by James Frey
The sun rose nearly two hours earlier, at 4:58 a.m. In spite of her odd appearance—an honest-to-goodness Koori is out of place everywhere except the backcountry of Oz—no one has noticed her. The dead end road she’s watching is not much traveled. She is tucked away in an abandoned corner of Berlin that only teenagers, vandals, and killers are likely to use.
Killers like her.
That’s not to say that this area doesn’t have people in it. There are homes everywhere. Past the lots to the north on Sollstedter Straße is a line of four- and five-story apartment buildings. Past the lots to the west are taller, possibly East German–built apartment blocks along Arendsweg.
This is where Baitsakhan hides.
Her internal beacon is precise to the point of being nearly overwhelming. It rings in her frontal cortex like a siren, occasionally interfering with her vision if she moves her head too quickly.
She has to snuff out this Baitsakhan.
And once I do, I’ll go look for Earth Key.
She stands and shoulders a large canvas bag. She walks toward the building. The little monster is in a basement 450 meters away. All she has to do is sneak over there, get the drop on him, and finish him off.
Bzzz. Bzzz. Bzzzzzz. Bzz.
Maccabee is woken by a faint noise. He looks at the clock in his sparsely decorated bedroom: 8:01 a.m. He sits up, frowns, whips his head back and forth.
What is that buzzing?
He jumps out of bed wearing nothing but boxer briefs, grabs a gold-plated Magnum Research Baby Eagle Fast Action from the bedside table. In his haste, he forgets his poisoned-needle pinkie ring, which he takes off every night so he doesn’t poison himself by accident in his sleep. It stays on the bedside table.
Bzzzz. Bzzz. Bzz. Bzz.
He goes to his pile of clothing, fumbles for his phone in his slacks. No, not his phone.
Bzzzzzzz. Bzz. Bzz. Bzzzzzzzz.
He moves to the center of the room, cocks his ear this way and that. He can’t determine the sound’s location. First it’s on his left, then his right, then behind, then in front. He spins frantically, wondering if maybe he’s going crazy, but then he remembers.
The orb.
The one he and Baitsakhan got from the Golden Chamber under Gobekli Tepe.
He grabs a backpack hanging on a hook. The bag shakes shakes shakes. He sticks his pistol in the band of his underpants and thrusts his hand into the bag and wraps his fingers around the sphere that transmits the locations of the other Players. It’s vibrating violently, as if it has a wildly spinning gyroscope at its center. He grasps it with both hands, drops the backpack to the floor.
He holds it to his face: a yellow glow streams out of it, creating spears of light between his fingers. The glow dances, zips back and forth across the surface of the sphere, and finally resolves into a single bright dot.
It stops shaking. Maccabee peels the fingers of his left hand free and stares into it.
The dot is moving over a crisscross of lines. Maccabee squints.
The lines are streets.
He recognizes them as the streets just outside the building.
“A Player is coming.”
Alice reaches the curb of Arendsweg and pauses. Something’s been nagging her as she’s glided across this open urban space. She hasn’t seen a single person or a moving car or heard anyone call out.
In other words, she hasn’t had to sneak.
It’s just past eight in the morning. Wednesday. People should be going to work, getting in their cars, riding their bikes, moving, doing.
But they aren’t.
“Abaddon,” she says quietly. “They’re terrified of Abaddon.” She steps off the curb to cross the street. “Eh, I wouldn’t bother going to work either.”
She thinks of all the people in their houses, people everywhere who know nothing of Endgame or the lines or the Players or the ancient and hidden history of humanity. People who didn’t see this coming, who are not prepared, even if they think they are. Because it’s one thing to hoard guns and canned food and water and generators and gasoline, as many Aussies and Yanks have done, but it’s quite another to wrap one’s mind around the inevitability—no, the immediacy—of the end.
“And in a giant bloody fireball, no less,” Alice says as she approaches the rear entrance to the building where the garbage is taken out.
The beacon burns bright in her head. He’s only 20 meters away. Close. So close.
And still not moving.
Maybe he sleeps.
Maybe he’s incapacitated.
Stay sharp, Ulapala. This is a Player. Don’t assume shit.
