“Awesome,” he whispers. But there’s still no one to share in the fun. And that isn’t right. They should be here by now. He should be surrounded by his fellow students. And Stewart should be here too.
“I’d better call in,” he says, but when he opens his voice channel, it’s silent except for the low whisper of white noise. “Can anybody hear me?” he asks. “Anyone receiving my signal?”
No one replies, and Hank stands still for a moment, gnawing at his lower lip. Something is really messed up here, he thinks. Unless… Could this be part of a test: a challenge to see how he copes with unexpected situations? Pretty weird test, he thinks. There’s no task for him to complete, and no objective as far as he can see. There’s nothing to do except stand around.
“This just doesn’t feel right,” he mutters. He focuses on his UI, concentrating on the command: Log off. And a message plasters across his field of vision:
PERMISSION DENIED
MALWARE DETECTED - SYSTEM QUARANTINE IN OPERATION
“Goddammit!” This is the last thing he needs; he’s going to look like a total idiot stuck here on his own. Log off, he thinks, but the error message remains, and he shakes his head, muttering, “Pointless. It’s not going to work.” But what else can he try?
I got nothing, he admits. I’ll give it ten minutes, take a look around—see if I can find someone to help. He checks his target indicator, zooming out until a set of red markers to the east catches his eye. Could be a group of people, he thinks. But they’re almost out of range—I can’t be sure. He zooms in on the group, but the markers become indistinct, their edges blurring together. Could it be the rest of his class? Has he somehow come adrift from the main group?
“Only one way to find out,” he says, then he orients himself, picks out a route between the trees and sets off walking, moving as fast as he can. He has no weapons or gear to lug around, and after his experience in Austin, the dense vegetation is familiar, so he makes good progress, breaking into a jog whenever he can. Soon, he’s close enough to make out the individual target markers in his UI, and he counts them off: five people. Not the rest of the students then, he thinks. And there’s something else. Something not quite right. “They haven’t moved a muscle,” he murmurs. And it’s true. The five markers have remained on exactly the same spot. They must’ve been able to see him on their target indicators, but they haven’t responded; they haven’t moved into a defensive formation, and they certainly haven’t taken evasive action. Perhaps they’re stuck here, just like him, or maybe they’re having problems of their own, but they’re all he’s got, and they might be able to help.
Assuming they’re friendly, Hank thinks. And though he keeps walking, he slows his pace a little, his fingers curling from habit, his hands hungry for the weight of a rifle. What if these guys are just waiting to take me out? he wonders. What if I get shot? He can’t log off, so if he’s injured he has to hope the protocols will protect him. But if he’s killed while the system is locked down, what will happen to him in real life?
A memory stirs in the back of his mind, an echo of the time he spent trapped in Unlimited Combat, and for a heartbeat he’s there again, suffering the same sense of humiliation: drawn in, manipulated, taken for a fool and forced to risk his life. The recollection reaches out, stretching its shivering tentacles to trace a wicked path along his spine. He stops walking and exhales loudly. I can’t make the same mistakes, he thinks. It’s no use blundering in with both feet—I’ve got to use my head.
Hank checks his target indicator. The five red markers are still there, and still stationary. What if they’re non-player characters—some kind of automated patrol? That would explain why they haven’t moved; they’re frozen in place by the locked down system. In which case, he’s wasting his time. He zooms out, scanning rapidly in all directions for any sign of life. There. North of the group. Two markers, or is it one? It’s hard to be sure because his UI can’t make its mind up, first rendering two markers and then combining them into one. So what? At least they’re moving.
“They’re heading north,” he murmurs, and he scrolls ahead, studying the terrain. “They must be going for that bridge—it’s the only way over the river.” Yes. That makes sense. But what’s this? Another marker on the approach to the bridge, and three more on the far side of the river, but all the new markers are stationary. More NPC’s—not worth my time. He measures the distance to the bridge and makes a rough estimate of his pace so far. “OK, it’s worth a try. If I get moving I should be able to catch them at the bridge.”
Hank double-checks the bridge’s position, then he alters his course and strikes out through the jungle.
