“In that area, it’s the only valley with a lake. Any hiking or hunting store in Lander has terrain maps for the local area. You won’t have trouble finding it.”
“Did you go there?”
“Seven years ago. I spent all of July trying to find the Sepulcher. Sometimes, I wonder if it existed only in Donald Reich’s fevered brain. Jonathan tried to find it also.”
“And?”
“I’m sure he’d have told me if he located it.”
Maybe, Balenger thought.
He put a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Thank you.”
Her shrug was wistful.
He kissed her cheek.
She might have blushed, it was hard to tell. “No one’s done that in a long time,” she said.
“Then I’m proud I took the liberty.” He waved for a taxi and gave the driver twenty dollars. “Take care of my friend.”
He watched the taxi disappear into the busy traffic along lower Broadway. The street had numerous businesses crammed next to each other. He walked to an ATM machine, inserted his card, and got the maximum amount of cash he was allowed: five hundred dollars.
He marched up the street to a phone store. Inside, he again tapped the phone in his pocket so the Game Master couldn’t hear what he said, “Do you sell BlackBerrys?”
“Sure do.” The male clerk had a ponytail and an earring. “Over there.”
Balenger took one that matched the type the Game Master had left for him.
“Good choice,” the clerk said. “The latest model. It’s three hundred dollars, but we’re giving a hundred-dollar mail-in rebate.”
“As long as you activate it right now, I don’t care.”
“No problem.”
No problem? In what universe did that apply? Balenger wondered.
“I need to make sure it can handle a webcam program called Surveillance LIVE.”
“That’s a special download. Costs extra. You do it through your home computer, then transfer it to the BlackBerry.”
“But I’m going on a trip where I won’t have access to a computer,” Balenger said. “I’ll pay you a hundred dollars cash to download it for me right now.”
“Definitely no problem. Why do you keep tapping your pants pocket?”
“A nervous habit.”
Ten minutes later, the clerk presented Balenger with his BlackBerry. “Fully loaded. You’ll need to charge the battery pretty soon. Right out of the box, it’ll be low. Here’s the charger cord, the carrying case, and the rest of the stuff it comes with.”
“And here’s your hundred dollars. It’s good to meet someone who knows his business.” Balenger gave him a check for the equipment and went outside. Only then did he stop tapping the BlackBerry in his pocket. He took it out. “Hey, are you listening? Make a note of this phone number.” He dictated the number for the new BlackBerry.
Then he put the Game Master’s BlackBerry into a trash bin, trying not to inhale the smell of old French fries. He took out the handkerchief that contained the location-marker chip he’d removed from his arm. He watched a homeless man push a cart of bags and old clothes along the sidewalk.
“Here’s twenty dollars,” Balenger told him. “Buy yourself something to eat.”
“I don’t need your charity.”
“Yeah, but take it anyhow. Save it for a rainy day.” He tucked the twenty-dollar bill into the homeless man’s shirt pocket, along with the miniature tracking device. “Have a good night.”
“Yeah, I bet they saved me a suite at the Sherry-Netherland.”
Balenger hailed a cab and got in. “Teterboro Airport,” he said.
“I do not know where that is,” the turbaned driver said.
“I don’t, either. It’s in New Jersey if that helps.”
The driver muttered.
“I’ll pay twice the fare if you get me there quick.”
The driver reached for his two-way radio.
5
Teterboro is a so-called “reliever” airport, taking pressure off the major commercial airports in the area by providing runways and hangars for corporate and private aircraft. That was all Balenger knew about it, but during the twelve-mile drive from Manhattan, he used the BlackBerry’s Internet connection to learn a great deal more.
