by Cameron Jace
14
Most of us want to talk about what just happened, and compliment each other for staying alive. But Leo pulls me, as usual, away from the crowd. He has just operated on the boy he shot, pulling out the bullet. Now he writes on his iAm, telling them that he and I have things to take care of. I don’t want anyone to think there is something going on between us.
I am also curious about Bellona and her fellow skaters. We count sixty-six survivors, so we decide to separate and meet up when the Summit notifies us about the next round of games. The rules demand a ten-hour rest between each game.
They will not be broadcasting from the battlefields for a while. There is no point in that. Viewers can watch recaps and other shows while we rest. No one wants to watch the Bad Kidz’s boring and uninteresting lives inside the fields. No one wants to see the outranked alive. The cameras are still on though, in case the Trickster finds something interesting to share, and for the die-hard audience.
The skaters leave together, as I follow Leo into the forest. Even though I don’t really care about whatever he wants, I don’t mind exploring. If Woo is hiding in the Playa behind the Summit’s back, I will have to explore every inch of it in the free time between the games – assuming that I am still alive.
The Playa is humongous. It’s hard to imagine it was an amusement park for children many generations before. I was told the Playa is much scarier after the games end; so scary that the Summit prefers to close it down for the whole year, until the next games. Where are you hiding, Woo? I should start looking for you.
Leo trots forward, wearing his backpack, with his rifle tucked under his jacket. He doesn’t look like he had a rough day. He looks like a mad kid with a gun, about to blow up a school. But he also looks like he knows where he is going. Since he was able to manipulate the rollercoaster, there is a great chance he has been here before. I have no idea how, but he could help me find Woo.
We walk next to a big screen mounted on a tree with a wide base, watching Timmy interviewing ranked teens. They are talking about what they want to make of their bright futures — I wonder how Eva feels about being an Eight right now.
Most of the broadcasting screens are mute at this stage. We can listen to the sounds through our iAms, though.
Using eye language, Leo orders me to mute my iAm.
“But of course, my lord,” I say, playing Cinderella until I figure out who it is. “We have to talk about where this relationship is going.” I try to keep up with his pace. I hope he doesn’t think that the kiss in the Speed Exploding School Bus was real. Boys always get ideas from trivial things like that. It’s not like I am not allowed to kiss a cute boy who I just met on live TV before I die. “By the way, I prefer boys who talk,” I tell him. “Especially those I have kissed to save their sorry asses.” He keeps on walking. “I am kind of your princess charming. I kissed you and saved you from exploding; that’s like bringing you back from the dead.”
Leo turns around abruptly, snatches my iAm from me, pushes the mute button then gives it back to me, bumping it against my chest. He writes a message on his iAm and shows it to me:
YOU KISSED ME TO SAVE YOUR ASS.
“Oh yeah? Then why didn't you open your mouth and say you're alive?” I sneer at him – I find myself checking out his ass, non-metaphorically.
I blink. He is so athletic. I lose focus on whatever humiliation I was planning to bring down on him. Since I spent most of my childhood with Woo, I didn’t interact with many other boys. I was shy, and utterly invisible to the boys in school. Finding myself in the presence of Leo, a boy who girls swoon over, is really uncomfortable, even in a game of death. I think that's the whole point. Death has made me appreciate things, lust for things. It has made me unapologetically go after what I want. I might have only few hours to live, after all.
“I came here to save a friend, by the way.” I say with my hands on my waist. I don’t know why I act like that, but I want to camouflage my silly superficial attraction to his looks. "So I don't really have time for you. I mean seriously, talking to a set of chattering teeth is more fun than you."
Leo writes on the iAm: I HAVE A BETTER IDEA. SAVE YOURSELF.
“Not funny.” I stick out my tongue.
OH IT WAS FUNNY. Leo writes on his iAm: YOU KNOW WHAT’S NOT FUNNY? I HAVE A BOMB IN MY MOUTH.
I gasp, taking a step back, reminding myself that although he saved us, I need to take care of myself. He grabs my arm roughly, squeezes it, and writes another message and shows it to me:
YOU ARE GOING TO HELP ME.