***
Hank stops walking when he hears the first whispering hints of a river in full flow. The unmistakable rumbling roar reverberates and echoes through the mist-hazed air, and Hank turns his head, straining his ears to trace the source of the sound. And there, between the dripping trees, he glimpses a straight line, a structure standing proud from the chaotic tangle of the untamed jungle. It must be the bridge, and according to his UI, the people he’s pursuing are already on the other side. I still don’t know if these guys are friendly, he reminds himself. But the river’s rolling refrain will cover the sound of his progress, so he makes his way forward, moving as quickly as he can. In moments, the bridge is right in front of him, stretching out across a steep-sided ravine that must be at least fifty yards across. He runs his eye over the bridge’s narrow walkway. The whole structure is little more than a row of wooden boards suspended from two suspiciously thin hemp ropes, and as he watches, the bridge sways in the breeze, a ripple running along its length like the sinuous slither of a snake. Hank steps forward cautiously and peeks over the ravine’s edge. And he swallows hard. Below him, the slate gray rocks fall away almost vertically, jagged, gnarled and forbidding: a plunging, nightmarish chasm that ends abruptly in a furious swirling oblivion of demented white water.
Hank lays his hands on the ropes that run along the bridge at shoulder height. They’re damp and rough to the touch, frayed from age and neglect, but they must be strong enough to hold his weight; the people he’s following crossed just moments ago. It’ll be fine, he thinks. It’s got to be fine.
He steps onto the first board and adjusts his balance as the bridge shifts under his weight. “Come on, Hank,” he mutters. “It’s just like in a game. You’ve done this kind of thing before.” But when he glances down, every sense asserts that this is no game. His muscles tense, his joints lock together, and the narrow boards tip and sway. The ropes creak, taunting him, telling him to go back, to stay safe on solid ground.
No! He can do this. He just has to hold his nerve and keep moving, letting his footsteps flow smoothly. He can do this. He takes a step then, without hesitation, he takes another, pushing onward, looking ahead, scanning the boards for any sign of weakness of damage. The bridge still sways, but he matches its rhythm. He must not stop until he reaches the other side. The thunderous, insistent cry of the river batters against his eardrums, but he blocks it from his mind and marches forward, monitoring every movement, maintaining a steady pace. And he’s almost across. There are ten yards to go. Nine. Eight. The bridge is firmer now, and the ropes tighter as he nears the other side. He can almost feel the solid ground beneath his feet. And in that moment, a man steps calmly from the shadows on the other side and stands at the end of the bridge, barring Hank’s way.
Hank stops dead in his tracks, the bridge bucking underneath him as if startled by his sudden halt. And with a cruel smile, the man raises a rifle to his shoulder and points it squarely at Hank’s head.
“Walk forward slowly,” the man says. “You and I are going to have a little talk.”
Hank hesitates. Who the hell is this? The man is beyond middle-age, and with his straggly, grizzled hair and stubbly jowls, he looks more like a hobo than a member of staff at Northridge. Hank locks eyes with his opponent; this is not the time to show any sign of weakness. But Hank senses a mo
vement, something stirring in the shadows along the bank, just out of sight, and he lets his gaze flick to one side. A young man shuffles forward, his face pale, taut with worry. He’s roughly Hank’s age, and although he’s unarmed, he’s on edge, jittery. The poor guy looks terrified, Hank thinks. And that makes him unpredictable.
“Come along,” the older man says. “I haven’t got all day.”
“No thanks, I’m fine right here,” Hank says. “And this is where I stay until you tell me what’s going on.” He watches the older man’s reaction and sees a spark of irritation. He didn’t like that at all, Hank thinks. I’ve put a crimp in his day already. And if the man is so easily riled, it won’t be hard to put him on the back foot. Hank raises his voice, makes his tone more demanding. “Who the hell are you anyway? There’s no way you’re from the Trust, so you shouldn’t even be logged into this thing.”
The older man shakes his head slowly. “No questions, just walk.”
“No way,” Hank replies. “I told you already—I don’t take one more step until you at least tell me your name.”
The armed man narrows his eyes, taking aim. But the younger man lunges forward. “Look out!” he yells. “He’ll do it! He’s crazy!”
Distracted, the older man glares at his companion. “Shut up, you idiot!”
