and find out for sure. I didn't like stealing from nice guys. Lucky for me, and unlucky for them, I hadn't met a nice guy in a really long time. I figured they'd all gone to Offworld.

  The only side effect was a wicked headache. The scummier the guy was, the worse the pain was. Not something I needed right now.

  Besides, I already knew that Rogan wasn't a very nice guy. I didn't need the migraine to prove it.

  And knowing that, why the hell didn't I want to pull away from his touch? What was wrong with me?

  I didn't like to be touched if I could help it. But this.. this wasn't touching, really. It was just a helping hand.

  To a convicted mass murderer.

  With that thought, and another flash of my family's faces, I yanked my hand away from him as if I'd had it submerged in a vat of piranha.

  His expression shadowed, and he stuffed his hands deeply into the pockets of his torn, dirty jeans.

  "I'll tell you everything I know, sweetheart. But we need to get a move on."

  "There are ten minutes remaining in this level of The Countdown," the voice said from out of nowhere.

  When I didn't immediately start moving, Rogan raised an eyebrow at me.

  "Let's get going," he said. "I'm not in good enough shape to keep running. Better make it a brisk stagger, so we need to move now."

  I frowned and tried to recall the map. Shit. I should have paid more attention. I felt fingers of panic dig into my stomach.

  As if he had read my thoughts, he forced a grin. "Don't worry, sweetheart. I know where we're headed."

  I scowled at him. 'The name's Kira. Not sweetheart."

  His grin widened a fraction. "Struck a nerve, did I? No pet names. Got it."

  I studied him for a moment longer. That scar across his left eye. I wondered how he got it. Probably in prison. Or maybe one of his victims had attempted to fight back before he'd mercilessly snuffed out his or her life.

  Scumbag.

  He caught me staring at his face and turned away. "Let's get going, Kira."

  We walked. Slower than I would have liked, but it would have to do. With every step we took I felt the clock ticking down the seconds we had left. What if we didn't make it in time? Would they really kill us? Just like that?

  I was finding it easier and easier to believe as the minutes went by.

  "The Countdown," Rogan began as we trudged along steadily, "is just what it sounds like. A series of tasks with a set time frame and a win-or-lose outcome. It's a game."

  "A game?" I glanced at him and kept walking. My heart pounded loud in my ears. "I didn't agree to play any game."

  "You didn't have to. The Countdown plays on the fringes of society. Very deep. Very secret. That's what makes it so appealing to the subscribers."

  "Subscribers?"

  "Rich, bored elite who haven't gone to Offworld yet and want to be entertained by a modern Colosseum. Death matches."

  I shook my head. "How is this even allowed? Wouldn't it be illegal?"

  "I know that. You know that. But like I said, it's a secret game. It's not on any public network. Besides, cops wouldn't give a shit about what happens to criminals, anyhow. Makes their jobs easier, doesn't it? Subscribers are fitted with cranium implants so they can watch the show in their heads. It's like virtual reality, only they're just doing the watching, not the participating. Safer that way for them. Bunch of rich cowards who get off on violence." His expression soured.

  "How do you know all this?"

  He licked his lips and didn't look at me. "In prison. They recruit there a lot. Take a few lifers and give them a choice to play the game or die? Most will play the game."

  "That's how they got you."

  "That's right."

  I shook my head. "It just doesn't make any sense."

  "It doesn't have to. The bottom line is that it exists. And we're right in the bloody middle of it now." He eyed me. "I don't get you, though."

  "Right back at you."

  "No, I don't understand why y
ou were recruited. You weren't in prison. I know you were into low-end crime and that you have no family, but still. You're too young. Too soft."

  "There's nothing soft about me."

  His lips twitched. "Oh, I don't know about that."

  "Keep walking." I put one foot in front of the other. "You're sure you know where we're going?"

  He nodded. "Yeah, it's not far from here."

  This was insane. All of it. "So if we finish-how many levels again?"

  "Six."

  "If we finish six levels like the voice said, we'll win. What does that mean?"

  "Freedom. Money. I don't know what else. It depends on the player, I think."

  "And if we mess up …"

  "No freedom, no money, and a bullet in the brain. That's if we're lucky."