I try to free my arm, but I can’t break his grip. I stare at his closed mouth, realizing that I was walking next to a bomb all day--not in an attractive way, but in a Grim Reaper kind of way. My eyelids throb, and my lips heat up. I kissed a bomb, and I liked it!
One of those flying iSees sneaks up behind me, then it orbits over his head. It looks awful, like an actual eye taken from a dead body, with its tail made of swinging flesh, as though it wasn’t cut off properly. Wait, it is a real eye. When it flies, it sounds like when you press the zoom button on a camera. Leo notices it, and backs off. It is spying on us at a time when televising should be at a minimum. I can see us on the screen. Leo doesn’t hesitate. He loads his rifle with one hand and shoots the eye, then the screen. I don’t mind that. There is nothing on the screen that we can’t see on the iAm.
“Okay,” I say. “So how does this bomb in your mouth work?”
Message: IT BLOWS UP IF I OPEN MY MOUTH.
That explains it: the way he looks like he just came back from visiting the dentist, suffering from a permanent toothache. And of course, why he never speaks. Come to think of it, I’m not sure I will still like him when he speaks. Boys are usually better when mute – and beautiful.
“Don’t break your vow of silence now, please,” I joke, as he lets go of my arm. “I lied when I said I like boys who talk. In fact, I like tongue-tied and mute ones—” so they have nothing to say after I kiss them forcefully.
Message: FUNNY! FUNNY!
“You don’t have to say it twice. I am not deaf,” I say, imagining myself somersaulting back in the air, and kicking him in the face.
Although I can’t stand him — and he certainly can’t stand me — I feel I can trust him.
Message: THE BOMB IS A PEANUT-SIZED SENSOR I HAVE ON MY TONGUE. IT'S LIKE A LAND MINE. IT WILL EXPLODE IF I PART MY LIPS. TO DISABLE IT, I WILL HAVE TO SEND AN ELECTRIC SIGNAL FROM THE IAM TO MY TONGUE. IT WILL INSTANTLY STOP IT. HOWEVER, I WILL BLACK OUT BECAUSE OF THE ELECTRIC SHOCK, WHICH WILL LOWER MY VITAL SIGNS, LIKE BLOOD PRESSURE, ETC. IMMEDIATELY.
I have to know his story. Where he came from, and where he spent the last four years. Did he spend them with apes? I can’t believe the way he treats himself, let alone the way he treats people. He was a rock star one day, a Nine, and incredibly good-looking. What happened to him?
“Okay,” I say. “You choose to electrocute yourself instead of blowing up. Good choice. How can I help you, then?”
Like a magician, he pulls out a syringe. It is a cylindrical piece of metal, small enough to hide in the palm of your hand. It has a red button on its side, and several holes where the healing fluid comes out. I remember doctors using similar syringes on me when I was vaccinated. Leo has too many of them in his backpack, and they look like they could buzz and electrocute instead of vaccinate.
IT IS EASY. ALL YOU HAVE TO DO IS PUSH IT AGAINST MY CHEST AND PUSH THE RED BUTTON. I WILL WAKE UP WITHIN SECONDS. JUST PUSH THE BUTTON ONCE. IF YOU KEEP YOUR FINGER ON THE BUTTON, I WILL BUZZ TO DEATH.
Buzz to death? Hmm. Not a stylish way to die for a beautiful boy.
Even though I thought I would have enough time to accept or decline his buzz-me-but-not-to-death offer, I am shocked, watching him throw the rifle away, and push the button on his iAm without warning…
Leo buzzes like an electrocuted bug. A huge one. His eyes widen, and freeze open. I can see the tiny veins in his neck turning blue. He has his arm
s stiffened by his sides, as wooden as Pinocchio’s nose. Finally, he slumps down, and thuds on the grass. Some heavy stud.
I am almost paralyzed.
“Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.” I keep repeating the phrase to calm down, stomping my feet on the grass and circling around him, hoping that I haven’t just watched a boy kill himself in front of me. I kissed a boy and I killed him!
He didn’t even hand me the syringe!
I kneel down, looking for it. I find it stuck under his right leg. I lift his heavy leg, my veins surfacing on my neck, and my face turning red and sweaty. I pick up the syringe, catch my breath, say “Oh my God” one more time, rip his t-shirt open with my bare hands — love this part — and push the syringe against his naked chest, holding it with two hands.
