by Duncan Long
I stood still until the burglars were nearly up the stairs, then carried on a debate with myself about the wisdom of heading back out onto the street rather than waiting around to see what happened. It seemed likely that the two would stumble into one alarm or another and thus ruin any chance I had of surprising Huntington. But instead of playing it safe, I stood my ground, straining my ears for the confrontation I knew must be coming.
Twenty seconds later, the conflict came.
“Hey!” one of them yelped.
The other simply said a few choice and very ancient four-letter words.
Then there was a flurry of rapid footsteps above me as someone ran a few paces, as if trying to escape from something. This was followed by two heavy thumps of bodies hitting the floor with the finality only death or unconscious can achieve.
I waited for their attacker to make his move. But I was greeted only by silence. Not a peep or any hint of life upstairs in the stale house.
I found myself sweating.
What happened?
I had expected gunshots, screams, pleadings for mercy.
It had all been too quiet.
Too efficient.
Too quick.
There hadn’t been a hint of a firearm’s report — not even the pop of a silenced weapon. No screams of pain. Their deaths must have been almost instantaneous from the sound of it.
Now’s a great time to leave, Ralph.
Instead I left the hallway and crossed into the living room.
Curiosity killed the cat, I warned, standing at the base of the stairs that were amazingly similar to those in the 3-D remake of Psycho.
If I’d been smart, I would have retreated through the hole in the living room wall and never looked back. But I’ve never received any medals for being smart, so I skulked up the stairs, cursing my inquisitive nature even as I climbed upward.
Chapter 21
Alice Liddell
Dear Diary:
Well, it hit the fan today. Mom found my stash of Jet and threatened to turn me over to the cops, but fortunately dad called from the Orbiter One labs and intervened with his usual “kids will be kids” song and dance that’s a joke I know, but always good to hear when I’ve got my back to the wall.
I’m not sure I need the Jet any more to contact Ralph — or the OEK. There have been a couple of times when I sort of spaced out like I’d used Jet, only I hadn’t had any for days. That sort of scares me. But on the other hand, if mom is going to take my stash and put me under house arrest, I guess the only way to see Ralph is with these flashback thingies or whatever they are.
If Ralph’s still around. He’s sort of dropped off the map again and I can’t seem to locate him. He has to be the most undependable guy I’ve ever known.
Got to go now. Lines to memorize for the play (I got the lead!). I’ve been “practicing” kisses with Franky. He’s always happy to help, but often wants to practice more than just kissing. He told me he knew I wasn’t saving myself for anyone and I told him that might be true but I was still saving myself from him.
I always think of Ralph when I kiss Franky. Well, most of the time. I think mother is wrong. Bad boys are much better choices.
Ralph Crocker
Creeping up the steps, I put away the .22 and drew the Beretta, figuring I might require some serious firepower to deal with whatever had soundlessly aced two kids. I checked to be sure the gun was set to burst fire, and continued up the creaking planks.
Since each squeak undoubtedly alerted anyone listening that I was coming their way, I took my time, One one thousand, two one thousand for each step, forcing myself to move slowly rather than scampering forward like a scared rabbit. I kept watch through the rungs above me, peeping and then ducking, for any sign of the silent killer that had caught the previous intruders.
As my eyes came in line with the upper floor, I spied the two bodies of the punks. I forced myself not to study them too closely, instead concentrating on the closed doors along the upstairs hallway, keeping my eyes moving to avoid missing the danger when it presented itself.
Killer behind door number one, two, or three?
Little by little, step-by-step, I continued upward and then crouched on the hallway floor atop a dusty strip of worn carpeting, now adorned with two punks put into early retirement. I knelt and waited, the muzzle of my pistol pointing ahead of me. Still no one. I took a deep breath in an effort to calm myself.
Rule one of surviving an indoors gun fight was to make your opponent fight on your terms, not his. Make him come to you.
My terms were out here in the upstairs hallway where I could see what was going on. I was prepared to shoot first and ask questions later when I was far, far away. I planned to out-wait whoever hid here.
I must have knelt there, motionless, for at least ten minutes. After five minutes, sweat started trickling down my brow and into my eyes with a stinging, drop-by-drop progress. The heavy gun got clammy in my hands, which started to shake.
I started to relax.
I jumped to attention at a low groaning, “Ohhhhhhhh.” I searched for a target, covering the nearest doorway, and then switching it to the next entrance, and then the next, watching for any movement of a doorknob.
The groan sounded again and this time I could tell where it came from. It wasn’t from a hidden figure about to attack from behind any of the doorways. Rather, it was one of the intruders. I cautiously glanced at them again, then back to the doors, fearful my distraction would get me killed.
I continued to watch the doors, mulling over the fact that one of the punks was obviously still alive. And now I suspected both lived since there was no sign of blood.
But what had caused them to run? What had lowered the boom on them, knocking one or both unconscious in their tracks?
Wait a minute.
Both lay with their heads pointing toward me. That meant they’d been running away from the end of the hall. I moved my firearm’s point of aim farther down the hallway.
The only thing there was a low mahogany table with an antique Tiffany lamp on it. The tiny bulb cast its green and blue hues on the wall behind it and —
Tiffany lamp?