He suspected that no commercial flights went directly from JFK, La Guardia, or Newark to Lander, Wyoming. The websites of several airlines proved him right. He would need to make a connecting flight in cities like Chicago or Denver, but there wasn’t a seat on those flights until the morning. Moreover, Lander didn’t have a commercial airstrip. The nearest airport for airlines such as United was in Riverton, about a half-hour drive from Lander. The soonest he’d reach Lander would be early afternoon, and probably much later. Too much time lost. Most of his remaining thirty-one hours—correction: thirty hours now—would be wasted.
There was only one choice. The taxi went through a security checkpoint and let Balenger out at the terminal for Jet Aviation, one of Teterboro’s large charter and aircraft-storage facilities. The sky was dark when he gave the driver his promised bonus and walked under arclights toward the shiny, five-story building.
The glowing interior resembled a first-class lounge at a major airport.
A pleasant-looking man in a suit came over. “Mr. Balenger?”
They shook hands.
“Eric Gray. I charged the flight to the credit card number you gave me on the phone. The jet’s being fueled right now. Just to be clear, the cost is three thousand dollars an hour.”
“That’s what we agreed.” Balenger had expected questions about why he needed a jet in a hurry and why he didn’t have luggage, but now he realized that the people who could afford this kind of luxury weren’t accustomed to explain.
“We ran your name through a security list.” Eric smiled. “You’ll be pleased to learn that you’re not considered a terrorist or on any law-enforcement wanted list.”
Balenger managed to return the smile. “Good to know.”
They went through glass doors and faced a tarmac bordered by hangars on every side. Eric pointed to the right. “That’s your jet over there. The Lear 60.” It was small and sleek. “They’re almost ready for you.”
“Thanks.”
The BlackBerry rang. It had rung several times earlier while Balenger drove to the airport, but he’d refused to answer it. Now, in the glare of the tarmac’s lights, he removed it from the case on his belt.
Eric stepped into the terminal, allowing him privacy.
“Like that website you sent me to, I can give you only a minute,” Balenger said bitterly into the phone.
“You managed the impossible—to stay in one place and yet keep moving at the same time,” the voice said.
“The rigged BlackBerry you arranged for me to have is in a trash can. The location marker you put in my arm is in the pocket of a homeless man, walking down Broadway.”
“But how can you be my avatar if I can’t track your progress? I want to know where you are.”
“And I want to know this. Why Amanda? Why us?”
“The Paragon Hotel.”
“We didn’t suffer enough? You decided to put us through more?”
“I needed players worthy of the game, people who proved they know how to survive. You and Amanda have amazing strength and resources. The prototype of Scavenger can’t succeed without you.”
“Prototype? For God’s sake, don’t tell me you think you can license this thing?”
“In 1976, there was an arcade game called Death Race. Players drove to a haunted cemetery. Stick figures appeared on the road. They were supposed to be ghosts, and the object of the game was to win points by hitting them, causing a cross to appear on the screen. A woman caught her son playing it and was so horrified that she started a campaign against violence in video games. 60 Minutes and other major news programs added to the outcry. Local governments passed laws about where video arcades could be located, all because of some stick figures that turned into crosses. And what
was the result? Video games became more popular.
“By 1993, a game called Mortal Kombat was so bloody it allowed the winner to reach into the defeated character’s throat and yank out its skeleton. Congress investigated the video game industry, insisted on a rating for all games, and tried to impose censorship. Not that it mattered. The uncensored Mortal Kombat sold three times the copies that the censored version did. Today’s action games are even more graphic. Players can steal cars, hit pedestrians, shoot policemen, and beat up prostitutes. The U.S. Army commissioned two vivid combat games, one for recruiting and the other for training.”
“Your minute is up,” Balenger said.
“Ever see the movie Network? In 1976, audiences thought it was a satire with an exaggerated storyline. Peter Finch plays a network news anchor named Howard Beale. His ratings are in the basement. In despair, he threatens to commit suicide during his broadcast, and suddenly everybody wants to watch him. He switches from presenting the news to ranting and raving. His ratings go higher. Meanwhile, the network’s entertainment division takes over the news department, and the news gets manipulated to make it more dramatic. Television becomes dominated by loudmouths shouting at each other on talk shows.”