The light in the orb has moved to the center, and the lines of the streets have disappeared. It’s completely unlike the time he and Baitsakhan snuck up on the Aksumite, when the orb showed Hilal ibn Isa al-Salt inside, working on a computer. Or when they watched the drama at Stonehenge play out as if they were watching a movie—seeing the Mu crushed, the Shang shot, and the Cahokian and the Olmec running free with Earth Key.
Maccabee wonders why the orb’s powers would suddenly weaken, after alerting him in the first place. Maybe this Player is blocking it somehow?
Who knows. Maccabee will find out soon enough. And he’ll be ready.
He slips into his trousers, pulls on a pair of running sneakers, and puts on a stylish white T-shirt that cost €120 at a shop called the Corner Berlin Men. The clothes fall perfectly over his toned body. He is comfortable, ready. Always ready. He takes the gold-plated pistol and cycles the slide. It doesn’t have a safety. The trigger stays full forward, but all he has to do is apply four ounces of pressure and pull the trigger back 2.477 centimeters and the round will fire. If he doesn’t let the trigger all the way out, he can repeat-fire quickly with just 0.3175 centimeters of trigger play. That’s why it’s called a Fast Action.
He opens the door to his room and checks the hall.
No one.
At the end of the hall to his left is Baitsakhan’s room, and at the other end is a locked steel door that leads to a flight of stairs. At the top of these stairs is Ekaterina’s street-level apartment.
Before doing anything, he has to check on the Donghu. It’s possible, though unlikely, that the intruder is already in Baitsakhan’s room, murdering him.
Maccabee slides to the wall and creeps toward the door. It’s ajar. He hears nothing from inside. He reaches the door and squats, figuring that if someone is in there and they have a gun, they wouldn’t be likely to aim low. He peeks into the room. Sees the corner of Baitsakhan’s bed and half of his sleeping face in profile. Maccabee then swings around and shoulders the door open. He sweeps his pistol through the room.
No one.
He sidles to Baitsakhan, who stirs at the sudden commotion. The boy’s eyes dart back and forth beneath his lids, his lips part, his new hand twitches. Dreaming dreams.
God knows of what, Maccabee thinks. Probably drowning puppies.
Baitsakhan still needs his rest. The hand works, and Baitsakhan likes it. He even thanked Ekaterina, although Maccabee suspects he won’t thank her again. He can’t imagine Baitsakhan has thanked anyone more than once for anything.
Maccabee leaves, closing the door behind him and locking Baitsakhan in. To keep him safe.
You’re still useful to me, my little killer. Still useful.
Maccabee sprints to the steel door. Keys in a sequence on a number pad and hits #. The door’s lock turns, and Maccabee pulls it open and steps into the stairwell. He’s about to close it behind him when he hears two quick silenced shots from above. He turns and runs up the stairs, the pistol ready, skipping two steps at a time.
While Maccabee inspects the orb, Alice stands at the apartment building’s back door. She drops the canvas sack and pulls out a handmade leather sling and swings it over her shoulders. Her knife. Two bladed boomerangs, another wooden, and one more made of dark metal but not sharpened. She snaps a small holstered and silenced pistol—a matte-black Ruger LCP loaded with hol
low tips—to her belt.
She wedges the dark metal boomerang into the edge of the door. She pulls hard once. It pops open. She slides inside.
The room is dark, illuminated only by a green exit sign. There are four Dumpsters on the side wall, and a closed door opposite.
Alice takes a whiff. “Fish heads and rotten nappies,” she says with a sour look. The knife is in one hand and a bladed boomerang is in the other.
She leaves the garbage room and moves into the building’s hallway. She walks to a T intersection and has to choose.
“Where are ya, ya little bugger?” she whispers.
The beacon is bright in all directions, as if she’s right on top of her mark, but as she turns back and forth she gets a stronger signal from her right.
She walks that way. Passes orange metal apartment doors at 15-meter intervals. Hears people inside arguing, the muted sounds of breakfast. Hears a man behind 1E call out, “Hilda!” Hears TVs in the background of every apartment.
Everyone in the world must be watching telly today. Everyone but us Endgamers.