Hank stares, wide-eyed. He should run. He should seize this split-second, dash back across the bridge and dive into the jungle. But he won’t make it. There’s no cover on the bridge, no way for him to dodge; the man will surely shoot him down in seconds. I’ve got to stand my ground, he tells himself. I have to bide my time, choose my moment to make a move. He holds up one hand, his fingers spread wide. “Wait! I’ll come across. But first, tell me who you are. Seems fair to me.”
“I’m Thomas,” the young man blurts out, “and he’s Jack.”
“I told you to shut up!” Jack growls.
But Thomas carries on, his voice wavering. “I’m like you—I’m from Northridge. And you’d better do as he says. Believe me.”
“All right,” Hank says. “But listen, Jack, there’s no need to point a gun to my head. I’ve got nowhere else to go.”
“Just move,” Jack sneers. “You don’t get to dictate terms.”
Hank lifts his chin then steps forward slowly, his eyes on Jack. And when Hank nears the end of the bridge, Jack stands back to give him room.
“Take it easy,” Hank says. “I’m here. So maybe it’s time for you to tell me what this is all about.”
“No,” Jack says simply. “Stand over there, next to Tommy, and stay quiet.”
Hank does as he’s told, keeping his expression neutral and his movements unhurried. This guy Jack is acting tough, he thinks. But has he got the guts to follow through? Hank studies Jack carefully, and there’s something in the man’s eyes, something unsettling in his stare: the tell-tale glint of a deep and desperate craving. This guy is on a knife edge, Hank decides. I’d better watch my step or things could get real ugly, real fast. So Hank stands beside Thomas, and he stays tight-lipped. But he keeps his eyes on Jack, watching his every move. There’ll be a chance to take the man down, and when it comes, Hank will be ready.
“That’s better,” Jack says. “So, what’s your name?”
“Hank.”
A twitch pulls at the corner of Jack’s left eye. “Seriously? That’s your real name? It’s not just a game tag or something?”
Hank nods. “Sure it’s my real name. What about it?”
“Nothing,” Jack says. “You play games, Hank? Combat games maybe?”
“I used to,” Hank answers. “Not anymore. Not for a long time.”
“Could be him,” Jack mutters. “Could be a coincidence. It’s just…” He licks his lips. “Tell me, Hank. How the hell did you log in? This system is closed—I made certain of that.”
“I don’t know what happened,” Hank says. “This is my first day. We were all meant to log in, but it looks like no one else made it. I guess I got in just before the system locked down.”
Jack lets out a snort of contempt. “I don’t believe that for a second. But it doesn’t matter. We don’t have time to stand around chatting.” He bares his teeth in a cruel smile. “We’re heading out, Hank. And you just might come in handy. Better than this sniveling little punk anyway.”
“What are you talking about?” Hank asks. “What the hell do you want?”
“You’ll find out,” Jack says. “Think of it as a mission—a task to complete. But bear one thing in mind. If you step out of line, even for a second, Tommy here will pay for it, understand? I can hurt him. Real bad. I don’t even need to lift a finger. And if you try my patience in any way, I won’t hesitate.”
Thomas has his eyes on the ground, his head bowed, cowering under the weight of Jack’s words. “Are you all right?” Hank asks. “Are you going to be OK, Thomas?”
Thomas looks up, startled, and it takes him a moment to answer. “Yeah. I’m all right, I guess. But he’s telling the truth. We’ve got to do what he says. I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault,” Hank says. He looks Jack in the eye. “Listen, you asshole, I’m not afraid of you. If you do anything to Thomas or try to hurt me, I’ll take you apart. I mean it. That rifle won’t save you.”
“Hey, that’s pretty good.” Jack’s voice is heavy with sarcasm. “Did you get that from a movie? Or a comic book maybe?” He chortles to himself for a second then stops abruptly, his expression suddenly cold. “Time, I think, for a little demonstration.”
“No. No he doesn’t,” Thomas moans. “Please.”
But Jack’s only reply is a cruel grin.
Thomas closes his eyes, then he cries out in agony and drops to his knees, his hands clutching at his head. “No! Stop!”