The first thing I notice is that his lips have parted. It means I have deactivated the bomb, but nothing else happens. I roll my eyes and replay the scene again in my head, trying to figure out if I did something wrong.
I forgot to push the red button! I am about to kill this boy.
I push it. The syringe vibrates shortly in my hands, then I pull my finger away before he buzzes to death. As though he doesn’t look dead enough. When I pull the syringe back, I see five tiny red marks on his chest. He should wake up now.
But he doesn’t.
There is nothing else I can do. I hit him hard in the chest again, pull his square jaw open, slap him like a boxing girl in a cartoon, but nothing works.
Suddenly, he shakes violently. He is alive after all. I would have left him and walked anyway.
Everyone should take care of themselves.
I look at him, eye to eye. “Can you please talk to me now? I feel like I deserve to hear a compliment, plus tons of explanations.” And maybe a thank-you kiss? A forced one, so we can be even?
I am longing for the warm texture of his voice to fill my ears. His first words should be nice. Telling me to stay away from him in Grand School doesn’t count. He is basically like a mute frog turning into a speaking prince right now.
I wait for him to speak.
Something is still wrong. He looks like he is choking, grabbing his neck with his hands, eyes almost bulging out. He looks scary. I jump behind him, and hit him as hard as I can.
Again. Again. Again. I enjoy this for some reason.
Something small pops out of his throat — it sounds like it really hurts coming out. It’s the bomb’s sensor, or detonator, or whatever it’s called.
I fall to my knees, taking a rest, and allowing myself to sigh. Leo stands up immediately. He doesn’t say anything to me. He collects his rifle, his iAm, and his bag.
“We don’t have time,” he says almost to himself. “We need to find water, food, and a good hiding place.”
To my amazement, he walks away into the bushes.
“Hey,” I yell and stand up. “Hey, you!” I am determined to follow him, but he shows up again back from between the trees.
Leo looks at me from top to bottom, and then he looks at his ripped shirt. He sighs. “You were enjoying yourself too much with my shirt,” he says bluntly. “I have no time for your psychotic issues.”
“What?” I can’t believe my ears.
“Wait here,” he orders, and jogs away again.
I am standing with my mouth open, regretting having saved him. I need to forget about him. This boy is a walking, talking ape. That’s not good for me, so I turn and walk the other way, back into the forest. From now on, wherever he goes, I will go the opposite way. I begin looking for Woo.
As I walk into this forest, I am baffled with how big the Playa is. To top it off, this isn’t the Playa I researched. It has nothing to do with older games. How did they change it so much? Where should I start? And I have little time before the new game begin.
As I walk away, I hear news on my iAm about bad things happening to the Monsters’ families. That’s why my Mother tried to kill me when I was seven years old and she found out I was a pre-Monster. If I hadn’t met Woo, and if he hadn’t told me how to obey the system and stop being stubborn, I'd be dead or living in the Wastelands beyond the borders by now. I owe him more than I owe them. As for my father, I love him. He always stood up for me, but I couldn't tell him what I was about to do, so they wouldn’t hurt him. It’s unlikely they’ll do something to my family because of Jack’s startling rank. How he is a Nine and I am a Seven still puzzles me.
Then I hear that the Summit will make no exception this year for any families, even if the parents and siblings were Nines and Eights. They claim that they have had enough of the Monster, and they want to speed up the process of eliminating them from society.
15
I stand still in the middle of nowhere, shocked by the news. Does that mean the Summit won't wait one more year for Jack's ranking? Should I confess to the Summit about switching the iAms? Will that help them? What about Eva? Granting her hope and taking it back again isn’t fair.
I want to call Ariadna, and check with her to see if my family is all right. If they are, I'd feel better, and keep looking for Woo. But Monsters in the games aren’t allowed to initiate calls with anyone outside the Playa. The only way to call someone is to ask permission from the Trickster. I dial three sixes on my iAm, the hotline number of the game’s headquarters.