  My stomach twisted. "Who would want to watch this?"

  "You'd be surprised. The subscription to The Countdown isn't cheap and it's based on how much they watch. And the cranium implant is surgery. Nothing to be taken lightly. The subscribers take it very seriously, and they expect to get their money's worth. Maybe that's why they had you join the cast. I don't think they've ever had a female contestant before."

  That wasn't terribly comforting. "Lucky me. Maybe they think we'll make a good couple."

  He glanced at me. "Maybe we will."

  "I wouldn't bet on it." I looked away. "Are we almost there?"

  He nodded. "I think so."

  "You think so? I thought you were sure where we were going."

  "I've been in prison for four years. Things change. Do you know this neighborhood?"

  "No."

  I took a good look around. Gray on gray. No trees, no parked cars. Even the street signs were broken off the remaining poles on the corner ahead. Nothing was familiar to me.

  Something flew out from behind a corner ahead of us. A silver ball. It was floating in midair and headed straight for us at lightning-fast speed. It stopped three feet in front of my face and bobbed in the air at eye level.

  It was a camera. I could see myself reflected in the black iris of its lens.

  I heard the voice again in my head.

  "Level Two for Rogan and Kira is well under way. Let's take a moment to meet these two contestants.…"

  Shit. It was an implant. That was what the voice said earlier, didn't it? They'd put one of the implants in my head. I reached up into the tangle of my dark brown hair and felt around until I found the stitches over a two-inch cut in my scalp. The area surrounding it was numb. That was why I hadn't felt it. They'd put the implant in my head. That was why I'd been unconscious in the metal room. I'd been recovering from surgery.

  We didn't have time for this. I attempted to get past the camera, but it blocked my way.

  "Kira Jordan, twenty-two years old, was left an orphan seven years ago after her family was brutally murdered. But don't let her sob story or good looks fool you-she's made her way in the world by being a street thief and pickpocket who would steal from her own grandmother if she still had one. And she isn't afraid of using her sexuality to get exactly what she wants. The girl is as cold as ice."

  I felt the color drain from my face and I glanced at Rogan.

  'That's not true," I said.

  His expression was guarded. "All of it or most of it?"

  "Most."

  The camera then whirred over to block Rogan's path.

  "Rogan Ellis, twenty-nine years old, was convicted of three counts of rape and nine counts of first-degree murder in what was to be known as the Dormitory Murders. After his one-night rampage that left nine female university students dead, he was sent to Saradone Maximum-Security Prison over four years ago, narrowly escaping the death penalty with a last minute plea of insanity."

  Rogan glanced at me with an unfamiliar expression playing across his face, but I'd gone cold and silent.

  "That's not true, either," he said, his voice dull and suddenly void of emotion.

  "All or most of it?" I asked shakily.

  "Most."

  Rape and murder. Was that really what the voice said?

  I felt ill. I felt like dropping to my knees on the cold, hard pavement and puking, but I knew there was nothing in my stomach to throw up. It was one thing to imagine what he was really guilty of, but another to have it sent across the airwaves directly into my brain.

  He was horrible. He was a monster, like the man who'd murdered my family.

  And if I didn't stay with him I was going to die.

  The thought made me even sicker than I already felt.

  Touch him, a small voice in my mind told me. Why would you believe what they say? They totally exaggerated who you are. Maybe they're lying. Maybe he didn't do it. He just told you most of it wasn't true.

  Why? Because he had nice eyes? Because he was vaguely charming and injured and I wanted us both to make it out of this alive? Because, despite my brain telling me to run as far away from this freak as I could, something else was telling me that there was more to the story?

  Yeah, something like that.

  "Tell us, Rogan Ellis, do you feel any remorse for what you've done? And now do you feel your sociopathic tendencies will serve you in The Countdown, especially now that you 're teamed with Kira-a woman who lost her own family to a brutal murderer?"

  I tried to catch his eye, but now he wouldn't look at me, instead staring daggers at the camera, refusing to answer any of the get-to-know-you questions the voice was asking on behalf of the subscribing audience.

  Rape and murder.

  No. My gut was telling me there was more to him. I always depended on my gut to help me discern the real from the bullshit. It rarely failed me, but this? This was too much.