Now! Hank thinks, and he rushes forward, reaching out to grab Jack, to throw him down. But the older man is too fast. He steps back, turning his rifle around, and swings the butt upward, driving it into Hank’s chest. The weapon’s butt connects with Hank’s breastbone and the air rushes from his lungs, but he staggers on. If he can keep moving, he can use his momentum to barge into Jack and knock him off his feet. But Jack sidesteps and shoves Hank aside easily, swiping him away like a troublesome fly.
Hank stumbles, but he doesn’t fall. He regains his balance and spins around, but Jack’s rifle is already at his shoulder, and the barrel is once more trained on Hank.
“I should shoot you right now,” Jack snarls. “You’re just going to be a thorn in my side—I know it.”
Hank holds up his hands, palms outward. “All right. You made your point.” He catches his breath and glances down at Thomas. The young man is silent now, but he’s fallen on his side, his body wrapped tight in a fetal ball. “Let him go. Whatever it is you’re doing to the poor guy, just stop. I get it. I won’t cause you any more trouble. OK?”
Jack’s lip curls in a sneer, then he lets out a bark of dry laughter. “Pathetic.”
“Oh, my God,” Thomas groans. His body uncurls and he takes a deep breath, then slowly, he pushes himself up to his feet. He’s unsteady on his legs, and his face is pale and drawn, his expression drained of all energy.
“Now we all know where we stand, it’s time to go,” Jack says. “Thomas, you know where we’re going, so you lead the way. Hank, you follow him and stay close. And remember, I’ll be right behind you.”
Thomas sniffs unhappily, then he turns and walks into the jungle. Hank throws a scowl in Jack’s direction then follows Thomas. He can hear the rustle of the undergrowth as Jack trails along behind, but the sound isn’t close; Jack must be hanging back a little in case Hank tries to turn quickly and catch him by surprise. Smart, Hank thinks. This guy knows what he’s doing. He picks up his pace a little and catches up to Thomas. “Hey, Thomas,” he says quietly. “Where are we headed?”
Thomas keeps walking, and when he replies, he doesn’t turn his head. “There’s a building to the north. Quite a long way on foot. But we shouldn’t talk.”
> “It’s all right. He can’t hear us,” Hank says. “So tell me, what the hell are we doing?”
“He wants us to meet a woman called Scarlett. He wants me…I’m supposed to try and take her out.”
“Who the hell is Scarlett?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Thomas mutters. “I have to do it. I don’t have any choice.”
Hank stares at Thomas, seeing him with fresh eyes. “You’re going to do it? You’re going to kill this Scarlett person?”
There’s a pause before Thomas answers. “It might not come to that. Maybe she won’t be there. She’s smart—a player. Maybe she’ll work something out. I don’t know.”
“I don’t get it,” Hank says. “Why doesn’t he just go after her himself?”
“I don’t think he can. He used me to log in. He kind of piggy-backed onto my avatar.”
Hank’s eyes go wide. This is messed up. This is insane. But it makes a terrible kind of sense. He walks on in silence for a while, thinking. If he escapes, Thomas will suffer, but if he stays, he might have to take part in Jack’s plan to kill this Scarlett character. And with the scenario locked down, what will happen to the person playing Scarlett if her avatar is killed?
What the hell should I do? Hank asks himself. And how the hell did Thomas get himself into this mess anyhow? He glances at Thomas, but he doesn’t ask his question aloud. Thomas has been used: tricked and drawn in until he’s out of his depth. And Hank remembers what it is to be fooled, to be manipulated. He recalls the white-hot flush of humiliation, the bitter taste of shame.
The poor guy is alone, Hank thinks. If I don’t help him, no one else will. But maybe Thomas is right. If Scarlett really is a smart player, then maybe she can fend for herself. Maybe she’ll escape, or maybe she’ll go up against Jack and give Hank a chance to act decisively. But if fighting her is necessary, if it gives Hank a chance to get away from Jack, then so long as he can take Thomas with him, he’ll have to go for it. He’ll have to take Scarlett out. If things change and I get an opportunity to turn this thing around, I’ll take it, Hank tells himself. But otherwise, Scarlett’s going down.
The Trust (The Downlode Heroes Book 2) Page 33