It takes forever for someone to answer. I am expecting Timmy to pick up, but he is nowhere to be found. He must be preparing himself to wear a wig, or get into character to answer the call, and entertain everyone.
Timmy finally picks up. “Yes, sweetie. This is your aunt speaking.” He is dressed in an old woman’s bathrobe with his brown wig in rollers, as if he just came out of the shower. “How may I help you?”
How much money do they spend on this show? We could use it down here.
“I need permission to call someone,” I tell him.
“No can do, dear,” replies Timmy in a high-pitched voice. “No calls allowed before the number of Monsters alive is reduced to ten.”
“Since when does this rule apply?” I grit my teeth.
Timmy, looking at his big pink watch, says, “Mmm. Since just before you called.”
“Listen up, you piece of--” I am losing it, watching him on my iAm. Timmy’s eyes pop out, fixed on two spiral springs, and his ears grow bigger like a rabbit, each shaped like a phonograph. These effects are made using Instant-CGI technology. I’ve seen it on TV. They are CGI effects like in older movies, in real time. I live in a world where reality can be manipulated on the spot. Should I be questioning if any of what I see is even real? “I want to check on my parents. I don’t want anything bad to happen to them. My brother is a pre-Nine. I want to make sure the Summit understands.”
Timmy is impersonating a judge, wearing a French wig in a courtroom full of wailing Monsters, real monsters: goblins, trolls, werewolves, vampires, ghosts, and more, with full makeup. Timmy’s whole body is shaking when he sobs, “Her brother is a Nine,” he weeps. “A Nine!” He slams a sponge hammer against the desk. It spatters pudding all over his face. “It’s not the court’s responsibility to stop the Summit from whatever they plan to do with your family.” The camera closes in on his face. “Only when there are ten Monsters left — alive — and you are actually one of them, can I grant you a phone call. If you really want to speed up the process…” He blinks repeatedly, his eyes roll like a slot machine. When the rolling stops, they don’t show apples or money bills. They show a gun in each eye. “You might want to kill ‘em yourself. Boo. Boo. Boom.”
The viewer counter increases dramatically. Almost two million viewers are watching right now. Those are just the national viewers. Worldwide, they might be ten times this number. It really scares me.
“I am going to hang up now,” Timmy says. “Since your family is broke and is about to be evacuated, I don’t think they will appreciate paying for the phone call. It costs ten times as much calling from the Dizney Battlefieldz. It’s considered long distance, you know.”
“Wha
t? So you know what will happen to them?” What have I done?
“You will know what you need to know, when you downsize the Monsters to ten. Maybe your zippy-zap boyfriend could help you.”
“He is not my—”
Before I could finish my sentence, Leo appears from nowhere and disconnects my call.
“I told you to wait for me, not gossip on the phone,” he says flatly, and tosses some clothes at me: blue jeans, white t-shirt, and a hair band. He is wearing a new blood-smeared white t-shirt, instead of the one I ripped open. And the leather jacket, of course.
“I am sure they’re your size. If the pants are a little tight, don’t worry. You'll lose that butt of yours by tomorrow night, running for your life,” he says.
“I don’t have a big butt,” I protest. I can’t believe he said that. I don’t know who is worse, him or Timmy. I use the hair band, which I think is a good idea, then check out the pants and the shirt. They are blood-stained, but dry.
“Where did you pick those up?” I am in shock.
“The pants are from an exploded girl. She had no head and no upper body, so I knew she was a girl from—” He shrugs. “From…whatever.”
I won’t comment on that. I put on the pants, trying not to think about the blood, or about the fact that I am wearing a dead girl’s pants. I hold my breath and squeeze myself into the jeans.
“The t-shirt belongs to a boy. He had his legs chopped--"
“Stop. I don’t need to hear this. I don’t want to hear about your shopping trip in zombieland.” I raise my hands in the air. “The only reason I am doing this is because I know I can’t spend the rest of the games semi-naked in a ruined dress. Now turn around!”
Leo puts a poker face on, but turns around eventually. I put the shirt on, and throw the dress away.
“If you don’t like my taste, be my guest and do your own shopping from the dead bodies lying in the streets,” he says. “There is Prada, Versace and—”
“Not funny,” I fire back. “You can turn around now.”