“Way out of place in this dump,” I muttered. And just the treasure an inexperienced thief would make a beeline for, knowing a pawn store might shell out good money for it.
The lamp was the perfect bait for a booby trap to separate the criminal chaff from the elite.
I cautiously stood and advanced, stepping over the two unconscious boobies, my pistol held at the ready. I paused two meters from the lamp, inspecting it and the area around it from what I hoped was a safe distance.
The lamp and table looked pretty normal. No extra cords to the lamp, nothing visible under the table. The lamp might have been electrified — but that would have only accounted for one punk and he’d be draped under the table instead of three paces from it. The danger was something else.
I took another step closer, then froze…
There, I told myself. Under the carpet.
Just in front of the lamp the thread-worn carpet seemed to rise just a tad higher than the rest of the floor. A pressure switch under the strip of carpet.
Perfect trap.
Attract the moths to the flame of the Tiffany lamp and then burn them when they stepped on the pressure switch concealed in front of it.
Now the question was what had put the two punks behind me, and whether it posed any danger to me?
Did I really want to know bad enough to find out?
I decided not. Better to get into the rooms and see if there’s any sign of Huntington, then get out of the stinking place —
My thought was interrupted by a pleasant, familiar odor. With a start I realized that the two punks had been gassed.
And that some of the gas still hung in the air.
I held my breath.
Too late.
Sometimes the dumbest things come to mind when you see yourself fading away. My feeling w
as one of shame at being felled by a trap laid for amateurs. What stupidity. What an embarrassment.
My eyes clouded and I felt light-headed as I staggered away from the lamp. I sat down quickly so I wouldn’t fall and bang my head.
Then everything winked.
I found myself standing in a dank cavern, totally confused and nearly naked, dressed only in some sort of toga and sandals. In the distance I heard muffled screams, like someone far away in the chamber of horrors at an amusement park, totally frightened out of their gourd.
Fighting back the temptation to run in a blind panic, I swallowed hard and leaned against a stone wall. Time to think. Time to calm down. How’d I get here?
I backtracked in my mind: I had been in the house. The gas I’d smelled… Just a hint of — Jet. That was the smell. The drug I use — used to use, I corrected myself — to immerse myself in the SupeR-Gs. I’d ingested it, but never inhaled it before because it was hard to figure the correct dose that way. But I still knew the pungent odor from the times I’d ingested it, getting a potent whiff when I opened the bottle.
But I couldn’t possibly have inhaled that much a few minutes ago. I had hardly even noticed the smell. And besides, I wasn’t connected to a computer now so I couldn’t be in the middle of the all-too-real SupeR-G that surrounded me.
Or was I attached to a computer?
Maybe Huntington had built some sort of high-power electrodes into the walls of the hallway. While I’d never heard of such a thing, the guy was supposed to be an electronic whiz, right?
How else could I explain a place like this? Wait a minute. Had the home itself been a SupeR-G and now was I in another?
Or maybe I never got out of the first string of SupeR-G illusions. Maybe I’d bounced from the Vietnam SupeR-G, to the Alice in Wonderland one, and then didn’t wake up. Maybe the trip to the drug rehab and Valley of the Shadow were just part of one long, bad trip.
Certainly all I’d experienced the last few days had the nightmarish elements that fit into my theory.
Yet the theory didn’t hold water after I thought about it. Too much time had seemed to pass. Sure, time in SupeR-Gs was more compressed, but not that much so. One drop of jet wouldn’t send me out for this long. I might have had one or two strings of adventures, but not days of disaster like I’d experienced.
Alice had said she’d brought me to her without a computer. And there were the illusions I’d read about in the news accounts. And the dreams. Was I in the middle of one such episode? Where did reality end and the dream or jet trip begin?
Or perhaps I was simply insane. That, too, could explain everything quite well.
The screaming that echoed in the distance grew louder. Abruptly the two punks I’d seen on the floor in the upstairs hallway of the home burst into the cavern and raced past me like someone had set their tails afire.
I didn’t sit contemplating their amazing sprinting skills for long. Because the growling coming down the tunnel they’d just exited grew louder as well. I didn’t know what made that horrific noise, nor did I want to learn.
Taking a cue from the two punks, I leaped to my feet and was dashing as fast as I could, totally forgetting that the whole place was most likely only an illusion created by computer code or slumber.
Even if I had remembered, I still would have run. Because deep down inside I knew that a death in this place would be just as painful and final as a death in real life.
And the approaching growls promised a death that would be very traumatic indeed.
Chapter 22
Ralph Crocker
I didn’t run far.
I realized that all the noise the two punks were making would probably keep whatever was chasing them on their trail.
So as long as I avoided going the same path they took, I should remain safe. In theory at least. So I headed down a different fork from the one they’d taken.
Like the cave behind me, this passage was lit by smoking torches along the walls, just like you’d see in a Grade-B net flick. Like those torches, these would most likely never burn out. But I wasn’t complaining about the premise; it beat being in the dark and bouncing off the rough-hewn wall with whatever it was that chased my two comrades in thievery.