And that is exactly what tips her off. When she reaches apartment 1H she stops. The beacon is brightest here, and if that weren’t enough, there is no sound coming from behind the door. Which means the people there are either out, or aren’t shocked by this news of Abaddon.
Alice cups her ear to the door and listens. At first, nothing. But then, a toilet flush. Footsteps. Bare feet. Moving right to left and away from the entrance. A creak, like a door on dry hinges.
It’s not her mark—that would set her beacon off like crazy—but it’s someone. Maybe a Donghu line member?
She tries the handle. Locked, as it should be.
Alice takes a step back. She could break down the door, but that would cause a commotion, and if this is some kind of Player safe house, it probably has an alarm, which would ruin the surprise.
She could try to jimmy the lock, but that might take too long. A neighbor might come out and ask what the hell she thought she was doing, which would be completely sensible. So Alice does what any normal guest would do.
She rings the bell.
The footsteps return and Alice sidesteps so that the person inside won’t be able to see her through the spy hole.
“Hello?” a woman asks in German. She sounds middle-aged, maybe 40 or 50, and her accent is unmistakably Polish. Southeastern, near Ukraine, if Alice hears it right.
“Good morning,” Alice answers in perfect German with no trace of an accent. “It’s Hilda from down the hall. Sorry to bother, but I’m out of tea and I’m desperate. I can’t bring myself to go out with all this terrible news. Do you have any?”
“Yes, yes. One moment.”
The locks turn, the chain slides free, the door opens.
As soon as Ekaterina sees that it is not Hilda, she tries to shut the door, but Alice wedges her foot in front of it. She reaches forward with the buck knife and places its sharpened tip right under the woman’s chin. A small dimple forms on her skin.
“Don’t talk. Step inside. Fail to do either and I will kill you,” Alice says.
Ekaterina is tall, a little plump, has a beauty mark and thin lips and dark eyes and long whitish-blond hair. She wears a dark kimono with long sleeves. She’s barefoot. Her toes are perfectly manicured. She was beautiful once, still is. She does not look afraid.
She retreats three steps. Alice moves into the apartment and pushes the door shut with her foot. Without taking her eyes off the woman, she reaches back and locks the door.
“You won’t leave here alive,” Ekaterina says in English.
“Do what I say and you will, all right, sister?” Alice answers, also in English.
“He won’t let you.”
“There’s a girl—thanks for letting me know he’s here. Been wondering.”
Disappointment flashes across the woman’s face. Disappointment in herself for revealing information she didn’t need to.
“What’s your name? Me, I’m Alice.”
“Ekaterina.”
“Right. Good name. Solid. Now, Ekaterina, I’m going to have to tie you up. Either that or slit your throat. I’ll do either in a heartbeat, but would prefer the former. Figure you would too, yeah?”
“Yaheela biznoot farehee.”
Alice steps forward; Ekaterina steps back. “Don’t know that one. Now listen. We’re going to your room. That’s it there, yeah?” Alice points her chin to the door on the left. Ekaterina nods. “Great. Turn slowly. Anything sudden and that’ll be the end of you.”
Ekaterina does as she’s told.
“Good girl.”
Alice sheathes the buck knife and quickly pats Ekaterina down. No weapons. Nothing. She claps a hand on her shoulder. In her other hand is the knife.
“Go on. Walk.”
Ekaterina does. It is only two meters to the doorway.
“You a trainer?”
“Yaheela biznoot farehee chint!” Ekaterina spits.
“Ah, yeah. I’m beginning to understand. ‘Screw you,’ that it? Or something to that effect.”
Ekaterina doesn’t answer.
They turn into a simple bedroom. A mattress pushed lengthwise against the far wall, a wooden side table, a reading lamp, a desk, a chair, a wardrobe, a bookshelf stuffed with tattered volumes, none of which have any names or titles on the spines. Another kimono is draped over the back of the chair. She’ll use this to tie Ekaterina up.
“On the bed, facedown, hands on your bottom. Cross your ankles and bend your legs at your knees.”
Ekaterina does as she’s told.
“Good girl, again. Real pro, you are. Appreciate that. Really do. The one you’re lined up with, he didn’t strike me as professional. He’s lucky to have you.”