  "Five minutes now remain in this level of The Countdown."

  The update was like a slap in the face.

  There was no time to think about anything. Only time to run.

  I grabbed Rogan's shirt again. "We have to get going. Fast."

  The camera moved to block our way and I swatted it with the back of my hand.

  "We're not far," Rogan said.

  "We better not be."

  "What…" His brow furrowed. "What the voice said back there about me-"

  "Forget it"

  I saw him moisten his lips with the tip of his tongue as we hurried along the sidewalk. "I just want you to know-"

  "Let's get one thing straight. I don't give a damn who you are or what you did. I just want to live. And if it means that I have to put up with a piece of shit like you then that's exactly what I'll do."

  "I understand."

  "And one more thing." I squeezed his shoulder hard, under the collar of his shirt just above his wound, and he let out a small gasp of pain. "You try anything or you even look at me funny? And I swear to God I'll kill you, myself."

  He nodded with a stiff motion of his head. "Sounds fair enough."

  I pulled my hand away from him, wiping off the bit of his blood I'd gotten on myself and ignoring the mild flash of pain in my head. I'd touched him. Touched his skin. I'd concentrated as best as I could, considering the situation I currently found myself in …

  … and I'd flexed my mind.

  I hadn't gotten very much at all, and what I did get was very jumbled and unclear. Just a brief flash of insight into the mind of Rogan Ellis.

  I knew my gut had been right. There was more to Rogan's story. Much more. But right now there was no time to figure it out.

  If we didn't hurry up, in less than five minutes we were going to die.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  "How much farther?" I took a quick look over my shoulder to see that Rogan was well behind me, probably twenty feet. I ran fast. Currently he didn't. Since I couldn't let him lag too far behind at risk of death-thanks to the implants from hell-it was proving to be a problem.

  His already strained face creased into a deeper frown. He stopped walking and looked around the gray, deserted street.

  "We should almost be there," was his final procla
mation.

  "We better be," I muttered. "Which way?"

  'Take a left up there."

  I took the left along the street up ahead. None of it looked familiar to me. All I knew was that the area we were now in looked like it was recovering from a nuclear bomb attack. The buildings were mostly rubble, crumbling like old ruins. It was deserted; there was no one around- unless you counted the silver camera ball whizzing around that I already hated enough to fantasize smashing into a million little pieces.

  I'd even taken a swipe at it a minute ago when it got too close. Damn thing was faster than it looked-and it looked pretty damn fast. Another thing I'd never seen before in my life. A flying camera?

  This whole situation was so bizarre I just couldn't wrap my head around the fact that it was actually happening to me. But it was. If my heart weren't pounding so hard it hurt and I hadn't experienced stress and pain enough to fill up five lifetimes already, I would swear that I was dreaming.

  "Shit."

  I looked back at him. "What now?"

  He was staring around the dead-end alley we'd just walked into. "It's not supposed to be like this."

  "Like what?" I couldn't hide the hard edge of panic in my voice. "And hurry up, because we're almost out of time."

  As if in reply, the voice in my head announced, "There are two minutes remaining in this level of The Countdown."

  Rogan brought a hand up to his wound and visibly swayed on his feet. I ran to his side before he keeled over.

  "Did you hear that?" I asked.

  "I heard it."

  "So?"

  "I could have sworn this was the right turn. I know this neighborhood. At least, I used to know it. It's been four years. Things change. I can't… I can't figure out…" His dark brows drew together.

  I was now bracing his full weight against me to keep him from toppling over. "Yeah, you're a whole hell of a lot of help."

  "I guess we won't be winning the grand prize, will we?" He said it so wryly that I knew he was joking.

  Joking. At a time like this? The guy was crazier than he looked.

  He was very pale, and there was a sheen of perspiration on his grimy face. My hand was on his chest to hold him steady, and I could feel his heart beating fast and erratically. I pulled at his shirt to take a quick look at the wound underneath. It looked raw and open, as if it had been inflicted with a sharp object, like a big butcher knife. Definitely not a bullet wound. I'd seen those up close and personal before, unfortunately. Blood oozed steadily out of his shoulder.