Curiosity got the better of me, and I stopped running, turned, and peered from behind the safety of a column of rock back. Looking toward the fork to see what was doing all the growling, I waited. I didn’t wait long.
A snarling Cyclops at least fifteen feet tall and heavily muscled loped into view, its single orb casting this way and that for victims. It stopped, flicking a six-foot club back and forth nervously the way a man might swish a fly swatter. It started down the tunnel I’d taken, but then stopped, another cry of fear from the two punks having betrayed their path. To my great relief the creature was hot on their trail again.
The ground shook and the whole world rotated, the floor and ceiling becoming walls. I scrambled up and onto a wall — that now was a floor. There was another rumble and the world rotated once more, turning what had once been the floor into the ceiling. And yet the torches somehow remained upright.
“Oh, lordy,” I muttered,” I’m stuck in topsy turvy land with a Cyclops and two punks. As good as it gets.” I leaned against the wall, pondering what my next step ought to be. I couldn’t have got much of a whiff of jet so the effects should wear off soon — I hoped. But I really didn’t know what dosage I’d inhaled nor did I know how this trip would compare to one via computer.
In fact I wasn’t even so sure any more that I wasn’t jetting at home with my computer. Could I possibly be in the original session? Had I dreamed everything since then?
That really made more sense then thinking I’d somehow got into the middle of a SupeR-G without being jacked into the net. Reality is only perception deep. I had no way to compare my present situation to any reality. Dreams seem very real while the dreamer doesn’t realize he’s deep in slumber.
There were a couple of things I did know.
First, if the Cyclops caught me and I was jetting, I’d undoubtedly become one of the tragic brain-dead junkies the government liked to parade on the screens for its just-say-no ads.
Second if I could avoid that fate long enough, the jet would eventually wear off and I’d end up either in my own apartment or Huntington’s house with the magic-carpet-ride Tiffany lamp.
And even if I was simply dreaming or mad, not becoming cyclops dinner would be a plus.
So the key thing to do now was to stay alive.
Since I didn’t know what dangers might be present in the tunnel ahead of me, the best bet was simply to sit tight and move only if some peril presented itself. I pulled up a boulder, sat down, and relaxed.
For all of thirty seconds.
Because the world rotated again, turning walls into floors and the ceiling and floor into walls. And again the torches stood on the new walls, upright, their flames flickering.
And the screams of the two punks now echoed in my tunnel. They were advancing toward me. That meant the two were now in front of me instead of behind.
This puzzled me for a moment before I realized that could only mean the tunnel they’d gone into had doubled back and they were headed for the central cavern again. It dawned on me that this SupeR-G construct, like many others that at first appeared almost infinite, was in fact pretty small. Its programmer had simply made a single cavern and then duplicated the tunnel over and over, each one doubling back to the main cavern. Cheap-and-dirty replication.
If that was a correct assumption, then a guy could run around in here and have absolutely no chance of escaping Cyclops because everyone would always return to the main cavern.
That meant that there was no apparent escape from the small labyrinth I was in. The only possible exit would be a secret trapdoor the programmer had built into the game.
Or so I hoped.
I avoided thinking about the possibility that this was nothing more than a maze meant to kill victims. I hoped an
d prayed an escape route of some sort had been built into the system to take a player to a higher level, or to allow the designer, when testing the system, a way to escape.
The trick would be in finding that route to safety. If I could do that, then I might have a chance of survival. If I could not… I tried not to dwell on that thought.
I jogged back to the main cavern and glanced around for any telltale features that didn’t belong.
None.
Only barren gray rock.
Since the cries of fear were now growing much louder, I ducked into a side tunnel, hoping the two punks would choose another of the ten other choices ringing the cavern.
Again in relative safety, I turned my attention back to saving my own behind: How would a programmer mark the trapdoor?
Maybe the torches?
A bit obvious but worth a try.
I continued down the tunnel and pulled at a torch. It was securely attached and didn’t budge. I twisted, jerked, and struggled with it but nothing happened. Not even my muttered curses helped. Nor the kick to the wall with my sandaled foot.
I stopped, deciding it was again time to run when the two screamers hit the cavern because, for a terrible minute, it seemed their screams were coming right down my tunnel.
But then the hollering faded.
Moments later the growling Cyclops passed, hot on their trail. The chase wasn’t going to continue for much longer, judging by the dwindling space between prey and predator.
Stepping up onto the boulder that also appeared to be in each tunnel, I tried jumping toward the ceiling. Nothing. No boost or other unusual feature that often accompanied such games. I gave up on the rock and continued farther down into the tunnel, thinking the key to the escape route might be beyond where I hadn’t been so far. If every tunnel was identical, then it seemed likely every tunnel had an escape route.
I strolled forward, stepping over a small stream of lava that boiled across the floor. Traditionally, since some of the very first electronic games were created, lava was bad news — just like real life. However some programmers also bucked tradition, making it a way out. If all else failed, I’d try jumping into the burning rock as a last-ditch attempt to break out. But that was the choice of desperation since a mistake would be painful if not fatal. As Freud might have put it, “Sometimes lava is only lava.”