“All right, I get the point. You just described most of the news programs on cable television.”
“Do I think I can license Scavenger? Not today or tomorrow. Not next year or the year after that. But I guarantee one day I will. Because the line between reality and alternate reality becomes ever more blurred, and things always get more extreme.”
In the background, a jet roared, taking off.
“What’s that noise?” the voice asked.
“Me coming to get you.”
Balenger broke the connection.
6
The surge of the Learjet off the runway made Balenger think he was in a sports car. The noise from the twin jets was muffled. He peered from a window on his right, seeing the lights of New Jersey’s Meadowlands. In the middle distance, lights reflected off the Hudson River. Beyond was the brilliance of the Manhattan skyline. Under other circumstances, the sight would have thrilled him, but now it only emphasized how far away Amanda was. When the jet headed west, he plugged his BlackBerry’s charger cord into a specially designed receptacle and leaned back in his seat. He felt small and alone.
Not hungry, he forced himself to bite into a turkey sandwich that he’d brought from the terminal. Eat whenever you can, he reminded himself.
And try to rest. The cabin lights were dim. He felt as if he’d been on the run forever. Allowing himself to admit exhaustion, he removed his shoes and tilted his seat back. He glanced at his watch: 9:14. He’d been told that the flight to Lander was a little under five hours. That would get him to Lander around 2:14 New York time, 12:14 Wyoming time.
Time, he kept thinking, reminded of the text on the back of the game case. Time is the true scavenger. If the game started at ten a.m., as the Game Master suggested…His name is Jonathan Creed! Balenger thought. Use his damned name. But Balenger couldn’t resist calling him the Game Master…then more than eleven hours had elapsed. Twenty-nine to go. Endgame would be at two a.m., the day after tomorrow.
No, Balenger told himself. The fearful symmetry of the true deadline abruptly occurred to him. He was thinking in New York time. But in Wyoming, with the two-hour time-zone difference, the endgame would be tomorrow at midnight.
He closed his eyes, knowing he needed to sleep. But he couldn’t clear his mind of the shocking image he’d seen on the BlackBerry screen—the woman in the gray jumpsuit, the explosion, red mist, flying body parts, Amanda’s look of horror.
I’ll be there soon, he thought, straining to project his thoughts to her. Don’t give up. Keep fighting. I’ll get there. I’ll help you.
Chilled, he folded his arms across his chest. Unable to do anything now except wait, he couldn’t stop trembling.
LEVEL SEVEN
FIRST-PERSON SHOOTER
1
The wind died. Amanda no longer felt it trying to yank the door away. In the night, the rain continued, but it now fell straight down, drumming on the boards above them. She allowed herself to relax, only to become tense again when Viv murmured, “A Master’s degree in English? From Columbia? I hear that’s an awfully fancy school.”
Was Viv trying to grasp at small talk and distract herself from what happened to Derrick? Amanda wondered. Or was the remark confrontational? She remembered the angry look Viv had directed toward her when the Game Master mentioned her education.
“I wanted to go to college, but I couldn’t pay the tuition,” Viv said.
Amanda worried that another fight was about to start. Was that how Viv would handle her grief, by lashing out at whoever was close?
“Hell, I don’t know why I got angry at you.” Viv’s unexpected comment made Amanda less uneasy. “I’d probably have flunked. What I really wanted was to climb mountains with Derrick.”
A raindrop fell through the roof.
“Cold,” Viv said. She wearily opened a water bottle. “We used a lot of energy. Make sure you drink.”
Amanda raised the single bottle she had, savoring each swallow. “That’s the end of it.”
“Leave the cap off, and set it outside. Some of the rain’ll collect in it. Meanwhile, we’ll share my other bottle. If we’re going to get out of this, we need to help each other.”