Alice reaches for the kimono, taking her eyes of Ekaterina for barely two seconds. Ekaterina moves so quickly and silently that even Alice doesn’t notice. She pushes her hand into the gap between the mattress and the wall and comes up with a pistol, a short suppressor screwed to the muzzle.
Alice looks back to Ekaterina just as she’s leveling the gun. Alice drops and throws the knife. It’s headed straight for Ekaterina’s skull.
Two shots. Thhp-thhp. One glances off the knife, sending it off course and to the hardwood floor, where it sticks with a thwump. Both slugs explode into the wall, missing Alice narrowly.
By the time Ekaterina swings the gun only a few inches down and toward Alice’s bulky frame, the bladed boomerang is on her. It zips past the muzzle and over the slide and hammer and her hands and knocks Ekaterina hard across the bridge of her nose. It twirls over her face, slicing her right eye in half, flaying the skin leading to her temple. She yelps and drops the gun. Alice slides forward, pulls the knife from the floor, reaches the edge of the bed, and sinks the blade into Ekaterina’s throat.
To the hilt.
Warm blood spills from the wound, coating Alice’s hand, soaking the bedspread and mattress.
She pulls the knife free. A straight blade, no serrations or jagged edges. It draws out easily. Alice is face to face with Ekaterina, whose eyes still register life. She gurgles, and would make a noise if Alice’s blade hadn’t skewered her voice box along with lots of other things in her neck.
“Sorry, mum. Nothing personal. But ya should’ve listened.”
Ekaterina’s face fills with fear in the moment before life fades from it for good. Alice closes Ekaterina’s eyes.
“Rest, mum.”
She stands.
She stands and hears footsteps running down the hall.
Her beacon is going haywire. The mark is near. The Player she’s been tracking is almost on her.
But the footsteps are heavy, not light. Heavier than the Donghu boy’s would be.
Far heavier.
Alice picks up the bloody boomerang and turns to the door and crouches.
The doorway fills with the figure of a man in dark slacks and a white T-shirt and a golden gun.
The beacon
explodes in her frontal cortex and is snuffed out. Poof! She’s found him.
“You?” Alice shouts, not understanding. She was certain it was the youngest Player, the one who’d left his mark on Shari by cutting off her finger. The one who’s been threatening Little Alice Chopra in Big Alice Ulapala’s dreams.
Maccabee Adlai is just as shocked. His training fails him. His eyes search the room. He doesn’t pull the trigger. He registers Ekaterina on the bed.
Bleeding.
Dead.
Murdered.
Ekaterina Adlai.
His mother.
Maccabee’s face lights in anguish. He pulls the trigger, but before he can squeeze all the way, the bladed boomerang clanks into the barrel and rakes his knuckles, cutting them to the bone. He pulls off a shot—bang!—but it misses badly, taking a chunk from the ceiling.
He brings the gun back down, but it’s knocked aside again, this time by the heavy hilt of the buck knife flying end over end. Both knife and gun fall to the floor and slide behind Maccabee into the hall.
He has a hidden knife strapped to his ankle, but can’t take the time to reach for it. Until he can, all he has are his hands. His hands and the biggest dose of hate-and-anger-fueled adrenaline his body has ever experienced, which is saying something. He surges forward.
Four meters separate them.
Alice stands her ground. Hurls the 2nd bladed boomerang.
Maccabee claps his hands, catching it in the air. He whips it back at Alice, but her other metal boomerang—the one without the sharpened edge—meets it with a clunk in midair. They deflect off each other at wild angles, flying to opposite sides of the room.
Three meters separate them.
Alice slings her last boomerang—the wooden one—in an underhand motion. He catches it one-handed without flinching and raises it, rushing toward Alice.
Alice stands her ground.
Without taking her eyes off the Nabataean she unholsters her Ruger in a fluid motion.
She brings the pistol in front of her just as Maccabee chops the concave edge of the boomerang on Alice’s left shoulder. It hurts—a lot—but aside from the twitch under her left eye she doesn’t show it. The gun is between them, nearly poised for a point-blank gut shot, but with his other hand Maccabee grabs her wrist and yanks down hard.