The thought was encouraging until Amanda thought of Ray. Then she thought of something else, although she hesitated to raise the subject. “There’s another source of water.”
“Where?”
“It’s difficult to talk about.”
“Tell me.”
“Derrick has two water bottles.”
“Oh.” The word was faint.
“He finished most of one, but he has a full bottle in a pocket of his jumpsuit.”
Viv didn’t respond.
“We need it,” Amanda said.
“Yes.” Viv sounded hoarse. “We need it.” Her throat made a choking sound. “And the shirt under his jumpsuit. And his socks. And his boot laces. Anything we can use. If another storm hits…”
She stifled a sob.
“The most ill-fated video game of all time is the first home version of E.T.,” the Game Master said without warning.
“Shut up!” Amanda yelled.
“The cute little extraterrestrial falls into a pit. The idea was to manipulate the controls so he could climb out. But no matter what players did, they couldn’t get him out of that damned pit. Pretty soon, the players felt they were in a pit. Millions of copies were returned or remained on shelves. The first home version of Pac-Man didn’t fare much better. It functioned so poorly that twelve million of those went back to the warehouse. The manufacturer got so disgusted that it dug a huge pit in the New Mexico desert. Ironic, given that the E.T. game’s problems involved a pit. The company dumped all those games, packed them down with a steamroller, and poured concrete over them. How’s that for a time capsule? One day in the future, maybe after a nuclear war or a catastrophic weather change exposes that concrete lid, somebody’ll find those millions of video games and wonder what was so important about them that they were saved for posterity. Pac-Man. Did you ever stop to consider that the game always ends in Pac-Man’s death? The smiley guy gets eaten and shrivels. In fact, a lot of games end in death. But players keep trying again, doing their hardest to postpone the inevitable. The SAVE button allowed a form of immortality. Players work their way through obstacles in a game until a threatening decision is required. They save what they’ve accomplished. Then they move forward in the game. If their avatar dies, they return to the saved position and try another decision and another. Or else, they pay for cheat codes, which allow them to avoid threats and get a new life in the game. Either way, the avatar is capable of constant rebirth. Players achieve in a game what they can’t in life. Immortality.”
“You bastard, you think you can hit a SAVE button or use a cheat code to
bring my husband back to life?” Viv screamed.
“Or Bethany!” Amanda shouted. “You think you can bring her back?”
“I never allowed cheat codes in my games. North by Northwest,” the voice said.
“What?” The sudden change of topic made Amanda’s mind spin.
“When you spoke about Mount Rushmore earlier, I meant to tell you about the Hall of Records.”
At once, Amanda realized that her mind spun not just because the Game Master kept shifting topics. Her breathing was labored. The air in the small enclosure was becoming stale, accumulating carbon dioxide.
“The Rushmore monument was started in the 1930s during the Great Depression,” the Game Master explained. “The carved faces of the four presidents were intended to represent the solidity of the United States at a time when the country and the world seemed to be falling apart.”
Amanda noticed that Viv’s breathing, too, was forced. “We need to get fresh air in here.”
They tilted the door outward. Amanda took deep breaths of cold, sweet air. Then rain poured in, and they covered the entrance.
“Some Rushmore organizers were so fearful about the nation’s survival that they designed a chamber called the Hall of Records. The plan was to build the chamber under the monument and use it to store the Declaration of Independence and other important American documents. If rioting destroyed the nation, those treasures would be protected.”
Amanda lowered her head. Fear, cold, and fatigue drained her. She couldn’t keep her eyes open.
“But as the economy improved and social unrest waned, the project was abandoned.”
Dozing, Amanda barely noticed that the isolated drops of water stopped falling through the roof. The sound of the rain became fainter.
“Finally, in 1998, a historical group sealed documents about Mount Rushmore into the small portion of the Hall of Records that was completed a half century earlier.”
The noise of the rain stopped altogether.
“Another time capsule,” the Game Master whispered.
Scavenger Page 17